Street Spies (9 page)

"Who's Chung?" Joe demanded. But he got no response. Gus had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

The ambulance pulled up to the emergency room doors. As the Hardys swung the back doors open, several orderlies dashed up, unloaded Gus, and pushed him into the emergency room. The brothers tried to follow the gurney, but a stern-faced orderly blocked their way.

"You'll have to wait here," he said.

"But you don't understand," Joe protested angrily. "He's in danger. Somebody tried to kill him, and they might be back to finish the job."

"Then you'd better alert hospital security," the orderly said, indicating the reception desk. "They'll have to handle it."

Frank started to argue, then forced himself to relax. "I guess that's all we can do," he told Joe.

"At least until Dad gets here." Joe frowned. "He still carries some weight with his old buddies in the police department."

"Dad?"

"Sure. I called him right after I called nine one one. He's on his way."

Minutes later, Fenton Hardy entered the emergency room. He listened while his sons recounted the events in the garage. This time there was no way to hide the danger. ·

"I agree that we need to keep Gus under police protection," he said at last, and went to look for a phone.

At that moment a masked surgeon came down the hall toward them.

"Are you the ones who brought in the patient with the head injury?" he asked, removing his surgical mask.

"We are," Frank said. "How is he?"

"He's in a deep coma," the surgeon said. "I don't expect him to be conscious for several hours — he may never regain consciousness. We're moving him to intensive care. I'm sorry."

As the surgeon left, Mr. Hardy returned from the phone. "We're all set. The police will post a guard outside the room."

"The doctor says that we won't be able to talk with Gus until later," Frank said. His voice was grim. "If at all."

Mr. Hardy nodded. "We've got to meet with Mr. Chilton," he said. "He was at a meeting when I tried to get him earlier, but he ought to be back by now. He needs to know what he's up against."

It was almost nine when the three Hardys were finally walking into the president's office at World-Wide Technologies.

"We've got a serious situation," Mr. Hardy told Mr. Chilton. "Whoever is responsible for stealing your designs has attempted three murders in one afternoon."

Mr. Chilton stared at them in disbelief. "Three?"

"Joe was the first," Mr. Hardy said.

Joe's jaw tightened. "While I was downstairs talking to Tiffany, somebody packed my bicycle seat with plastic explosive. It blew up."

"Talking to Tiffany?" Mr. Chilton repeated. "You mean, my daughter? Why?"

The three Hardys looked at one another.

"Well," Frank responded finally, "you remember that prime suspect we didn't want to tell you about? It was Tiffany."

"You mean my daughter is involved in this thing?" Mr. Chilton's face was a picture of astonishment and outrage. Was he hurt or angry? Joe couldn't tell.

"Not in the way we thought at first," Frank said. "It turns out that she was framed, and now she's being blackmailed. She helped us intercept another delivery to help get herself off the hook. That's when Lightfoot, one of the messengers, was nearly — "

Then Tiffany's in danger as well," Mr. Chilton said, looking hard at Frank.

Joe gasped. "Tiffany!" he exclaimed remorsefully. "We were so busy with Lightfoot and Gus that we forgot - "

"She should be at home. Listen, maybe you'd better keep her there for a couple of days until - " Frank started to say.

"No!" Joe broke in. How could he have forgotten? "She said she was going to work late, getting out some kind of mailing."

Without a word, Mr. Chilton punched the speaker button on his phone console, then hit three buttons. The Hardys heard two rings. Then there was a sound like a switch hook being depressed—and then a different ring.

"That's funny," Joe said with a puzzled look. "Sounds like the call's being transferred." , "Dad, I'm sorry about all this. Really I am," they heard Tiffany say at last. Joe leaned closer to the speaker. It was Tiffany's voice, but it sounded flat and distant, as if it were recorded.

110

Then suddenly another voice came on the line, a flat, mechanical-sounding voice distorted by an echo.

"WWeee haavve yyourr ddaughtterr," the voice said. "Listen closely, Charles Chilton. We're calling the shots from now on. You will stop your investigation— "Or you will never see Tiffany again — alive!"

The click as the phone was disconnected was momentarily loud in the silence, then it was replaced by the hum of the dial tone. Mr. Chilton switched the speaker off and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, face buried in his hands.

"So now they've got Tiffany," he said in a resigned voice, his shoulders slumped in despair.

