Hostages of Hate (4 page)

"I'll keep doing it until I run out of stairs, or until there's not enough of you left to pick up."

Frank grabbed Gustave's belt and began swinging him back and forth. Gustave's arms waved feebly as Frank prepared to push him. "Last chance, Gustave. One — two — ughh!"

Frank suddenly went limp. Gustave dropped to the stairwell floor, gibbering in French as his chin hit the concrete. But when Frank flopped down beside him, Gustave realized this was his chance to escape. Gustave started to scrabble away but instantly bumped into two heavy boots. He looked up into a pair of ice-blue eyes.

A young blond man leaned against the door to the convention floor. He rubbed his left hand over a big, competent fist. "You must be Gustave," he said.

"What — what happened?" Gustave asked.

"Quiet!" commanded the blond man. "I took care of this fellow." His English was good, but there was a faint trace of accent — German?

"There is trouble. The operation has been compromised. This man found you and other members of the army." He took a deep breath. "I must warn the Dutchman."

"Your contact — " Gustave began.

"Is now being watched!" The blond man cut him off. "The message must go through. We may have only minutes. Give me someone I can talk to. You can go, and I will warn the others." He prodded Frank Hardy's unmoving form with the toe of his boot. "I'll take care of this one, too."

Gustave licked his lips. He wasn't so eager for grand struggles right then, especially if the whole operation was going wrong. At last, he made up his mind. "The Hole - in - the - Wall — a sweet shop on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask for Lonnie."

"And the recognition code?"

Gustave hesitated.

The blond man gave him a sharp look. "Come. There must be a recognition code!"

Gustave finally gave in. "You must say, 'The day dawned most promisingly.' And he will answer, 'Like a new world.' "

"That is all?"

Gustave nodded. "That is all."

A smile crooked the blond man's lips as he leaned over the Belgian. "Thanks, pal."

The sudden switch from an accent to pure American English made Gustave glance up in astonishment. That's how he saw the fist flashing for his jaw. Then he didn't feel astonished. He was out cold, slumped on the floor.

Frank Hardy groaned as he sat up. "What do you have in those boots, Joe, lead weights?" He rubbed his ribs. "And did you have to be so realistic?" he asked his brother.

"Steel toes," Joe answered with a grin. "I had to convince that guy, didn't I?" Joe nudged the unconscious Gustave with his foot. "What do we do about this guy?"

Frank pulled off the Belgian's belt and pulled his arms together. "Tie him up, call Dad, and be out of here by the time he comes to collect Gustave." His face was hard as he looked at his brother. "We've got a date at the Hole-in-the-Wall. With Lonnie — and maybe the Dutchman."

THE HARDYS HAD some trouble finding a cab driver who was willing to go to the Hole - in - the - Wall. It was in a tough neighborhood and not very conveniently located from the conference center. It would mean a trip through heavy downtown traffic.

But if their trip was slow, it was also scenic. Their route took them along the south side of the Mall, with all the white marble museums. Then the dome of the Capitol Building rose up on the side, and the cab cut over onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

Government buildings began to thin out then. Once they were past the Library of Congress, Pennsylvania Avenue started changing. Neighborhood-type stores began appearing. And the farther they traveled, the more run-down the neighborhood became.

"This is the street the president lives on?" Joe asked.

"Well, not on this end of it." The driver grinned. He began to make another joke when the radio cut in with a new report on the hostage situation.

"A videotaped set of demands from the Army for the New World Order has been discovered in a major network news office," the announcer said. "The leader of the group has explained that there will be no negotiations. Four members of his group presently in prison in France must be released, U.S. antiterrorist advisors must be withdrawn from foreign countries, and a million-dollar ransom is to be delivered to the plane."

"Those guys are sure doing a number on us," commented the driver.

But Frank was leaning forward in his seat, straining to hear the rest of the report.

"These demands must be met within the next twelve hours," the announcer went on, "or, according to the tape, the International Airways jet—and everyone aboard—will be blown up."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Twelve hours to find this guy," Joe muttered.

"Are we getting near that address we gave you?" Frank asked.

"Next corner," the driver responded.

