Strategic Moves

"Are you sure we haven't driven into the Twilight Zone and been zapped back to Shakespeare's time?" Joe Hardy sat on the edge of the car's backseat, peering into the distance, his blue eyes wide; beneath his blond hair his forehead was wrinkled in confusion.

"Quite sure, guv," the driver answered with a chuckle and a clipped British accent. Davey Bolan, in his early twenties, short, dark-haired, and friendly, shifted into low gear as the small black British car topped a low hill.

Frank Hardy, at eighteen, a year older than Joe, sat next to his brother, the draft from the window blowing back his brown hair. "Joe has a limited view of other countries, Davey," he announced.

Joe frowned at Frank and then turned to look back down the road. They were nearing Oxford, England, and Joe's attention had been attracted by the ancient needle-pointed spires that threaded the blue English sky and the Gothic turrets and pinnacles of the churches that were silhouetted against white rolling clouds.

Three months earlier the Hardys had received a special invitation to attend the International Classroom, a new program sponsored by the University of Oxford. The best and brightest high school students from several countries had been invited to spend two weeks at Oxford, England's oldest university.

Fenton Hardy, the internationally known private detective, had agreed to let his sons attend, but only after they had promised to stay out of trouble. The brothers had enthusiastically agreed, but Frank could tell by his father's troubled look that the older Hardy was worried nonetheless.

Davey, an employee of the university, had met them at Heathrow Airport, outside London. The Hardys were the last of some one hundred students to arrive; most had come the day before, Saturday.

Frank looked out a window as they crossed a bridge and entered Oxford proper. The outlying neighborhoods had appeared modern, with neat rows of houses. But after crossing the bridge, Frank felt as though they had indeed gone through a time warp. The street had narrowed and was paved with bricks. The car rattled as it made its way over the unevenly worn surface. And the buildings looked several centuries older than the ones on the outskirts of town.

"That's Maudlin College on the right." Davey pointed with his thumb. "Those spires you were looking at on the hilltop, Mr. Hardy, belong to the cloisters of Bell Tower and Founder's Tower, two of the oldest. The colleges that make up Oxford University are spread throughout the town."

"I thought it was Magdalen College," Frank said.

"It's spelled 'Magdalen,' sir, but it's pronounced 'Maudlin,' " Davey replied. "No one really knows why."

"Probably for the same reason that the English say 'Terns' River instead of 'Thames,' the way it's spelled," Joe said. "Where's Brasenose, where we're staying?"

"Center of town on the High," Davey answered.

"The High?" Joe asked.

"All the streets are called by their nicknames," Frank replied. "Broad Street is simply the Broad; Cornmarket Street is the Corn; Bear Lane is the Bear. You should have spent more time reading the brochure instead of telling Chet Morton about how you were going to impress the English girls."

Davey laughed.

Joe nudged Frank with his elbow. "Very funny."

"Here we are, gents." Davey smoothly braked the car in front of an ancient-looking building, its bricks dark and old.

Frank and Joe stepped from the car. The sun was beginning to set, and a slight September chill filled the air. The brothers walked around to the back of the car and began helping Davey pull their suitcases from the trunk. Then the Hardys stared at the building.

"Brasenose College," Frank said in a tour guide's voice. "Founded 1509 and named for an ancient bronze nose-shaped knocker that once hung on its door."

"You'd make a great guidebook," Joe quipped.

Davey looked at his watch, then pointed toward the large wooden doors of Brasenose College. "You'll find your room assignments on the bulletin board inside - through those doors, down the corridor, then first hall on your left." He hopped back into the car. "I hope your stay in England is a pleasant and peaceful one." Davey waved and sped away from the Hardys.

Frank opened the heavy wooden door and ushered his brother inside Brasenose College.

They each took a sheet of paper off the bulletin board. The papers told them their room assignments and that dinner would be served in the Brasenose dining hall promptly at 6:30 p.m. Joe hadn't eaten anything since the meal on the airplane, and that had had all the flavor and consistency of plastic.

