The Saboteurs

by Clive Cussler

  Bell believed there was a very real possibility that Talbot’s driver, Rinaldo, had inadvertently passed information to his brother, not knowing he was Viboras Rojas.

  Unfortunately, Talbot had given Rinaldo permission to travel north to break the news of Raul’s death to his parents before Bell could stop him. It would be telling if Rinaldo returned or if he ran. Even if he did come back to the city, a likely sign of innocence, Bell had every intention of interrogating him.

  “Good luck to you, Herr Talbot.” Ernst Leibinger-Holte raised his glass. “To a successful hunt.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the others echoed.

  Bell asked the Swiss about his interest in Panama.

  “Business, Herr Bell. I represent a firm that specializes in precision gauges and electric control systems. We had hoped to sell some of our wares to the Canal Authority, but they are using American-made products almost exclusively. I am now working with representatives from the national railroad. There is interest in what we manufacture.”

  “And you, Mr. Webb?” Tats Macalister asked. “Surely you didn’t take your lovely wife on such a tedious business trip?”

  The man looked sheepish because that’s exactly what had happened. “Jules’s father’s company made all the glass insulators for the power lines coming from the hydro works at Gatun. There was a problem with a few batches, and they sent me down to sort it all out. Jules isn’t the sort of woman to say no to an adventure and decided to come along.”

  “Good for you, Juliet,” Marion said. “It’s the same for me. Isaac didn’t want me along because he thinks there’s some danger, and I reminded him of the danger he’d be in if he didn’t change his mind.”

  The table laughed at Bell’s expense, not knowing the tale wasn’t exactly true.

  Leibinger-Holte asked Whit, “Herr Webb, have you solved your insulator problem?”

  “Days ago,” Juliet answered for her husband. “My clever boy. He noticed the trains down here rattle far more than the ones back home. There wasn’t enough cushioning material in our packing crates to handle the extra shaking, and a lot of the insulators chipped and cracked.”

  “Ach, and you now return to America?”

  “Yes,” Juliet said, allowing defeat to creep into her voice, “but this has been ever so much fun, and I really don’t want to go back home.”

  It was the way she said that last line that made Bell realize that what she really wanted was to not have the kind of life a wealthy father had mapped out for her. That’s why she was with her husband. Despite the fancy-sounding name, Whittier wasn’t someone her family would have chosen. He was an act of defiance just like her coming to Panama was. Her father obviously indulged her—otherwise, she wouldn’t be here—but that must be coming to an end.

  The old man doubtlessly wanted an heir for his insulator company sooner rather than later.

  Whittier Webb added, “Unfortunately, there are no suitable boats back to the States from Colón. Plenty of ships heading to Barbados and Jamaica to bring workers back to their home islands at the end of their contracts, but they just won’t do. We’re stuck here until a ship from the North Star Line arrives.”

  Leibinger-Holte said, “For myself, I will take the first ship sailing away and not remain in Panama one day longer than necessary. The rain is miserable and the heat intolerable, and I have seen spiders as large as a dinner plates.” He shuddered theatrically.

  “Not to mention the snakes,” Felix Ramirez added.

  Court Talbot leaned forward, to make sure everyone was listening, and said, “A few years ago, I was on the Chagres River as it was subsiding following a late-summer flood. We were in a dugout canoe that wasn’t very stable and we wanted to stay close to the riverbank, where the current was more stable. The problem was the floodwaters had driven all the snakes in the area into the trees. Every tree was wreathed in them, enormous coils of them, thousands upon thousands, hanging over our heads as we veered toward shore.

  “Ones that lost their perches fell into the water and either swam to another tree or drowned. For a time, it looked like it was actually raining snakes, so many of them fell from the branches. Some that dropped close enough tried to slither into our dugout. We had to beat them back with our paddles. One bushmaster viper—they’re poisonous, mind you—had to have been twelve feet long and as big around as my arm. I’d never seen a more disturbing sight in my life.”

  This time, everyone shuddered involuntarily with revulsion.

  Juliet turned to her husband. “I take back my earlier reluctance to leave. I have no desire to see a snake storm. Let’s go home.”

  The others at the table started discussing the hardships of living in Panama and didn’t hear her say to Whit, “This means we’ll never solve the mystery of the humming clouds either.”

  Only Bell seemed to have heard her statement. “Excuse me, Mrs. Webb, but what are humming clouds?”

  “Oh, it’s something our guide to old Panama City told us about. Jorge is his name. The hotel arranged it for us. He’s a retired teacher. He says it’s a phenomenon that some villagers on the other coast have discovered. They say that at night they can hear clouds humming in the sky. He’d never heard of such a thing before.”

  Court Talbot had caught her story and said, “I bet it’s connected to the filling of the Gatun reservoir. I’ve spoken with geologists who say the weight of that much water will actually deform the land underneath it. I imagine submerged pockets of swamp gas being expelled under pressure are the cause of the humming.”

  “That makes sense,” Whit said, nodding to his wife for her agreement.

