TITLES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES
Celtic Empire (with Dirk Cussler)
Odessa Sea (with Dirk Cussler)
Havana Storm (with Dirk Cussler)
Poseidon’s Arrow (with Dirk Cussler)
Crescent Dawn (with Dirk Cussler)
Arctic Drift (with Dirk Cussler)
Treasure of Khan (with Dirk Cussler)
Black Wind (with Dirk Cussler)
Trojan Odyssey
Valhalla Rising
Atlantis Found
Flood Tide
Shock Wave
Inca Gold
Sahara
Dragon
Treasure
Cyclops
Deep Six
Pacific Vortex!
Night Probe!
Vixen 03
Raise the Titanic!
Iceberg
The Mediterranean Caper
SAM AND REMI FARGO ADVENTURES®
The Wrath of Poseidon (with Robin Burcell)
The Oracle (with Robin Burcell)
The Gray Ghost (with Robin Burcell)
The Romanov Ransom (with Robin Burcell)
Pirate (with Robin Burcell)
The Solomon Curse (with Russell Blake)
The Eye of Heaven (with Russell Blake)
The Mayan Secrets (with Thomas Perry)
The Tombs (with Thomas Perry)
The Kingdom (with Grant Blackwood)
Lost Empire (with Grant Blackwood)
Spartan Gold (with Grant Blackwood)
ISAAC BELL ADVENTURES®
The Saboteurs (with Jack Du Brul)
The Titanic Secret (with Jack Du Brul)
The Cutthroat (with Justin Scott)
The Gangster (with Justin Scott)
The Assassin (with Justin Scott)
The Bootlegger (with Justin Scott)
The Striker (with Justin Scott)
The Thief (with Justin Scott)
The Race (with Justin Scott)
The Spy (with Justin Scott)
The Wrecker (with Justin Scott)
The Chase
KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES
Novels from The NUMA Files®
Fast Ice (with Graham Brown)
Journey of the Pharaohs (with Graham Brown)
Sea of Greed (with Graham Brown)
The Rising Sea (with Graham Brown)
Nighthawk (with Graham Brown)
The Pharaoh’s Secret (with Graham Brown)
Ghost Ship (with Graham Brown)
Zero Hour (with Graham Brown)
The Storm (with Graham Brown)
Devil’s Gate (with Graham Brown)
Medusa (with Paul Kemprecos)
The Navigator (with Paul Kemprecos)
Polar Shift (with Paul Kemprecos)
Lost City (with Paul Kemprecos)
White Death (with Paul Kemprecos)
Fire Ice (with Paul Kemprecos)
Blue Gold (with Paul Kemprecos)
Serpent (with Paul Kemprecos)
OREGON FILES®
Marauder (with Boyd Morrison)
Final Option (with Boyd Morrison)
Shadow Tyrants (with Boyd Morrison)
Typhoon Fury (with Boyd Morrison)
The Emperor’s Revenge (with Boyd Morrison)
Piranha (with Boyd Morrison)
Mirage (with Jack Du Brul)
The Jungle (with Jack Du Brul)
The Silent Sea (with Jack Du Brul)
Corsair (with Jack Du Brul)
Plague Ship (with Jack Du Brul)
Skeleton Coast (with Jack Du Brul)
Dark Watch (with Jack Du Brul)
Sacred Stone (with Craig Dirgo)
Golden Buddha (with Craig Dirgo)
NONFICTION
Built for Adventure: The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt
Built to Thrill: More Classic Automobiles from Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt
The Sea Hunters (with Craig Dirgo)
The Sea Hunters II (with Craig Dirgo)
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed (with Craig Dirgo)
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
The Adventures of Vin Fiz
The Adventures of Hotsy Totsy
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
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Ebook ISBN 9780593191231
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Cover illustration: Mike Heath
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CONTENTS
Cover
Titles by Clive Cussler
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Cast of Characters
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
About the Authors
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ARGENTINA
OTTO DREISSEN German industrialist
HEINZ KOHL Dreissen’s valet/bodyguard
MATIAS GUZMAN Argentine Foreign Minister
CALIFORNIA
ISAAC BELL Chief detective of the Van Dorn Agency
MARION BELL Isaac Bell’s wife
RENNY HART Van Dorn detective
J. WILLIAM DENSMORE California Senator
MAJOR COURTNEY TALBOT (U.S. ARMY, RET.) Former soldier turned adventurer
; ELIZABETH DENSMORE Senator Densmore’s niece
JEFFERSON “KENO” WILSON San Diego police chief
PANAMA
GEORGE WASHINGTON GOETHALS Head of Panama Canal Authority
SAM WESTBROOK Canal administrator
JACK SCULLY Canal chief mechanic
JEREMIAH TOWNSEND Canal archivist
RINALDO MORALES Court Talbot’s driver
RAUL MORALES Rinaldo’s brother
FELIX RAMIREZ Owner of the Central Hotel
ERNST LEIBINGER-HOLTE Swiss businessman
BENEDICT “TATS” MACALISTER Hotel guest
GUILLERMO ACOSTA Argentine civil engineer
WHITTIER AND JULIET WEBB Hotel guests
JORGE NUÑEZ Panamanian guide
DETECTIVE ORTEGA Panama City policeman
RUTH BUSCHMAN Nurse
PROLOGUE
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
October 14, 1912
They gave him the gun in New York, he was pretty certain, and he thought some money too. That had allowed him to stalk his prey across eight states, often staying in the same hotels and riding the same train. Most importantly, though, they’d helped him hear the ghost once again. And the ghost gave the same command he’d given eleven years earlier, only John hadn’t the strength to act then. Today was different.