Their rooms were on the second floor of a dormitory a few yards from the main college. Joe liked the idea that the dorm was coed, with the female exchange students in the opposite wing.

"Each of the thirty-five colleges and five private halls is self-governing," Frank explained to Joe as they walked over to their dormitory, "with its own teachers, dorms, classrooms, and dining halls."

In a few minutes, Frank and Joe were standing in front of what would be home for the next two weeks. Like everything else they had noticed about Oxford, the dormitory looked old. Joe looked toward the top of the four-story building, where several large stone gargoyles stared down at them as though the two teenagers were the creatures' next meal. A shudder ran through Joe's body. He opened the large wooden doors, and he and Frank walked inside the ancient building.

"Here we are," Frank said after they had hauled their luggage up two flights of stairs. "You're just across the hall, in two-ten."

Frank knocked on the door of the room to which he had been assigned - two-eleven, across from Joe. Each exchange student was assigned a roommate from another country. The directors of the special two-week program were hoping that by living and working together the students would form new friendships.

"Come on in, partner," someone answered from inside in a poor imitation of a cowboy, his accent thick and heavy.

Joe smiled at Frank's puzzled expression. "Sounds like a real winner," he said as he knocked on the door of his room.

Frank only shrugged and pushed open the door.

Standing by a twin bed, putting shirts on a hanger, was a young man dressed in blue jeans, a blue western-cut shirt, and red cowboy boots.

"Hi," Frank said, and threw his suitcase onto the other twin bed. "I'm Frank Hardy, Bayport, USA."

The young man stuck out his hand. "Pyotr Zigonev, Kiev, USSR. Ziggy to my friends."

Frank grabbed the young man's hand. "Pleasure."

Frank sized up Ziggy: eighteen or nineteen, same height as Frank - six feet one - slight build, dark blond hair, blue eyes, intelligent-looking, and friendly. The only odd thing about the young man was that he was dressed more like an American square dancer than a Russian teenager.

Then Frank's eyes lit up. "Pyotr Zigonev? The Soviet junior chess champion?"

Pyotr blushed. "Yes. But call me Ziggy." He paused and then looked puzzled. "You know about me?"

"Know about you?" Frank was excited. "Next to computers, chess is my main interest."

"Not girls?" Ziggy's face showed confusion. "I thought all American boys were interested in girls."

"We are - I mean, I am," Frank said with a laugh.

The door opened and Joe walked in. "Hey, Frank, are we going to eat in the dining hall or in town?"

"Joe, this is Pyotr Zigonev," Frank said. "Pyotr, this is my brother, Joe."

"Ziggy," Ziggy said.

"Joe Hardy," Joe said, shaking the young man's hand. He turned to Frank. "So where are we eating?"

"Did you hear me? Pyotr Zigonev."

Joe scowled. "I'm hungry, not deaf. Are we going to eat in town or at the dining hall?"

"Ziggy is the Soviet junior chess champion," Frank explained with exasperation.

"Congratulations," Joe said to Ziggy with a nod of his head, trying not to sound rude or impatient.

Frank frowned at Joe's apparent indifference. "That's like being the MVP of the Super Bowl and World Series in the same year," Frank blurted.

"The what?" Ziggy asked, confused.

Joe was becoming increasingly frustrated with Frank. "That's great. I'm happy for him. But where are we going to eat?" he insisted.

"Let's eat off campus," came a soft accented voice from the doorway.

Joe turned around at the sound of the voice. His blue eyes widened, and he had to keep his jaw from dropping.

Joe's eyes were locked on a beautiful young woman. She stood several inches shorter than Joe and wore a dark blue blouse neatly tucked into a tight-fitting black leather miniskirt, both of which showed her to have a good figure. Her eyes were a velvety bright blue and drew Joe to them. Her hair was blond and cut short to reveal a soft white neck. Joe felt the blood rush to his feet.

Ziggy moved to the doorway. "This is my twin sister, Petra."

