The Spy

by Clive Cussler

  Abbington-Westlake had arrived ahead of him, a good sign that he had frightened the daylights out of the Naval Attaché with his threat to go to the British Embassy.

  Bell decided that he would get more out of him now with a milder approach, and he said, “Thank you for coming.”

  He saw immediately it was a mistake. Abbington-Westlake glowered imperiously, and snapped, “I don’t recall being offered a choice in the matter.”

  “Your choice of snapshots,” Bell fired back, “would get you arrested if I were a government agent.”

  “No one can arrest me. I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Will your diplomatic immunity bail you out of trouble with your superiors in London?”

  Abbington-Westlake’s lips shut tightly.

  “Of course it won’t,” Bell said. “I’m not a government agent, but I certainly know where to find one. And the last thing you want is for your rivals in the Foreign Office to learn you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

  “See here, old boy, let’s not go off half cocked.”

  “What did you bring me?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Abbington-Westlake stalled.

  “Who did you bring me? Give me a name. A foreign spy whom I can have arrested instead of you.”

  “Old chap, you have an extremely inflated estimate of my powers. I don’t know anyone to bring you.”

  “And you have an extremely inflated estimate of my patience.” Bell glanced around inquiringly. Couples were drinking at the nearly dark tables. Several men stood alone at the bar. Bell said, “Do you see the gentleman on the right? The one wearing the bowler hat?”

  “What about him?”

  “Secret Service. Shall I ask him to join us?”

  The Englishman wet his lips. “All right, Bell. Let me tell you what I can. I warn you it is very little.”

  “Start small,” said Bell coldly. “We’ll work from there.”

  “All right. All right.” He wet his lips again and glanced around. Bell suspected that he was starting a lie. He let the Englishman speak without interruption. After tangling himself in it, he would be more vulnerable to pressure.

  “There is a Frenchman named Colbert,” Abbington-Westlake began. “He trades in arms.”

  “Colbert, you say?” God bless the Van Dorn Research boys.

  “Raymond Colbert. And while trading arms is hardly a savory enterprise, it is actually a blind for Colbert’s sinister deeds… You are familiar with the Holland submarine?”

  Bell nodded. He’d had Falconer fill him in and borrowed a book.

  As the Naval Attaché wove his tale, Isaac Bell was struck with admiration-which he concealed-for Abbington-Westlake’s cool nerve. Faced with the threat of exposure, he was turning it into an opportunity to destroy the man who was blackmailing his wife. He rattled on a while about purloined architect drawings and a special gyro to keep the boat on course underwater. Bell let him, until the door opened and a Van Dorn apprentice came in with a large manila envelope. Bell noted approvingly that the kid did not approach until Bell gave him the nod and retreated silently after handing him the envelope.

  “As we speak, old boy, Colbert is en route to New York on a Compagnie Générale Transatlantique mail boat. You can nab him the instant she docks at Pier 42. Don’t you see?”

  Bell opened the envelope and riffled through the prints.

  Abbington-Westlake asked acidly, “Am I boring you, Mr. Bell?”

  “Not at all, Commander. I can’t recall a more exciting fiction.”

  “Fiction? See here-”

  Bell passed a print over their table. “Here is a snapshot of you and the Lady Fiona and the Brooklyn Navy Yard-careful, the paper is a still damp.”

  The Englishman sighed, heavily. “You make it abundantly clear that I am at your mercy.”

  “Who is Yamamoto Kenta?”

  Bell was gambling that, not unlike bank robbers and confidence men, the spies of the international naval race were aware of their rivals and fellow practitioners. He saw it was true. Even in the dim light, Abbington-Westlake’s eyes gleamed as if he suddenly saw a way out of the mess he was in.

  “Careful!” Bell warned. “The instant I hear a breath of fiction this photograph goes to that gentleman of the Secret Service, along with copies to the British Embassy and U.S. Naval Intelligence. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know of him?”

