Passport to Danger (10 page)

“Probably our buddy Auguste, don't you think?” Joe said.

“Let's go find out,” Frank answered.

The Hardys stepped off the boat and hurried along the pier to the soft green grass of Monsieur Bergerac's country estate. “Watch for guards,” Frank warned as they neared the chateau.

As the Hardys got closer to the corner of the building, they heard voices. Frank and Joe both ducked into a tall, unclipped hedge. From there they were able to hear most of the conversation.

“May we speak freely here?” Isabelle asked.

“You may,” a deep male voice answered. “Except for my personal bodyguard, my staff has the evening off. I wanted our meeting to be private.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other and nodded. It was definitely the voice of Auguste Bergerac.

“Were you responsible for sabotaging the lights at Le Stade?” asked the man with Isabelle.

“I will ask the questions, Gaston,” Isabelle said. “Monsieur Bergerac, why have you invited me?”

“Call me Auguste, mademoiselle,
s'il vous plâit
. I am proposing that we combine our efforts. That my network of support and Victoire work together and double our influence.”

“Aaaaahh. Well, I don't know,” Isabelle responded. The Hardys heard several clinking sounds, like ice being dropped into glasses.

“Think about it,” Bergerac urged. “You have yet to make a real mark in Paris. You have yet to command the respect you deserve. If you join with me, your cause will receive a much wider audience.”

“That might be true, Auguste,” Isabelle began, “but—”

“We do not need you,” Gaston blurted out. “We have great plans for achieving the respect you mention. And we will do it on our own!”

“Gaston!” Isabelle ordered. “Enough. Take a walk. Now!”

The Hardys heard grumbling noises, then something that sounded like a glass being slammed down onto a counter or table. They ducked back as they saw a man stomp around the corner and off toward a small building with a fenced pen off to its side.

“As I was saying,” Auguste explained, “now is the ideal time for your team and mine to come together. We have prime leverage with this world invitational tournament—many extra visitors to Paris, many opportunities to ensure that the world understands the seriousness of our intentions.”

The conversation was interrupted by a sudden ferocious barking. Joe could tell there were at least two dogs, maybe more. The barking and growling escalated to a threatening, terrifying din.

“He has gone to the pen,” Bergerac said. “Get him away. He's arousing the dogs.”

Another man strode around the corner and off
toward the direction Gaston had taken. “That must be Bergerac's bodyguard,” Frank whispered to Joe.

“And it sounds like Gaston has bothered the guard dogs,” Joe responded.

The Hardys could no longer hear Bergerac or Isabelle talking over the intense noise from the dogs. The frenetic barking continued in spite of the hollers of Bergerac's bodyguard.

“We might need to find an escape hatch.” Joe looked around as he spoke. “We'll never make it to the trees,” he said, gesturing to the small woods along the side of the estate.

“If we need to, let's head for the garage,” Frank said, nodding toward a large building about fifty yards away.

“I say we head there now,” Joe suggested. “Sort of a preemptive escape.” He nodded toward Gaston, who was running back toward the chateau. The sound of the dogs had reached a frantic pitch. They sounded like wild animals about to begin a hunt.

“Get inside, Isabelle,” Gaston yelled as he raced out of sight around the corner. “We think there are trespassers on the grounds. He's letting the dogs loose.”

“That's it,” Joe said. “We're out of here. Now!” He and Frank stepped from behind the hedge and streaked away from the house.

The bump on Joe's head throbbed as his legs pounded the ground. He looked around only once,
but it was enough. Behind him, taking long, undulating strides, were two huge dogs. Their tongues hung out between pointed teeth, and their eyes were focused right on the teenagers.

Joe felt like prey.

Joe raced toward the garage. Frank was not far behind and unfortunately neither were the dogs. The garage had five large doors, all of them locked.

Joe raced around the side of the building and found a small door at the back. He pushed at it, but it wouldn't budge. “No time for the picks,” Frank said, running up to join his brother.