John Flammang Schrank spent most of the afternoon in a bar across from the Gilpatrick Hotel, where he knew his target would eat dinner before motoring to the Milwaukee Auditorium to deliver a speech to further his unholy quest. A former bar owner himself, the Bavarian-born Schrank downed six schooners of beer but felt nothing but calm as the crowds outside the nearby hotel swelled in anticipation of getting a glimpse of their hero.
Traitor, he thought sullenly, the weight of the gun tugging at his coat pocket. Traitor and murderer.
He paid the barman and crossed the street. It was close to eight, and light spilled from the hotel’s windows. The air was crisp, so people wore long coats and hats pulled down low. Schrank was a portly man, round in the belly, with a friendly enough face dominated by a large, jutting chin. He had little trouble pressing his way through the happy throngs of people.
How could they show such adoration? he wondered. Didn’t they know the truth?
That truth had come to him shortly after his target had taken office. It was the ghost’s first appearance in a dream, a vivid dream that he’d never been able to shake. And now, with the help of his new benefactors, the dream had returned, only this time his target had been wearing the robes of a priest, but it made no difference. Schrank recognized the usurper at once.
Schrank looked around. People were practically giddy with the thought of seeing their man. The ghost had said their hero had murdered him by placing the Polish anarchist Leon Czolgosz at the Pan-American Expo in Buffalo. The two shots he’d fired to the gut were enough to turn the man into the ghost of John Schrank’s dreams.
Schrank recognized a face in the crowd. It was the nice one, the one who listened to him. The other, the taciturn man who demanded and cajoled and demeaned, wasn’t at his side as he’d been so many times before when he’d tried to carry out the assassination. This was the omen that tonight it would happen. He moved even closer to the front of the crowd, ignoring the sour looks of people who’d waited some time for their coveted positions.
He felt the hard rubber grip of the .38 caliber Colt revolver deep in his overcoat pocket. He was close to the front row of people. The hotel’s door was only a few paces away, and the open-top automobile, with its long hood and sweeping running boards, idled at the curb.
“I can’t believe I’m about to see the hero of San Juan Hill,” a woman said to her husband a little breathlessly.
“I hear he doesn’t like to be called Teddy, but rather TR,” said another voice in the crowd.
Schrank fingered the pistol. He couldn’t allow him to have a third term. No President had ever had one. George Washington himself had refused, fearing it would turn the presidency into a monarchy like the one America had fought to free herself from. John Schrank saw himself as a patriot, like one of the Minutemen, fighting against the tyranny of a man wishing to become King.
The crowd suddenly erupted in a roar of wild cheering. Teddy Roosevelt came down the handful of steps outside the Gilpatrick and waved to the people who’d waited to see him, envious of the nine thousand awaiting his speech a short distance away at the auditorium. Roosevelt gave them a big-toothed smile, his eyes behind his rimless glasses alight with joy. His walrus mustache twitched.
He mounted the car’s running board and lowered himself into the rear seat next to his stenographer, Elbert Martin. Opposite them on the rear-facing seat was another aide, Harry Cochems. The crowd continued to roar and shake the air with their applause. TR gave Harry a knowing smile and got back to his feet, his top hat in hand, to wave once again to the people. They loved him for the gesture, and he loved them for their loyalty and support.