  “Yamamoto Kenta is a highly decorated Japanese spy. He’s been at it for donkey’s ears. And he is number one at the Black Ocean Society, which acts in the Japs’ overseas interests. He was a prime instigator of the Jap infiltration of the Russians’ Asiatic Fleet and a prime reason the Japs now occupy Port Arthur. Since the war, he’s operated in Europe and made an absolute mockery of Britain’s and Germany’s attempts to keep secrets in their ship works. He knows more about Krupp than the Kaiser, and more about HMS Dreadnought than her own captain.”

  “What is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Commander,” Bell said warningly.

  “I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. But I will say one thing.”

  “It better be interesting.”

  “It is interesting,” Abbington-Westlake shot back confidently. “It is very interesting because it makes absolutely no sense that a Japanese spy of Yamamoto’s caliber is operating here in the United States.”

  “Why?”

  “The Japs don’t want to fight you chaps. Not now. They’re not ready. Even though they know you Americans are not ready. It doesn’t take a naval genius to rate the Great White Fleet as a joke. But they damned well know that their fleet is not ready either and won’t be for many, many years.”

  “Then why did Yamamoto come here?”

  “I suspect that Yamamoto is playing some sort of double game.” Bell looked at the Englishman. There was a certain puzzlement in his expression that looked absolutely genuine. “How do you mean?”

  “Yamamoto is working for someone else.”

  “Other than the Black Ocean Society?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Whom?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. But it’s not for Japan.”

  “If you don’t know who he is working for, what makes you think it’s someone other than the Japanese?”

  “Because Yamamoto offered to buy information from me.”

  “What information?”

  “He suspected that I had information concerning the new French dreadnought. Offered a pretty penny for it. Expense was obviously no object.”

  “Did you have the information?”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Abbington-Westlake answered opaquely. “The point is, the Japs don’t give a hang about the Frogs, old boy. The French Navy can’t fight in the Pacific. They can barely defend the Bay of Biscay.”

  “Then what did he want it for?”

  “That is the point. That is what I am telling you. Yamamoto intended to sell it to someone who does care about the French.”

  “Who?”

  “Who else but the Germans?”

  Bell studied the Englishman’s face for a full minute. Then he leaned closer, and said, “Commander, it is now clear to me that behind a façade of amiable bumbling, you are extremely well informed about your fellow spies. In fact, I suspect you know more about them than the ships you’re supposed to be spying on.”

  “Welcome to the world of espionage, Mr. Bell,” the Englishman replied cynically. “May I be the first to congratulate you on your very recent arrival.”

  “What Germans?” Bell demanded harshly.

  “Well, I can’t tell you with any precision, but-”

  “You don’t believe for one second that the Germans are paying Yamamoto Kenta to spy for them,” Bell cut in. “Whom do you really suspect?”

  Abbington-Westlake shook his head, visibly dismayed. “No one I have heard of-none of the regulars one bumps into… It
’s as if the Black Knight galloped out of the ether and threw his gauntlet on King Arthur’s Roundtable.”

  “A freelance,” mused Bell.

  28

  A FREELANCE INDEED, MR. BELL. YOU’VE HIT THE NAIL on the head. But the possibility of a freelance merely raises the larger question.” Abbington-Westlake’s round face brightened with relief that he had so intrigued Bell that the tall detective would let him go. “Whom does the freelance serve?”

  “Are freelances commonly used in the spy game?” Bell asked.

  “One employs all available resources.”

  “Have you ever worked as a freelance?”

  Abbington-Westlake smiled disdainfully. “The Royal Navy hires freelances. We don’t work for them.”

  “I mean you personally-if you need money.”

  “I work for His Majesty’s Navy. I am not a mercenary.” He stood up. “And now, Mr. Bell, if you will excuse me, I believe I have paid you for your photograph in equal coin. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Bell.

  “Good day, sir.”

  “Before you go, Commander?”

  “What is it?”

  “I have been dealing with you in my capacity as a private investigator. As an American, however, let me warn you that if I ever again see or hear of you taking photographs of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, or any other shipyard in my country, I will throw your camera off the bridge and you after it.”