“Right!” Joe agreed. The Hardys braced themselves, side by side, their shoulders bowed toward the door. “One… two… three!” Joe yelled. They ran at the door together, and with a grinding screech, it burst in, tearing the lock from the doorjamb.

Once inside the garage, they shoved the broken door back up against the entry. “This'll buy us a little time,” Frank said. He quickly assessed the huge
building. A security light shone from the ceiling. Six antique cars were lined up perfectly. On the side wall there was a door that opened to a smaller room. Above that room was a loft storage area.

“Come on,” Frank said, leading Joe to the small room. It looked like an office. He reached in his pack and took out an old blue baseball cap. He rubbed it over his head and face, and then over Joe's. Then he scraped it across the floor leading to the small office and threw it behind the desk.

“Grab that box,” he said, pointing to a car-repair tool kit on a nearby table. Then they scrambled up the loft ladder.

“Is this going to work?” Joe asked.

“Not for long, probably,” Frank said. “But maybe long enough. Check out the tool kit.”

As they looked in the kit, they heard the dogs approach the garage. The barking stopped for a few seconds. “They're sniffing for the trail,” Joe said. He and Frank planned their strategy.

The dogs suddenly burst into the garage, flattening the broken door with their long muscular legs. They sniffed the floor, heading for the small office. Frank gestured to Joe to be ready.

The dogs followed the trail into the office and to Frank's hat behind the desk. As soon as they were inside the small room, the Hardys dropped down from the loft, armed with tools from the kit, just in case. Joe slammed the door shut, closing the dogs
inside the office. Frank got a chair from the corner of the garage and jammed it against the doorknob. Inside, they could hear the dogs tearing into Frank's hat.

“Okay,” Joe said, “Let's get out of here.”

As Frank and Joe were racing out of the garage they heard one of the larger doors open. “Let's get to the woods,” Joe whispered to Frank. They tore across the grounds behind the garage, jumped the metal fence, and bolted for the safety of the trees in the woods surrounding the estate.

The Hardys continued through the woods and finally reached the road. Once there, Joe turned on his GPS device. He punched in
Paris,
and the GPS told them they were eighteen miles from town. Then it drew a little map, showing them which direction to take.

“Come on, let's start hiking,” Joe said. “The GPS says this is a pretty direct route. Some cars are bound to come along.”

Only fifteen minutes passed before a farmer with a truckful of produce picked them up. They were at their Metro stop in a half hour, and back in their apartment before midnight.

“I can't wait to tell Dad about Isabelle and Bergerac,” Frank said as Joe unlocked the door. “I'm not sure which authorities we need to contact here—the local police, or someone higher up. Dad should know exactly who.”

“Well, we definitely have to get in touch with someone about it,” Joe said.

“Before either Victoire or Bergerac pull off something else,” Frank added.

“Auguste and Isabelle—what a creepy combo,” Joe said. “Dad,” he called as they walked to their bedroom. “We're back, and wait'll you hear what happened.”

“Dad?” Frank echoed. “Isn't he home?” He turned to Frank, then continued into Fenton's room.

He wasn't there. And there was no note anywhere in the apartment. Frank couldn't chase away the idea that something wasn't right. “What do you think?” he asked Joe.

“Seems weird,” Joe answered. “But with this conference, he could be doing any number of things. Maybe there's some kind of investigative field trip or something—a kind of top-level stakeout.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Could be. But I think it's weird too.” He checked the phone messages. “Nothing,” he whispered to Joe as he listened. “One from Jacques. He's been trying to reach us.” He listened a little longer. “Nothing from Dad so far.”

“That reminds me,” Joe said. “When are we going to tell Jacques we know he's been lying to us?”

“Tomorrow morning, I—” Frank held up his hand as he listened to the next phone message. “Hold it.” He felt his stomach rise into his throat.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“It was a message for Dad from one of his friends at the symposium,” Frank said, first hanging up, then dialing. “Dad never showed up this morning. His friend hasn't seen him all day.”