Joe rose from his chair and pounded his list on Mr. Chilton's desk so hard that the pen set rattled. "You can't give in like that!" he said desperately. "We've got to find her!"

Mr. Chilton dropped his hands and looked up. His eyes were haunted. "I'm not giving in," he said. "I know the only way to deal with these people—and to get my daughter back—is to fight. It's just that this thing is all my fault! If I hadn't insisted that she work in the mailroom of my company, and then work late tonight to get that mailing out, she'd be safe at home."

"You had no way of knowing this would happen," Frank said. "We should have kept you better informed of the situation. It's just that things broke so fast, with Lightfoot and Gus — "

His father looked at him. "It would be a good idea to check on Gus. Now that they've got Tiffany, they won't stop at anything to make sure Gus is taken care of too."

"Gus?" Mr. Chilton asked, looking bewildered. "Lightfoot?" While Mr. Hardy told Mr. Chilton about the afternoon's events, Frank dialed the hospital. "I need to speak to the nurse in charge of intensive care," he said. A moment later he said, "This is Frank Hardy. I need to know the condition of Gus Ireland, the head injury patient who was admitted late this afternoon."

Seconds later a different voice came on the line, and Frank turned up the speaker phone. "This is Dr. Thompson, the attending physician," the voice said. "Mr. Ireland regained consciousness a few minutes ago, but he's extremely disoriented."

' 'Has he said anything?" Frank asked urgently. "He keeps asking for a doctor. I told him I was a doctor, but he just shakes his head and calls, 'Doc, Doc.' "

"Doc?" Frank exclaimed. "That's me! I'm on my way!"

Frank hung up the phone and stood up. "I'm going to see what I can find out from Gus."

Mr. Hardy stood up, too. "I'll make a search of this building," he said. "And I'll check the answering machine in the mailroom. Maybe I can figure out which office the recording came from." He turned to Mr. Chilton. "I'll join you back here as soon as I'm finished. If the kidnappers call, you may need help with the negotiating."

Joe closed his eyes. Negotiating! Negotiating for Tiffany's life! The whole thing was unbelievable. He'd just met her. And now her life was in danger. It was too much like Iola.

He jumped up. He couldn't sit there, wondering what was happening to her. It would drive him crazy.

"I'm going to make a sweep of the city in the van," he said. "Maybe I can pick up the transmitter's signal." He brightened. "Maybe the guys in the van have Tiffany!"

"That's a possibility," Mr. Hardy said, looking at both boys. "Good luck — but watch out for yourselves."

Frank arrived by cab at the hospital just before ten. As he was passing through the outer doors of the emergency room wing, he collided with a white-coated doctor hurrying out.

"Excuse me," the man muttered, avoiding Frank's gaze.

Something about the doctor's appearance bothered Frank. He turned back just in time to see the Asian doctor slide into the passenger side of a cream-colored van that had just pulled up at the curb. The van had hardly come to a stop before the engine revved and the vehicle pulled quickly away.

Frank slammed through the door and out to the curb, but he realized that he had no chance of catching the van. He wheeled and dashed back inside and down the hall to the intensive care ward. The officer posted outside the door looked up in surprise.

"Frank Hardy," Frank snapped as the officer stood up. "Come with me."

"Trouble?" the officer asked.

"We'll find out," Frank tossed over his shoulder, striding toward Gus's bed. A nurse was bending over Gus with a stethoscope to his chest. The EKG next to the bed was whining, its display tracing a flat wave.

The nurse hit an alarm button at the head of the bed, and running footsteps sounded down the hall. "I don't know what happened," the nurse said, shaking her head. "The doctor was just here and gave him a sedative to help him relax—"

"What doctor?" Frank demanded.

"It was a Doctor Chung," the officer said. "I heard them page him to intensive care on the PA system, so I let him in."

In helpless frustration, Frank slammed his fist against the head of the bed, looking down at Gus's lined gray face. "It was a fake," he muttered. "They must have tapped into the P.A. system from somewhere outside."

The physician who had worked on Gus in the emergency room burst through the doors. He checked Gus's pulse and shook his head. The nurse pulled the sheet over Gus's face.