John Flammang Schrank saw his opportunity and lurched a step closer to his target. Without a change in expression, with no real malice at all since he didn’t hate the former President but needed to stop him from retaking the Oval Office, he raised the pistol and took aim at Roosevelt’s head, just a few feet away.
He squeezed the trigger at the same time someone behind him jostled his arm. The gun went off, a single clap of thunder loud enough to silence the crowd. The smell of burnt powder turned the air acrid.
Teddy Roosevelt staggered just slightly, bending at the knee, before straightening up once again, his hat still raised. Elbert Martin was the first to react. He’d played collegiate football and had lightning reflexes. He dove out of the car and crashed into Schrank before he could fire again. Both men fell to the sidewalk, Martin using his superior size to pin Schrank to the ground while he clamped his hands around the assassin’s wrists. A. O. Girard, a bodyguard from the Van Dorn Detective Agency and a former member of TR’s Rough Riders, moved in and scooped up the pistol while two of Milwaukee’s Finest piled onto the scrum.
Harry Cochems jumped to his feet and asked, “Were you hit, Mr. President?”
“He pinked me, Harry,” Roosevelt replied.
“Dear God.”
The crowd was shouting for blood. Cries of “kill him” and “hang him” rang out.
TR waved his hat and bellowed, “Don’t hurt him. Bring him here. I want to see him.” The mob could hardly believe their hero was unharmed, and cheers rose up. “I’m all right, I’m all right.”
The cops yanked Schrank to his feet.
“Bring him to me,” Roosevelt demanded, and the would-be assassin was frog-marched to the side of the idling saloon sedan.
Roosevelt studied the man’s face, placing his hands on his head and tried to recall if he’d ever seen the dull-looking creature before. There was no spark of recognition. “What did you do it for?”
Schrank just looked at him, working his jaw but saying nothing.
“Oh, what’s the use,” Roosevelt said, pain beginning to hone his voice. “Officers, take charge of him, and see that there’s no violence done to him.”
He sat back into his seat as Schrank was led into the hotel and the crowds booed.
The car pulled away from the curb. Once out of sight of his supporters, Roosevelt opened his topcoat and suit jacket. The fine white linen of his shirt was stained crimson over his right side. His aides stared, slack-jawed, at the amount of blood.
“Driver,” Harry Cochems practically shouted. “Get us to the nearest hospital.”
“Ignore that. Keep true for the auditorium,” Roosevelt countered, and accepted a fresh handkerchief from Elbert to press to the wound. Roosevelt held a hand over his mouth and coughed. He showed his white palm to his assistants. “If I were lung-shot, there’d be blood. I’m going to be fine.”
He fis
hed two items from the inside pocket of his jacket. One was the fifty-page speech he planned to deliver neatly folded in two. The bullet had torn a ragged hole through the sheaf of papers. The second item was his leather-covered steel glasses case. It too had been pierced. The bullet had lost enough of its momentum that by the time it struck Roosevelt’s chest it merely punctured the skin and lodged against his rib cage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know if you fully understand that I’ve been shot, but it takes more than one bullet to kill a Bull Moose.”
1
Buenos Aires
Winter 1913
A vast armada of freighters lined the city’s busy waterfront, tucked in bow to stern like a wartime convoy. Over them stood the massive grain silos, multi-storied wooden structures with movable spouts from which cascades of golden wheat thundered into their holds. Farther down the quay, special refrigerated ships were being loaded with great slabs of pampas-bred beef destined for homes and restaurants across the breadth of Europe. Other ships were being unloaded with goods from Europe and North America, mostly manufactured items that Argentina couldn’t produce herself.
Otto Dreissen hadn’t been back in BA, as almost everyone called the Argentine capital, in six months, and it seemed the port was even more hectic than before. Steam tugs were at the ready to tow out a laden ship the instant its holds were filled so another waiting vessel could take its place. Stevedores and longshoremen swarmed like an army of ants, trundling bound bundles of native wool up gangways or swinging barrels of vegetable oils in cargo nets up to the ships where waiting hands were ready to guide the cargo belowdecks.
His steamship passed what had to have been a mile of busy docks before reaching the passenger pier, its horn finally blaring a welcoming blast. There were only a handful of well-wishers waiting on the dock. Like so many ships arriving in South America, the Hamburg Süd-Amerika Line’s venerable São Paulo was mostly transporting immigrants hoping to find a better life far from the strict social confines of their home countries. Here in Argentina, most were Spaniards or Italians, while Brazil to the north had always been popular with the Portuguese.
The Saboteurs Page 1