The Saboteurs

by Clive Cussler

  “Until now?”

  “Correct.”

  “So how do you propose fulfilling your contract with Goethals?”

  “The way I see it, the Viboras can’t operate out of the city. Too many people would see them. That means they have to base their operations in the jungle yet close enough to be effective. Only there’s so much traffic in the zone that the likelihood of them being spotted is the same as if they were in Panama City. That leaves the lake, and that’s where I think they’re hiding. There are so few locals using it now that they can cross it with impunity.”

  “But you said Goethals banned traffic on the lake.”

  “He stopped me. Locals have been fishing the lake since it was deep enough for their pirogues. I think after the Vipers raid a train or hijack a truck or placed that bomb at Pedro Miguel, they head back to the lake and vanish in one of the countless islands or along its shore. Remember, this is now unexplored territory. A couple years ago it was all impenetrable jungle. With Gatun filling, a whole new world is opening up.”

  Bell nodded. Talbot’s logic was sound. “The lake has to be about a hundred and fifty square miles. How do you expect to cover that much territory?”

  “They have to stay close enough to this side to be effective. That cuts the search area down significantly. Because there are no other people out here, if we see any smoke from cooking fires, we’ll have them dead to rights.”

  “You’ve thought this through,” Bell said with some respect in his voice.

  “From the very first attack. That’s why I wanted to put pressure on Colonel Goethals to let me go after these savages.” He added bitterly, “If he’d given permission when it all started, we could have prevented a lot of bloodshed.”

  “Speaking of which, did your man Rinaldo return from his village?”

  “Of course,” Talbot said as if it was never in doubt. “He’s on the boat. Let’s go. We can talk in the cabin.”

  Talbot led the way back to the jetty. The last of the gear had been handed down, and the men had come aboard to stow it properly.

  The boat was about forty feet long and extra-beamy. Her aft deck took up two thirds of her length, an open space for freight, with a hand-cranked derrick mounted in one corner. The deck was half covered with dozens of identical fuel cans. A tubular frame enclosed the cargo deck, and a timeworn canvas cover was tied to it to protect the deck from the rain. Forward was a short flight of steps that rose to the enclosed bridge that sat atop the main cabin. The crew’s area was accessible through a separate hatchway tucked under the bridge stairs. A large engine was buried in the guts of the workboat, exhaust coiling from a slender stack mounted along the outside of the wooden superstructure. Over her fantail dangled a little rowboat that could be lowered into the water.

  The craft was hard-used. The deck was severely scarred from years of work, and the railings were slick with a patina of mildew. A crewman was scouring the green slime with a pumice stone, another leaned over the rail to scrape the hull, letting the flakes of peeling lead paint fall into the water. The only things that looked new were the dinghy’s bronze oarlocks.

  There were a great many guns lying about with casual negligence, leaning against gunwales or hanging by slings from hooks, with little regard to the rain.

  “Rinaldo, hey,” Talbot called as he climbed down a ladder to reach the deck. His driver was on the steep little steps leading up to the bridge.

  “Sí.”

  “Mr. Bell needs a minute.” Talbot dropped the last couple feet, his boots making a satisfying smack when they hit the deck. It gave Bell the impression he was very used to spending time on boats.

  Bell reached the deck and studied the chauffeur. The man looked nothing like he had when Bell had first seen him. “You shaved your mustache and cut your hair.”

  “Sí. For Raul’s funeral.” His expression was unreadable. “Mi madre would have been very unhappy if I didn’t show proper respect.”

  Talbot led them down into the space below the bridge. It was utilitarian, with just metal walls painted white. The main part was a salon with a small galley kitchen and a dining table large enough to seat six. On the port side were three doors. One was open, and Bell could see unmade bunk beds and a footlocker. The other was to a second cabin, and he guessed the third was the head.

  Talbot indicated that they should sit at the table while he got to work making coffee in the tiny galley.

  As sincerely as he could, Bell said, “I am sorry about your brother. It wasn’t my intention to kill him, only to capture him.”

  “Nothing you can say makes any difference, Señor Bell, so it is wisest not to say anything, okay?” His eyes narrowed, and there had been a flintiness to his voice.

  The message was clear, and Bell simply said, “Fair enough. I do have some questions for you.”

  Morales waved a hand to indicate Bell should proceed. Bell noted the missing pinkie. The skin at the stub appeared white and callused. An old wound.

  “Did you talk to your brother about your work with Talbot and, specifically, his trip to the United States?”

  “I did, but I didn’t know he was part of Viboras Rojas. He told me he had come back from Colombia to help take care of our mother.”

  “Did his arrival coincide with the rise of the Viboras?”

  “I do not know the word coincide?”

  Talbot uttered the Spanish translation.

  “Yes. It was only a short while later that the attacks started.” He then admitted, “I should have made the connection. He hated what had become of Panama, and especially how the Canal Authority treats the locals while hiring outsiders from the Caribbean by the thousands.”

  “Is it possible he was the leader of the Viboras?”

  “I don’t know. My mother said that he never left our village since his return, so he couldn’t have gone out on any of the raids.”

  Bell could see there was more to it than that and said, “And?”

  “She did say that men would visit him in the night. They would talk in whispers and then they would leave again. She, ah . . .”

  Bell slapped the table. “Out with it, man.”

  “She said she also found a bag of cash. American bills. She wanted to show it to me when I went back for Raul’s funeral, but it was gone.”

  Bell looked to Court Talbot. “He had a backer.”

