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the London airport," Joe added, peering out the door, "unless they knocked down the arrival buildings and moved a bunch of carrier jets in."
    Frank looked out at a squadron of fighter planes lined up on the tarmac.
    "It's a RAP base near Portsmouth," the Gray Man explained. "Now if you'll kindly get down that ladder, you'll be out of the way of those military policemen who are waiting to come aboard.”
    Frank and Joe stared down at the airmen clustered around the ladder. They wore white armbands and carried pistols. "What are the military police doing here?" Joe asked.
    "The MPs? Two jobs. One, they're collecting our tied-up friend for delivery to British Intelligence. Two, they're keeping everyone else aboard the plane." "Why?"
    "To keep our arrival secret. We know the Assassins arranged this hijacking. But all they'll know is that the whole plane has disappeared probably on its way to Libya," the Gray Man explained with a grim smile. "They won't know we're here in England. Maybe it will give us the advantage of surprise. "
    "But the people on the plane - "
    "Will stay there, until the operation is finished." The Gray Man gestured to the ladder. "Now get down there. We have a helicopter waiting to take us and our friend the hijacker to London. "
    In the distance, an army copter dropped lightly to the concrete runway, its rotors idling. Frank and Joe clambered down the ladder, followed by the Gray Man. Then the MPs climbed up, and soon the hijacker was being lowered to the ground in a sling.
    With the Hardys supporting the bound captive on each side, they followed the Gray Man to the copter.
    "Perkins!" the Gray Man said when he saw the pilot. "I didn't think you'd been demoted to chauffeur.”
    The pilot, who had a round, pink face and a silly grin, looked like a dopey young English lord from an old movie. "My pilot's license is approved for helis. And Nigel wanted absolute security on this trip."
    "Orders from the very top, eh?" The Gray Man returned the grin. "Boys, let me introduce Edwin Perkins. Don't let that dumb smile fool you. He's chief aide to Sir Nigel Folliott, head of British Intelligence. Perkins, Frank and Joe Hardy. " "You aren't introducing your silent friend over there?" Perkins nodded to the bound hijacker.
    "He wouldn't talk even if the gag were out of his mouth," the Gray Man replied.
    "Probably not, if he's what you say he is," Perkins said as the copter lifted off. "It's very rare to get your hands on an Assassin-alive, that is."
    As if to prove Perkins's words, their captive made a lunge for the door as the helicopter leveled off fifty feet from the ground.
    "What the - !" Joe grabbed the guy before he could plunge through the door.
    "He's really trying to kill himself," Frank said quietly.
    "So how do we make him talk?" Joe whispered back.
    After the helicopter landed at the secret British Intelligence center, that was exactly the problem facing the interrogation experts. "What's your name then, mate?" one of them asked.
    The prisoner stared in stony silence. With his old-man makeup completely off, he looked hardly older than the Hardys.
    "He might as well still be wearing the gag," Joe said.
    They watched as the interrogators played "Good Cop/Bad Cop." The one who spoke first was friendly and fair. The other was hostile and scary.
    "How's it going? Any way I can make it easier for you?" the Good Cop said.
    "You can take these off." The prisoner gestured at the heavy manacles that held him in his chair.
    "Those are for your own good. We've seen what you've tried to do." The Good Cop shook his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of something to drink."
    "Forget it," the Bad Cop cut in. "We're not here to coddle this scum." He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. "I've got a list of questions here, and I expect to get them all answered.”
    The questioning went on and on, with no effect, not even when the Bad Cop started roughing up the terrorist. The prisoner actually laughed. "You think I