Frank took a deep breath and walked out the door. Gus hadn't been the nicest guy, but he didn't deserve to die. Besides, now, with Gus gone, their only hope of finding the criminals— and Tiffany—was the transmitter Joe had attached to the van.

Outside, he pulled his earphones out of his pocket and put them on, lowering his chin to his chest and the mike that was still taped there.

"Joe, do you read me?" he asked.

"Roger, Frank!" Joe's voice was charged with excitement. "I've just located the transmitter," he said. "The signal was weak when I first picked it up, but it looked like it was coming from the area of the hospital, where you are. Have you seen anything of it?"

"I have," Frank said gravely. "Listen, Joe. They got Gus. One of them — an Asian going by the name of Chung—masqueraded as a doctor. He got past security and gave Gus a shot of something that put him out permanently."

"Nice guys," Joe said, his voice hard. "We've got to get them, Frank, before they do the same to Tiffany."

"Where's the van now ? "

"They're driving close to the docks — no, they've stopped near Pier Thirty on the Hudson River." There was a pause, as Frank waited in the cool night air. Somewhere in the distance there was a siren, coming closer, then Joe's voice again, vibrating with suppressed energy. "I've just spotted the van. It's parked beside a warehouse across from Pier Thirty-two. I'm going to check it out."

"Joe," Frank warned, "better wait until I can get there. This is a job for both of us."

Joe chuckled. "What's the matter? Afraid I can't handle this?" Frank heard Joe put down the mike, then open the van door. There was silence ' for a moment or two, and then an eerie, remote thunk.

"Joe?" Frank spoke quickly into the mike. "Joe, what's wrong?"

But there was no response. Frank waited, the uneasiness mounting into fear. Then there was a sharp burst of static in the earphones, and the transmission ceased.

Someone had switched off the set.

"Joe!"

In the semidarkness, Joe stirred painfully, his head throbbing. What time was it? Where was he?

"Joe?" the voice came again, more urgent this time. It was a girl's voice. The girl was bending over him, and the faint, flowery scent of her perfume washed over him.

"Iola?" Joe said, dazed. He reached up to touch her face. "Iola!"

"No, it's Tiffany," the voice said.

"Tiffany!" Joe shook his head and sat up, relief flooding through him with the discovery that she was still alive. But the relief immediately chilled to icy apprehension. "How long have I been out? Where are we?"

"You've been out for about ten minutes," Tiffany said. Her voice was very small and frightened. "And I don't have any idea where we are. It's a warehouse, somewhere close to a river, I'd guess, from the sound of the boats."

Joe looked at Tiffany. She was sitting on a pile of dirty canvas tarps, her face pale and tear-streaked, her dark hair mussed, the sleeve of her blouse torn. Over her head, a single bare bulb in a porcelain fixture cast a stark light over unpainted cinder-block walls. There was something that looked like a heavy fire door in one wall.

As Joe watched, the door opened, and he saw the cruel, menacing face of the Asian man. The man was carrying an ugly-looking assault rifle, with an overhead gas port, a large curved magazine, a pistol grip, and a folding metal stock and butt-plate. The face vanished, and the door closed.

"Wow," Joe muttered. "I'd hate to meet that character in a dark alley." He felt the bump on the back of his head. "On the other hand, maybe I just did," he reflected, with a forced laugh.

"He's the same one who jumped me in the elevator," Tiffany said. Her voice shook.

"That's some heavy artillery he's carrying," Joe remarked. "It has to be a Kalashnikov — an AK-forty-seven."

"Kalashnikov?" Tiffany repeated doubtfully. "That sounds Russian."

"It is," Joe said. He stood up unsteadily and flexed his stiff muscles. "The Russians have turned out some great weapons. That model is a real beauty. It was designed for Soviet paratroopers." He chuckled grimly. "It's also a favorite of terrorists everywhere."

Her pale face turned even whiter.

"Does that mean that the people who are holding us are terrorists?" Tiffany gasped. Then she began to cry soundlessly, her shoulders shaking.

Joe felt a chill. Maybe Tiffany was right. The case that had started out as a simple matter of stealing secrets for profit now seemed to have turned into something much more sinister. Gus dead, Tiffany kidnapped, now both of them held captive—"Hey," he said gently, kneeling beside her, "that's not going to help." He put a finger under her chin and tipped it up, kissing her pale lips. "We've got to think of a way to get out of here."