  ISAAC BELL HURRIED UPSTAIRS to the Van Dorn office. A big case kept getting bigger and wider. If Abbington-Westlake was telling the truth-and Bell bet he was-then Yamamoto Kenta was not the head of the spy ring attacking Hull 44 but only another of its many agents. Like the German, and the hired killer Weeks, and whoever threw the young fire-control expert off the cliff. Who was the freelance? And whom did he serve?

  Bell knew he was at a crossroads. He had to decide whether to arrest Yamamoto and squeeze what information they could out of him or continue following him in the hope that the Japanese spy would lead them higher up the chain of deceit. There was risk in waiting. How long would it take a seasoned professional like Yamamoto to catch the scent of his stalkers and go to ground?

  As Bell strode into the back room, the man on the telephones said, “Here he is right now, sir, just walked in,” and handed him the middle one. “The boss.”

  “Where?”

  “Washington.”

  “Yamamoto just hopped the train to New York,” Van Dorn said without preamble. “Coming your way.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not if you count three of our men in the same car. And others watching every station the Congressional Limited stops at.”

  “I’ll watch the railroad ferry. See who he’s come to meet.”

  YAMAMOTO KENTA HAD a choice of three different Pennsylvania Railroad ferries to cross the river from the Jersey City Exchange Place Terminal to Manhattan Island. After disembarking from the Congressional Limited into the enormous glass-ceilinged train shed, he could take a boat to 23rd Street, another to Desbrosses Street near Greenwich Village, or one that would land all the way downtown at Cortlandt Street. There was even a boat to Brooklyn, and another went up the East River to the Bronx. The ferry he chose would depend upon the actions of the Van Dorns following him.

  He had spotted two detectives in his railcar. And he suspected that an older man dressed as an Anglican priest had shadowed him several days earlier disguised in the uniform of a Washington, D.C., streetcar conductor. He had considered jumping off the train early at Philadelphia and dodging the Van Dorns watching the platform. But with so many alternatives awaiting him in New York, he saw no need to inconvenience himself by breaking the journey early.

  It was after midnight, and the crowd rushing from the train shed was thin, providing less cover then he would have liked. Still, the advantage was his. The detectives did not realize that he knew they had been following him for a week. A thin smile played upon his lips. A natural aptitude for spying? Or simply experience. He’d been at the game before many of the shadows trailing him had been born.

  As always, he traveled light, carrying only a small valise. The Black Ocean Society had limitless cash reserves; he could buy extra clothing when he need it instead of carrying it when a situation like this one demanded he move quickly. His gabardine raincoat was of a tan hue, so pale as to be almost white. His hat was of a similar distinctive color, a finely woven Panama with a dark band.

  At the juncture of the train platform and the arrival hall, he saw the Anglican priest forge ahead and signal a tall man whom Yamamoto had last seen in Camden, New Jersey. Frantic research back in Washington-sparked by his discovery that he was being followed-led him to believe that the Van Dorn was the fabled Isaac Bell. Bell had worn a white suit and broad-brimmed hat at the Michigan launching. Tonight he was attired like a deckhand in a snug sweater, with a knit watch cap covering his striking golden hair. Yamamoto smiled to himself. Two could play that game.

  Swept along by the torrent of passengers and trunk-trundling porters, Yamamoto followed the signs from the arrival hall into the ferry house. A row of ferries waited in their slips-magnificent Tuscan red, smoke-belching, two-deck double-ender behemoths big as dreadnoughts and named for great American cities: Cincinnati, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, Chicago. Engines ahead, propellers pushing them tight to their piers, they offered the Japanese spy additional choices of which deck to travel on.

