As he regained consciousness, Tom's eyes fluttered open. Sparks of pain shot through his head. A groan escaped his lips.  
"Oo-o! What hit me?" Tom wondered.
 
He was lying on a sofa in a strange room. Someone was seated nearby, watching him. Tom tried to move his limbs and sit up. Then he discovered that his wrists and ankles were tied with sash cord.
 
"Better lie still, sonny boy," a gruff voice advised. "You ain't goin' nowhere."
 
The man who had spoken got up from his chair and came over to the sofa. He was of medium height, very muscular looking, with cold, glittering eyes. Rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed his powerful, hairy arms.
 
"Where am I?" Tom asked, suddenly remembering the events on the road before he blacked out. "And what's this all about?"
 
The man said with a mirthless grin, "You're a prisoner. And you're goin' to stay here until the cops let Dimitri Mirov go. It's up to you how fast they spring him."
 
The huge man lifted a telephone from an end table adjoining the sofa and set it on the floor alongside Tom.
 
"Here's a phone. Go ahead and use it, but don't try any funny stuff."
 
In spite of his headache, Tom's brain was racing. What to do now? He shut his eyes and screwed up his face in an expression of pain, pretending to be still groggy while he stalled for time to figure out his next move.
 
"How can I get Mirov out of jail?" Tom faltered.
 
"You figure it out!" the man snarled. "And you'd better get results if you want to stay healthy!"
 
Through half-slitted eyes, Tom noted the telephone number printed on the dial. Evidently his captor had not thought to remove it from the instrument. A lucky break!
 
If only, Tom thought, he could devise some way to transmit the number to Ames without arousing his captor's suspicion—the phone's location could then be traced!
 
What about some sort of double-talk code? For instance, Tom told himself, keep slipping numbers into the conversation in order to transmit the digits of the telephone number. Would Ames catch on?
 
The number shown was BArwick 3-7156. BA on the dial would be the same as "2, 2."
 
"Come on! Quit stalling!" the man said threateningly.
 
"How can I dial with my hands tied?" Tom objected.
 
"I'll do the dialing, wise guy!"
 
He lifted the phone from its cradle and extended it to his prisoner. Tom told him the Enterprises number, then asked for Ames's extension as the switchboard operator answered. A moment later the security chief's voice came over the line.
 
"Ames speaking."
 
"This is Tom Jr., Harlan." His captor bent close to the receiver as Tom replied, in order to overhear what was being said. "I've been thinking," the young inventor went on, "that it might be smart to have Mirov released."
 
"Released!" Ames gasped in surprise. "But why, skipper?"
 
"Well ... er ... as a good-will gesture," Tom said. "I think it might prevent future trouble with the Brungarians, don't you?"
 
"I do not!" Ames exploded. "The idea sounds crazy!"
 
"I don't think it's too crazy or too risky," Tom argued. By emphasizing the words, he hoped to impress them on Ames's mind.
 
Tom's tone of voice and the farfetched nature of what he was saying had already triggered the security chief's suspicions. "Where are you calling from?" Ames asked after a tense pause.
 
"Shopton," Tom replied. "I just drove in for a haircut." With a chuckle, he added, "Haven't had one in three months. That's a whole week longer than I usually go!"
 
Would Ames understand that by "week" he meant seven days?... "It's the best I can do," Tom thought.
 
"Look, skipper, are you sure you want Mirov let out?" Ames said slowly. "I still think it's unwise."
 
"Consider it an order!" Tom snapped. "This is one thing I insist upon, Harlan. Shouldn't take more than five or six hours, should it, even if he has to wire the Brungarian Embassy to put up bail?"
 
"It can probably be handled faster than that—if he has any friends around town," Ames said.
 
Tom took the cue. "Could be," he replied meaningfully.
 
Tom's captor snatched the phone away and slammed it back on the hook. "All right, smart boy! That's enough!" he growled, glaring at Tom.
 
Back at Enterprises, Ames hung up thoughtfully. Tom's reply to his last question about Mirov having "friends around town" had convinced Ames that the young inventor was a prisoner, speaking under duress. Moreover, it had seemed as if someone else's breathing was faintly audible in the background, close to the phone.
 
But what message had Tom tried to convey?
 
As a routine security-department precaution, Ames's phone was connected to a recorder which automatically taped all calls. Now, while he pondered the problem, Ames pressed a foot-treadle switch to play back the conversation.
 
Meanwhile, Tom and his captor waited tensely. From time to time the latter glanced at his watch. "Better hope that call does the trick, ............