  “I suppose,” she said, slowly warming to the idea. “Truth is, I was hoping for a less mundane answer. It sounds so fantastic, you know?”

  Bell said, “That’s why you thought being a detective is interesting. You have a strong imagination and you want to believe there is something fascinating amid the everyday.”

  “I can’t believe none of you are talking about the other big story of the day,” Tats said.

  “What other story?” Court asked him.

  “It will doubtlessly be out in tomorrow’s paper. Your former President Roosevelt is planning on stopping in Panama on his way to South America to see the canal’s progress for himself.”

  Marion had been with Isaac long enough to never react to news that had even an indirect connection to a case he was working, so she didn’t move even a muscle when the very reason he was on this case was blown wide open in public.

  Outwardly, Bell also remained unmoved by the bombshell revelation even as, inside, he was seething with rage over the stupidity of politicians who didn’t understand that secrecy was their first line of defense against assassination plots, and old TR should know more than most since he’d been the victim of one himself.

  They managed to stay for one more drink before Bell and his wife excused themselves and returned to their room upstairs. It took a good bit of his will not to slam the door, the rest not to raise his voice.

  “I can’t believe he’d do something so reckless,” Bell said. “The Republican Party hired Van Dorn to sit in on Senator Densmore’s Panama briefing to report back to them my thoughts on the situation down here on the chance—chance, mind you—that Roosevelt would want to see the canal on his way to Brazil. Now the bloody fool has announced to the world and Viboras Rojas that he’s coming.”

  “To be fair, Isaac, Teddy doesn’t know the Republicans want him to run for President again under their banner. So he knew nothing of your investigation.”

  “He has to be aware there’s an insurgency. The attack on Densmore made headlines across the country. Van Dorn has probably spoken with him as well.” Bell took a breath. “Come to think of it, knowing there’s an additional element of danger is likely why he’s coming. The man’s never backed away from a challenge in his life.”

  Mari
on could see her husband was regaining his composure and said, “As I’m sure you remember, he gave a ninety-minute speech after being shot two years ago.”

  “He was campaigning for President then and had bodyguards who foiled the assassin’s aim. As an ex-President, he no longer has protection, and now there’s a whole guerrilla army potentially gunning for him.”

  “Oh, Isaac, what are you going to do?”

  “Ask again that you leave for the States, for starters.”

  “And after that doesn’t work?”

  He grinned wryly, knowing she wasn’t about to budge. “Cable Joseph in the morning for instructions but with the understanding that I’m staying on here in Panama and continuing to work the case.”

  “What is the plan now, exactly?”

  “Stop the Red Vipers from further damaging and delaying the canal, and make sure President Roosevelt isn’t walking into an ambush.”

  “How?”

  “Not sure yet, but I think one or more of our dinner companions isn’t who they say they are.”

  While Marion was used to such unexpected proclamations, this time she was incredulous. “I didn’t get that sense at all. I really like Juliet.”

  “I actually think she’s on the up-and-up, and her husband and Court Talbot of course. It’s the other three. Because the Canal Zone is so self-contained, there are precious few prospects here for a career opportunist like Tats Macalister. The Swiss guy, Leibinger-Holte, should have known before leaving Europe that an American canal-building effort would use mostly American equipment, and Felix Ramirez has con man written all over him.”

  “Sure you’re not being a little paranoid?” she teased.

  “Trust me, this case is going to require a lot of paranoid.”

  15

  By the owner’s standards, the house south of Panama City overlooking the beach from a low hill was a hovel, but by the standards of the country it was one of the finest residences in the nation. It was built of whitewashed limestone blocks with a great many windows so the sea breezes could cool the interior. The roof was red tile and had a clerestory for additional ventilation. There were a half dozen bedrooms and appropriate areas for entertaining. Electricity and hot water were provided by a separate steam-powered generator in an outbuilding far enough from the main hacienda that it couldn’t be heard.

  By comparison, the Dreissen family’s ancestral home, Schloss Werdener, outside Essen in Germany’s Ruhr Valley, was a century-old, four-story manor house with eighty rooms sitting on over a hundred hectares of fields and forestland.

  The grounds here were lush and meticulously groomed. The lawn sparkled like a sheet of emeralds. Ringing the leeward side of the property was one of the best natural defenses in the world. The manchineel tree, with its innocent-looking green fruits, was a native of Central America and the Caribbean islands. Stands of them guarded the back edges of the lawn and ran along the crushed-coral driveway coming from the closest road. The tree produced so much toxin in its leaves, fruit, and bark that to stand under one in a rainstorm guaranteed burned and blistered skin. Contact between the eye and the tree’s milky sap will produce unendurable pain, and eating the fruit will cause a half day’s worth of intestinal misery and agony.

  The windward side of the property was open to the beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

  The visitor arrived a few minutes early in a private car he’d rented for the day. He was one of the men who’d had drinks with Bell at the Central the previous evening. An attendant in white livery opened the hacienda’s door as he climbed the three steps up from the drive.

  “Guten Morgen, mein Herr,” the butler said in German. A little deeper into the house lurked Heinz Kohl. Kohl recognized the visitor and drifted back into the shadows without needing to conduct a search.