He got an answer on the second ring. It was the same man who had left the phone message. Frank asked whether his dad had shown up for any of the meetings later that day. Joe could tell from his brother's face that the news wasn't good. Finally Frank sort of half smiled and hung up.

“What?” Joe asked.

“Well, this guy says not to worry—
yet
. Dad never showed. But the guy says not to contact any of the authorities, that the people in the symposium are already looking into it. He also said that Dad and another guy are working on an actual case to present the final day of the conference. So they think that's probably where he's been.”

Joe took a deep breath. “Hey, these guys are masters, right?” Joe said.

“Including Dad.”

“Including Dad,” Joe repeated. “They're the most qualified to solve this case.” Both were lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes.

“So what do you think?” Joe finally said. “Do we worry or not?”

“Not,” Frank said, going to his computer. “We're no good to Dad unless we're on top of our game. That means we need all of our pistons firing.
We
just might be the best people on the case.”

Frank searched their e-mail in case Fenton had contacted him from another computer. “We got something,” he said. “And it's from Dad.”

Joe came over to the desk and leaned over his brother's shoulder to see the screen. “‘See you tomorrow,'” Joe read. “‘I'll be tied up all night.'”

“I don't like the way that sounds,” Joe said.

“Agreed,” Frank said in a hushed voice. They were quiet as they finally slipped into their beds. Joe fell asleep quickly, but had bad dreams about his father being tied up.

•  •  •

Saturday morning, the first buzz of the phone woke Joe out of a restless sleep. He was very jittery—more than ready to move on the case.

By the time he hung up, Frank had already showered and was getting dressed. “It was the volunteer coordinator,” Joe told his brother. “The tournament's back on. We're to report to Le Stade tomorrow morning at nine o'clock.”

“That's not a good idea,” Frank said. “More ‘accidents' are being planned—we both know it.”

“How come you didn't mention what we know about Isabelle and Bergerac to the security conference guy when you talked to him last night?”

“Because right now, it's our word against theirs,” Frank said. “All we have now is an overheard conversation—in French—about how they might join
forces to bring their cause to the international public, plus a garbled tape by someone they can say isn't even connected to them. They'd be able to get us for breaking and entering on the boat, trespassing on Bergerac's property, and breaking the garage door—at least.”

“Bergerac was pretty clear about being into sabotaging the stadium or the tournament or both,” Joe said. “Do we pin him for what's happened so far? How about the fireworks incident?”

“Probably,” Frank said. “I'd like to talk to Sylvio again. For now, though, let's say yes.”

“If blowing up the lights was an act of sabotage, we know it wasn't Victoire,” Joe said. “Isabelle was so mad about someone beating her to the punch.”

“For now, I'd guess Bergerac for that, too,” Frank said. “He never answered when they asked him about it.”

“What about the attack on Coach Sant'Anna?” Joe asked. “Still thinking Monster Montie?”

“I don't know,” Frank said. “I thought it was Montie for a while. But now that we know that Victoire is really stepping up their activity, I wouldn't be surprised if the message Coach Sant'Anna left on the floor was a couple of
V
s for Victoire. He's another one I'd like to talk to again. Maybe by now he can tell us what he meant.”

“We need proof,” Joe agreed. “But first we have to check on Dad. We've got to know he's okay.”

“You don't trust the e-mail message?”

“We both know anyone can send one of those,” Joe said. “And if they use Dad's computer…”

“The return address would be Dad's.” Frank finished his brother's thought. “It would look as if it really did come from Dad.”

“Hey, anybody home?” The Hardys heard Jacques's voice coming from the front door.

“Let's keep what we've learned quiet,” Frank cautioned Joe as they walked to the door.

“And let's say nothing about Dad,” Joe added.

Jacques bustled in with sacks of food—sausage rolls, orange juice, and sweet pastries from the patisserie around the corner.

While they ate the three talked about the tournament starting up again. Then, out of the blue, Frank startled Jacques by telling him they found out he'd lied to them.