Strategic Moves by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

trying to escape after he knocked that gargoyle off the roof," Frank explained.
    The sergeant smiled. "I'll never understand American humor. You two young men are the ones being arrested."
    Before Frank and Joe could say anything, he shoved them into back of the panel wagon.
    Joe sprawled and slid across the metal floor. Then he heard the door shut. The inside of the van was pitch dark. A distinct click resounded throughout the back of the panel wagon.
    "Hey!" Joe shouted. He darted for the back door and yanked on the latch. "It's locked!" He pounded on the windowless panel door. "Let us out!"
    The van's engine turned over, and an overhead light came on, nearly blinding Frank and Joe. Then the van lurched forward, throwing Joe against the back door.
    Joe stomped up to the front of the van. He pounded on a metal sliding panel. "Hey! What are you doing?"
    The panel slid open. The sergeant was driving and Commander Collins sat in the passenger seat.
    "I'd advise you to be seated," Collins ordered.
    "What's going on? Why are we under arrest?" Joe demanded to know.
    "Sit down, now!" Collins pointed a black steel pistol at Joe's face.
    Joe backed up, his hands raised. The panel slid shut and was locked.
    "What's going on?" Joe asked, looking at Frank, who was seated on the metal bench welded to the side of the panel van.
    "From the looks of things," Frank replied calmly, "I'd say we've been arrested."
    "Why would the Oxford police want to arrest us?
    "I wouldn't know about the Oxford police. But these guys want to question us." Frank locked his hands behind his head.
    "What are you talking about?" Joe sat across from Frank.
    "Did you notice what kind of gun that commander pointed at you?"
    "I got a real good up-close and personal look," Joe said sarcastically. "A nine-millimeter Beretta. What about it?"
    "First of all, English police officers are not issued weapons, not even commanders. Second, that particular make of Beretta is a fifteen-clip special that's custom-made for one organization: BCI - British Counterintelligence."
    "So these guys aren't Oxford police, and we're not going to the Oxford station," Joe stated.
    "Right." Frank sniffed. "From the smell of things, I'd say we're in the country."
    Joe sniffed, too. "Smells like a stockyard," he said, wrinkling his nose.
    They rode in silence for a few minutes, and then Frank pulled the cigarette lighter from his pocket.
    "Where'd you get that?" Joe asked.
    "I found it in my room just before Aleksandr showed up." Frank turned the lighter over.
    "Chris smoked. That's one thing we argued about last night." The previous night seemed a lifetime away, and Joe wished he had kept a better eye on the skateboarder from California.
    Frank handed the lighter to Joe. "I think you'll find the inscription very enlightening."
    Joe frowned at Frank's pun. He turned the lighter over and read the inscription: ** 'Chris St. Armand, Ne Plus Ultra.'"
    "Recognize the emblem?" Frank asked.
    Joe looked at the front of the lighter. A green shield with a blue cross in the center dominated the front of the lighter. Ne Plus Ultra was written in the horizontal band of the cross.
    "The Network emblem," Frank said. "Ate Plus Ultra, Latin for 'perfection.' The Network's motto."
    "St. Armand is a Network agent," Joe stated with disgust. "An old-looking student."
    "And a young-looking Network agent," Frank added.
    "We've been set up, brother," Joe announced.
    The van came to an abrupt halt. Joe heard large wooden doors being opened. Then the van moved forward slowly and stopped again. Joe heard a squeal as the doors were shut.
    The light in the van went out as the engine was shut off. The Hardys sat still and kept quiet, barely breathing.
    Joe could hear voices but couldn't distinguish any words. Suddenly the back door of the van flew open. A large spotlight filled the van with a blinding white light. Joe raised one hand to shield his eyes against the bright assault of the spotlight.
    Moments later two large