"Hi," Frank said. "I'm Frank Hardy, Bayport, USA." Frank shook Petra's hand.

"It is my pleasure," Petra said softly, her Russian accent sending goose bumps rushing up and down Joe's arms.

Joe took a deep breath and stretched to his full six-foot height. "Joe Hardy," he said, shaking Petra's hand.

"Twins also?" Petra flashed a shy smile at Joe.

Joe's mind raced as he tried to think of something clever and witty to say, but for the first time in his life a pretty girl had made him forget all his best one-liners. So he simply said, "No. Just brothers."

"I think Petra has a good idea," Ziggy said. "Tonight is the last night we can dress casually."

"What?" Joe asked, trying not to stare at Petra.

"You should have read the brochure," Frank whispered.

Petra continued to smile at Joe. "Tomorrow we must wear regulation clothes to class. Gentlemen: slacks, jackets, and school ties. Ladies: conservative blouses and mid-length skirts."

"Oh, yeah," Joe said knowingly. Too bad, Joe thought as he tried to keep from glancing down at Petra's legs. "I think your idea is great." He turned to Frank. "Let's eat out."

"Good idea, brother," Frank said with a grin.

They left the room, and a moment later the foursome stepped out of the dormitory and into an English twilight.

"I forgot my map of the city," Joe announced with a snap of his fingers. He started to go back inside.

"Never mind," Frank said. "I studied the map on the plane. We can find a pub if we go west on the High."

"You have a good memory," Petra cooed.

"A mind like a steel trap," Joe said, trying to make the remark sound like a joke. "And about as interesting."

Ziggy laughed. "I love American humor."

"I bet you can't wait to hear some," Frank said with a teasing smile at Joe.

"Let's go," Joe said, ignoring Frank. Joe was suddenly jolted backward as he bumped into a man who had stepped around the corner of the dormitory building.

"You are going nowhere," the man ordered. He unbuttoned his jacket and put his hands on his hips.

Joe was about to say something when he noticed the butt of an automatic pistol peeking out from the man's shoulder holster.

"Aleksandr!" Petra said angrily.

"Who is this?" Frank asked.

"Aleksandr Dancek," Ziggy answered. "Our chaperon."

"Chaperon?" Joe was disappointed.

"Yes," Petra said. "The only way Mother and Father would approve our coming to Oxford was if we agreed to have a chaperon from the Soviet embassy in London."

"It is our bad luck to get someone who takes his job seriously," Ziggy said, smiling at Aleksandr.

"Where are you going?" Aleksandr demanded to know, ignoring Ziggy's jab.

"Leave the children alone," a woman said as she joined the group.

"Hello, Katrina," Petra said. 'It's getting a bit crowded," Joe observed. This is Katrina, Aleksandr's wife," Petra said.

"Hello," Katrina said, holding out her hand to Frank. She and Aleksandr looked to be in their late twenties. While Aleksandr had sharp, angular features and short-cropped black hair, Katrina was all smiles, soft-featured, blond, and friendly.

Frank introduced himself and then Joe. Aleksandr did not offer to shake hands.

"We were only going out to eat," Ziggy said.

"You are supposed to check with us first." Aleksandr's voice was stern, angry.

"You were not around," Ziggy replied.

"I think they will be okay, Alek," Katrina said.

"They are supposed to check with us first," Aleksandr repeated with a quick look of anger at Katrina. "Where do you plan to eat?" he asked Ziggy.

"We haven't decided," Ziggy replied. "We were just going to walk around with our new friends and find a pub."

Aleksandr sized up Frank and Joe, looking unimpressed. "You will be back by nine o'clock." It was an order, not a suggestion.

"We will be back when we are finished," Petra countered. "You are to be our chaperons and not our jailers. I would not want to write home to Father and tell him that you are making our stay in England an unpleasant one."

Aleksandr bristled.

Joe was surprised and impressed with the strong tone in Petra's voice and her determination not to be pushed around by the diplomat.