  Teams of draft horses, iron shoes clattering, were pulling freight wagons aboard the lower vehicles decks, vast open spaces they shared with autos and trucks. Foot passengers could ride beside them, separated by the bulkheads of flanking passenger cabins that ran the length of the boat. The main cabins were above. As a first-class passenger, Yamamoto could enjoy the brief river crossing in a private cabin. There was one cordoned off for gentlemen, another for ladies. Or he could stand in the open air where the salty harbor wind would disperse the smoke and cinders.

  He chose a ferry not for its destination but for the fact that its deckhands were already closing its scissor gate, blocking any more passengers from boarding.

  “Not so fast, Chinkboy!” a burly deckhand shouted in his face.

  Yamamoto already had ten dollars in his hand. The man’s eyes widened at his good fortune, and he reached for it, shouting, “Step lively, sir. Step lively.”

  Yamamoto slid past him and moved deeper into the boat, heading for the stairs to the upper deck at a rapid clip.

  The whistle blew a sharp tenor note. The deck stopped shuddering as the screws holding her in place stopped turning. Then the enormous boat shook from stem to stern as the screws reversed to drive her out of her slip.

  Yamamoto reached the ornamentally carved wooden staircase that swept upward in a graceful curve. For the first time, he looked back, a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw Isaac Bell running full speed to the edge of the slip. At the edge, the detective launched himself in the air in an attempt to broad-jump the rapidly widening gap. The Japanese spy waited to confirm that Bell had fallen in the churning water.

  Isaac Bell landed gracefully as a gull, strode to the scissor gate, and engaged the deckhands in conversation.

  Yamamoto ran up the stairs. He showed his train ticket to enter the first-class gentleman’s lounge, headed for the men’s room, entered a stall, and closed the door. He turned his tan coat inside out, revealing its black lining. His hatband was formed by multiple layers of tightly wound silk. He unwound it into a long scarf, bent the brims of his Panama downward, and tied it on his head with the scarf. The final touch was packed in his valise. Then all he had to do was wait when the ferry docked until all the men had left the first-class cabin. He had just opened his valise when beneath his feet the rumble of the screws abruptly stopped.

  Forward momentum slowed so quickly, he had to brace against the wall. The whistle gave three short blasts. The screws rumbled anew, shaking the deck. And to Yamamoto’s horror and disbelief, the giant ferry backed out of the river and into the terminal slip
from which it had just emerged.

  THE LOUDEST OF THE HUNDREDS of the Pennsylvania Railroad ferry passengers inconvenienced was a United States senator. He roared like an angry lion at the ferry captain, “What in blue blazes is going on here? I’ve been traveling all day from Washington and I’m late for a meeting in New York.”

  No one dared asked a senator traveling without his wife whom he was meeting at midnight. Even the ferry captain, a veteran North River waterman, was not brave enough to explain that a Van Dorn detective dressed like a deckhand had barged into his wheelhouse and drawn from his wallet a railroad pass unlike any he had ever seen. The document required all employees to accord him privileges of the line that exceeded even that of a senator who voted religiously in favor of legislation the railroads approved. Handwritten and signed and sealed by the president of the line, and witnessed by a federal judge, it superseded all dispatchers. Its only limits were common sense and the rules of safety.

  “What did you do to get that pass?” the captain had asked as he hurriedly signaled the engine room Stop Engines.

  “The president returned a favor,” had said the detective. “And I always tell the president how kindly I am treated by his employees.”

  So the captain told the legislator, “A mechanical breakdown, Senator.”

  “How the devil long are we going to wait here?”

  “Everyone is disembarking for the next boat, sir. Let me carry your bag.” The captain seized the senator’s valise and led him to the main deck and down the gangway, where cold-faced detectives observed every passenger trooping off.

  Isaac Bell stood behind the other Van Dorns, watching over their heads each and every face. The manner that Yamamoto had chosen to get away-jumping aboard at the last instant-made it clear that the shadows had slipped up, and the Japanese spy knew he was being followed. Now it was a chase.

  Three hundred eighty passengers, men, women, and sleepy children, shuffled past. Thank the Lord, thought Bell, it was the middle of the night. The boats carried thousands at rush hour.