They looked down a row of shabby storefronts, some of them boarded up. On the corner was the candy store they wanted. Its side and front windows had been crudely filled in with cement blocks and the whole front given a quick once-over with white paint, now gone dingy.

A crudely hand-lettered sign stood over the door.

HOLE - IN - THE - WALL CANDY, SODAS

Joe gazed from the sign to the store. "Great name. Describes the place perfectly."

"At least the door is open," Frank said. "Somebody must be in there. Let's go."

They stepped through the doorway and went from bright Washington sunlight into gloom. Whoever owned the place didn't believe in a lot of light. With the windows blocked up, the two forty-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling didn't begin to light up the store.

It smelled of dust and sweat. Frank squinted his eyes, making out a counter by the entrance and a soda fountain along one wall. "Hello?" he called.

"How do?" As Frank's eyes got accustomed to the dimness, he realized a man was sitting on one of the fountain stools. He did his best not to stare as the man labored toward them on a cane.

The man topped Frank's six-foot-one height and was incredibly heavy. Billows of fat rolled over the waist of the man's worn jeans and rippled under his torn undershirt. Tufts of white chest hair peeped out, too.

Joe glanced at his brother, his thoughts evident in his eyes. Samples too much of his own candy.

But as the man stepped into the light from the front door, both Hardys gasped. The man's right arm and half of his face were a mass of scar tissue.

The man's lips curled into a smile as he looked into their faces. "Got this courtesy of the United States Marine Corps. Was in a demolitions unit. But one of the timers was screwed up. Dang near demolished me,"

He leaned on his cane. "They retired me, and I had enough money to get me this nice store. So what can I get for you gentlemen? A candy bar? A nice lime rickey?" With his heavy southern accent, those last words sounded more like "lahmrickay."

"We are looking for Lonnie." Joe did his foreign-English routine again, pronouncing every word very carefully, as if he had to think about it.

"I'm Lonnie. A couple of foreign boys, hey? Sure you wouldn't like some soda pop?"

"No. We came in to get out of the sun." Joe fanned himself with his hand. "The day dawned most promisingly."

Lonnie's eyes suddenly became sharp. "Like anew world," he responded. "So. I see you boys need something more than soda." He waddled past them, closing the door. "Come in the back." Joe and Frank followed him, nearly choking in the stench of stale sweat.

Lonnie led them into a combination office and storeroom, piled high with crates. Joe leaned against one that had just been pried open and glanced inside. "Heckler and Koch machine guns," he commented.

"I can still use my old Marine contacts to get guns for the cause," Lonnie said, settling his bulk behind a desk. "Still got some buddies. Even down in the barracks by the Navy Yard. And, of course, there are my demolition skills. I built the bomb that's in the airplane."

He leaned back, and suddenly an old Army Colt automatic appeared in his hand. "I also know all the people who would use that recognition code—and you're not any of them."

"Gustave sent us," Frank said, imitating Joe's accent. "He fears the airport operation has been compromised. People are after him."

"So he sent you?" Lonnie asked.

"There is more," Joe said. "But we are to report only to the leader." He hesitated for a second. "The Dutchman."

Lonnie frowned. "That's not standard procedure. The Dutchman operates only through cutouts."

Frank nodded in understanding. Of course he would use cutouts — innocent-looking go - betweens — to receive his reports and issue his orders. It made sense that ANWO's leader wouldn't run the risk of being traced through direct contact with his agents.

"Why don't you pass the report on to me?" Lonnie said. "I'll pass it straight to the big man."

"You are so close to the leader?" Joe asked.

"Don't let this dump fool you, sonny." Although he still held the pistol on them, Frank noticed that Lonnie's grip had relaxed a bit. "I got this store because it's a perfect contact spot. There's even a disco around the corner where lots of foreign students hang out." He grinned. "Seems real natural that some of them might stop off for a soda or such."

"A good cover," Frank said. "But this report cannot go in the usual way." Frank had to choose his words carefully. This guy was obviously one of the higher-ups in ANWO. "The report is for the leader's ears alone. The leak comes from too high a level."

Lonnie's frown got worse, but he put down his gun. "It's Beauvoir, - isn't it? He wants us to fail — even get captured—so he can take over." He shook his head. "I warned against letting him into this." He looked at the Hardys. "Am I right?"