  “Morgen,” the guest replied and handed over his hat as well as a calling card. Both items were placed on a table just inside the entrance.

  “The master is expecting you.” The butler turned and led the way across the tile floor and out onto a back terrace with a view of the sea framed by swaying palms. The surf was gentle, and the sound it produced hypnotic.

  A table had been set as a buffet, with chilled juices in dew-kissed glass carafes, piles of fruits of every hue and shape, as well as baked delicacies that glimmered with sugar and spices. There were silver salvers with sausages and Bavarian ham, in addition to bowls of diced and seasoned potatoes and traditional goetta.

  Otto Dreissen sat at separate table with a bone china coffee cup and a slender ledger and his fountain pen poised to make a notation. He and his two brothers had inherited a vast enterprise upon the death of their father, himself an only child who’d inherited only a modest industrial empire from his. It was implied that the three brothers would turn Essenwerks into a colossus.

  He was in his forties but kept himself in shape, so there was no paunch at his waistline or jowls under his chin like so many of his fellow countrymen his age. He was hawk-nosed yet handsome, with his finest feature being his eyes. They were sharp gray and could hold sway with a mere glance.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Dreissen,” the visitor greeted as he stepped past the butler and onto the terrace. A canvas awning dyed tropical colors kept the veranda shaded from the sun and cool.

  “Guten Morgen, mein Freund,” the industrialist said and stood to shake the newcomer’s hand.

  The conversation continued in their native German, though both men were fluent in several languages as demanded by the international nature of their professions.

  “You’ve heard?” The visitor sat opposite his host and accepted coffee from a maid. “Goethals isn’t waiting for the Marines to go after Viboras Rojas.”

  “Yes, I did. Certainly took some convincing,” Dreissen replied. “A lot of men died at Pedro Miguel. Will the attacks end?”

  “Hard to say. The loss of life is tragic, but that isn’t really our concern.”

  “I suppose you’re right. And the crane’s destruction buys additional time, should we need it.”

  “And we likely will. A complication has arisen in the person of Theodore Roosevelt, the former President of the United States. He is paying the Canal Zone another visit in just a few days.”

  Dreissen went very still, his gray eyes clouding, as his formidable intellect plotted out move and counter-move in a game he played in his mind, looking at all combinations and permutations, attacks and defenses. He carefully wiped his mouth.

  “I am going to take you into my confidence and reveal a secret few outside Berlin know.”

  Dreissen’s guest instinctively leaned in as if there were listeners hiding in the hydrangeas.

  “What do you know of the American electoral system?”

  The question wasn’t expected, and the man muttered for a moment before calling up the information. “They hold elections every four years for their President, and I think every two or six for their Congress. There’s something about a ‘college’ that never made any sense to me.”

  “For the purposes of our discussion, the ‘electoral college’ is irrelevant. The other point that need be brought up is that they have a two-party system. The Democrats and the Republicans. Each has a distinct way of seeing their country and different paths for taking it forward.”

  “I have heard of the parties.”

  “The last election was different. Theodore Roosevelt challenged the incumbent, President Taft, at their party’s convention for a chance to retake the White House for an unprecedented third term. The party bosses refused and renominated Taft to run against the Democrat challenger, Woodrow Wilson.”

  “Who defeated Taft and is now the President.”

  “Correct. Here’s the interesting thing. There is nothing in the American constitution that forbids a third presidential term, just tradition. Instead of tucking tail, Roosevelt formed a third party, the Bull Moose, and
ran for office once again. Roosevelt and Taft, men with similar agendas, managed to garner more ballots together than Wilson did by himself. The electoral college was a landslide for Wilson, and while he technically won the popular vote against his rivals individually, he didn’t if their numbers were combined.”

  “An interesting lesson in American civics, but what does that have to do with us now?”

  “After their loss, the Republicans knew they made a terrible mistake not giving Roosevelt the nomination. He remains wildly popular in America, and his diverting more than half of traditional Republican voters away from the party’s nominee sank their chances to remain in power.

  “There will be another national election in 1916, and the Republicans are desperate to regain the White House.”

  “You believe they’ll ask Roosevelt?”

  “At this point, I do. Things may change between now and then, yet he is who they would most likely want to run. His charisma and popularity would surely lead to Wilson being a single-term President.”

  Dreissen paused to light a cigarette from a silver case.

  His guest said, “I still don’t understand the relevance of this to our current mission.”

  “Because I haven’t yet brought you into my confidence. You know, I have an older brother in New York who oversees Essenwerks’s business in the United States. Like me, he also has contacts high up in our government and does occasional favors for them. Like what I am doing here with the canal.” There was no need to mention the Argentine angle—the guest had no need to know. “Last year my brother was asked to help on a secret project, one that would destroy relations with the United States if it ever came to light.”

  “Go on,” the guest said eagerly.

  Dreissen would have never divulged what he was about to say if he didn’t think Berlin would authorize another mission that would by necessity involve his visitor at the very highest levels.