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scouting report on the Brazilian team. But when I got there, I found Gabriel lying on the floor.”
    â€œHe was already unconscious when you got there?” Frank asked.
    â€œYes,” Coach Roberts said. “I could tell he’d been attacked. You came in just minutes after I found him, and I panicked. I figured everyone would think I was the one who beat him up.” His face started to flush again, and his eyes flashed with anger.
    â€œIt was you,” he said, pointing to Frank. “You were the one who set me up! Why else would you show up just a minute or two after I did? You must have been the one who’d sent me the note. Which means you must have been the one who beat up Gabriel Sant’Anna.”
    â€œYou’re nuts,” Joe said. “My brother would never do anything like that.”
    â€œWell, that’s what I came here to find out,” Coach Roberts said. “I was just going to talk to you,” he added, looking at Frank. “But when I saw you, I lost it. You set me up, and you deserved everything you got.”
    â€œI didn’t set you up, Coach Roberts,” Frank said. “And I don’t know who did.”
    â€œWell, I didn’t beat up Gabriel,” Coach Roberts insisted, this time to the police. “He’s a great coach and a worthy adversary. I prefer to beat him on the field.”
    â€œRight now, it doesn’t make any difference whether you attacked Coach Sant’Anna or not,”one of the officers said. “You did attack these gentlemen here, and that’s enough for us to take you in.”
    Assailed by the coach’s loud protests, the police bound the coach with their own handcuffs and carted him away.
    Frank and Joe watched the police car pull away before walking into their apartment. “Nice move with the handcuffs, bro,” Joe said, clapping Frank on the shoulder. “How’s your gut?”
    â€œSore,” Frank admitted. “But I’ll live.” He put his dad’s cuffs back in the brown bag and returned them to the suitcase. Then he and Joe went to their room to clean up.
    â€œThere’s a note from Dad,” Joe said as Frank peeled off his T-shirt. “He’s going to be really late tonight—says he might not see us till breakfast tomorrow.”
    Frank emptied the pockets of his khakis. The small gold ball that he’d found near the fireworks compound rolled around the dresser top.
    â€œHey, look,” Joe said as he watched the small charm roll around. “That’s not a soccer ball after all. It’s kind of got wrinkles on it, and—”
    â€œIt’s a walnut,” Frank said, picking it back up and looking closer. “It’s a gold walnut.”
    â€œWho’d carry that around?” Joe wondered. “That’s pretty weird.”
    The bed felt good to Frank’s sore body. While the rest of him sank down into much-needed rest,his mind still jumped. Was the fireworks incident really sabotage? he wondered. Was the assault on Coach Sant’Anna an unrelated incident by a rival—somebody like Montie Roberts? Or were the two connected somehow? Were they both part of some greater plot to disrupt the tournament—maybe planned by the radicals of Victoire?
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    Thursday morning was overcast and surprisingly chilly. Frank pulled on a tan sweater and his khakis. Joe grabbed a blue striped rugby shirt and jeans. Their father was waiting for them with breakfast and the morning English-language tabloid papers.
    â€œSo, looks like you guys were busy yesterday,” their dad said with a grin. He shoved the newspapers across the table. The headline stories were full of the fireworks mishap at Le Stade and the attack on Coach Sant’Anna. Frank was mentioned in two of the stories.
    â€œOh, man, did you see this?” Joe asked, and then read aloud from one of the stories. “‘Frank Hardy