"I cannot say," Joe responded, in just the right voice to confirm Lonnie's suspicions. In a group as crazy as this, there have to be lots of factions, he thought. Let him blame whoever he likes.

Lonnie leaned back in his chair. "I'm right, aren't I? Can't put much over on me. I been on the drill here more years than you been around." He leaned farther back, looking reminiscent.

"Our message," Frank pressed, not really wanting to hear about twenty years of wacko politics.

"I been thinking on it," Lonnie said. "Don't know where the Dutchman is, myself. But Pia sure will. A good kid, Pia. And an easy contact for you kids. Just go up to Georgetown. I'll give you the number where you can reach — "

He reached over for a pad and pencil. But just as he put pencil to paper, the sound of sirens came screaming up the street. "Sounds like a whole convoy of cop cars," Lonnie said, pausing.

"A familiar sound in this area, I expect," said Joe.

But as the sirens got louder and louder, Lonnie's face became more thoughtful. Frank risked one glance at the gun. Could he beat Lonnie to it?

Lonnie surprised him. He leaned back again in his chair, way back, resting his hand on an old fuse box behind his desk.

"You know," Lonnie said, "I sure as sugar hope you're not snitches or undercover cops."

The Hardys could barely hear his voice over the noise of the sirens outside.

"'Cause I decided a long time ago I wasn't going to get caught." Lonnie gave them a lopsided smile as he looked down at his half-crippled bulk. "And I sure can't run."

He swung open the door of the fuse box. It was crammed with what looked like yellowish clay. "CN - Plastic explosive." Lonnie flicked a big black electrical switch in the middle of the bomb. "And this switch here activates a detonator."

Lonnie rose to his feet. "Now, if anybody's fool enough to open the front door, we're all going to go up like the Fourth of July."

FRANK AND JOE both charged for the fuse box, but Lonnie stood in the way.

Joe threw a whistling right, straight into Lonnie's gut. His fist penetrated four inches of blubber, then hit rock-hard muscle.

"Hunh!" Lonnie grunted. Then his massive fist caught Joe in the side of the head, sending him spinning away.

Frank tried a karate blow to Lonnie's neck. But again, Lonnie's fat cushioned the blow.

He picked Frank up with both hands and threw him across the office. Frank crashed into the wall and slumped to the floor.

Ears ringing, he forced himself to his feet. The office was quiet now; the sirens had stopped blaring. Any second, someone would be coming through that door.

Frank's eyes fell on the old pistol still sitting on the desk. He lunged for it, almost had his fingers around the butt—Then he dropped it as Lonnie lashed into his shoulder with his cane.

"No way, boy. If we're going to go, we're going to go."

Joe came staggering up for another attack, sidestepping Lonnie to get at the switch. He managed to get his fingers into the box, only to have Lonnie's cane rammed into his stomach. Joe folded in pain. All he had to show for it was a sticky coating of CN on his fingers.

Frank stopped rubbing his injured shoulder and grabbed left-handed for the gun. Lonnie's cane swept out, sending the pistol spinning away.

But the grab had been only a feint. While Lonnie was distracted, Frank's right hand had crept painfully into his pocket. It came out with a small spray can.

As Lonnie brought his cane around again, Frank brought his hand up. His aim was pretty shaky, but the spray did its job. It jetted into Lonnie's face.

Lonnie screamed, his cane falling to the floor as he brought both hands up to his eyes.

Frank lurched past him, his own eyes tearing as he passed through the cloud of liquid tear gas. He flicked the switch to the "off" position. Please, don't let it be booby-trapped, he prayed.

Nothing happened. They didn't blow up.

But Lonnie did. With a roar, he started flailing his arms around. Even blind, he was a formidable opponent. One of his hamlike fists caught Frank a glancing blow, knocking him to the ground. The little can rolled from Frank's hand.

Lonnie fumbled around the fuse box, trying to rearm his bomb.

Then Joe hit him in a flying tackle. They both disappeared behind the desk as Lonnie lost his balance and hit the floor thunderously.

Frank got to his knees and found the pistol resting on the floor beside him. Picking it up, he started for the desk. "Joe? You okay?"