  “My bet is the government in Bogotá. The Colombians are the only people who have a legitimate grievance with the canal’s construction, and Raul must have been their agent in Panama.”

  “If he was the moneyman and organizer, why was he at the locks last week?” Bell asked, then answered his own question. “This was a major escalation for his group, and he would want to make certain everything went as planned. I’d do the same if I were in his shoes.”

  “So would I,” Talbot added.

  Bell turned his attention back to Morales. “Is there anything else? Did she recognize any of the men? Would she be able to provide descriptions?”

  “My mother’s eyes are not so good.”

  “Did your brother mention names or addresses? Anything specific?”

  “Not to me, señor, or mi madre. I am sorry.”

  Bell leaned back and took a sip of the coffee Talbot had set out in tin mugs on the table. The rain made the cabin stuffy, and his shirt’s collar chafed his neck.

  “Can I get back to work?” the Panamanian asked.

  “Yes. Thank you for answering my questions.”

  “What do you think?” Talbot asked after Morales closed the cabin door behind him.

  “Not sure,” Bell admitted. “I was half thinking it really was Rinaldo who I shot at Pedro Miguel, and you were covering it up to distance yourself from him in Colonel Goethals’s eyes.”

  “Not the case,” the former soldier said. “And I’d take offense at the
insinuation, if it wasn’t a theory I would have come up with, were I in your shoes.”

  Bell continued, “I’d like to know what happened to the money. It wasn’t on the body when I searched it.”

  “Probably moved to a new hiding place that only Raul knew. Probably lost forever.”

  “Or already disbursed to carry out the next attack. Don’t forget the dynamite we haven’t accounted for.”

  “You think the Viboras will keep fighting?” Talbot’s tone was doubtful.

  “You don’t?” Bell countered. “Insurgencies need money, sure, but they are driven by ideology. That hasn’t changed, and if you’re right about the Colombian government being behind all this, then the masters in Bogotá will hear of Morales’s death through whatever backchannel communications system they’ve put in place. They’ll send another bagman with another sackload of money. And I think, ultimately, that’s what Morales was, a go-between.”

  “Really? You sure?”

  “Absolutely. I believe the head of the Viboras is still out there. I think he’s someone known to both Morales brothers. Otherwise, how could the insurgency have started so soon after Raul’s arrival from Colombia?”

  “Surely it’s a friend of Raul’s, not Rinaldo’s.”

  “In order to have the level of trust necessary to launch something like this, the chances are the Viboras’s head honcho is someone Raul grew up with. You mentioned their village is pretty isolated. If one brother knew our guy, so did the other.”

  “You didn’t question Rinaldo about it?”

  “No point. It could be any one of a dozen childhood friends or even a relative. I’m alone down here without the resources to track down that many people. You’re in a position to roll up the fighters out in the jungle, their leader especially. I want to disassemble the Colombians’ network inside Panama and make certain they don’t try a stunt like this again. There are serious diplomatic ramifications to this whole affair. Our government is already sending troops. I can imagine scenarios where they sail right past Panama and invade Colombia via Cartagena.”

  “Let’s hope we can contain this thing before it goes off the rails,” Talbot said and got to his feet. He had to adjust the holster at his hip.

  On deck, all the gear had been stowed properly. Several fighting men lounged under a canvas tarp that was sagging in the middle under the weight of the steadily falling rain. Others were in the pilothouse, getting ready to start their search and destroy operation.

  Bell and Talbot shook hands at the base of the ladder bolted to the pier’s wooden piling. “Good luck, Court, and be careful.”

  “Always. What’s your next move?”

  “It’s time I get to know some of the diplomats stationed here.” Talbot’s expression showed that he didn’t understand Bell’s answer. “Joseph Van Dorn taught me years ago that any gossip worth knowing comes from Foreign Service types because every one of them, from office boy up to Ambassador, is a spy, and their bread and butter is information. If Colombia—or anyone else, for that matter—is trying to exert influence in Panama, the diplomatic community will know all about it.”

  “Then good luck to you too.”

  Bell didn’t need luck. The truth is, he needed about ten minutes with Colonel Goethals and he’d have the whole affair wrapped up and the way paved for Teddy Roosevelt to inspect his canal without fear of attack.

  19

  It took several minutes of tinkering to get the tanker truck fired up for the ride back to Panama City. He’d watched Talbot’s boat pull away from the dock and head out across the lake. It was quickly swallowed by distance and the mist until even the rumble of its engine muted entirely. His bucket for washing the windshield had refilled with rainwater, so he set it on the passenger’s seat and climbed behind the wheel.

  If Isaac Bell was entirely honest with himself, he didn’t have all the answers just yet. There were some loose ends. He was sure he knew the who of the case and the why, but there was still the question of the backer. Bell liked the theory that Colombia had a hand in the insurgency, yet he felt there was another layer to the plot, someone as yet unseen pulling the strings. Their goal was to delay the canal’s completion since it could never be permanently halted. He needed to think, remembering that classic Latin question detectives ask themselves with every case. Cui bono? Who benefits?

  Who had the resources and desire to delay the canal’s construction? It couldn’t be an exceptionally long list, but at the moment Bell couldn’t add even a single entry to it. It had to be someone wealthy enough to be a player in all of this, and also someone who would be made wealthier still by the canal not opening on time. The more he thought, the more of a disconnect he found between those two points. It wasn’t like there were private construction bonds that could be sold as a short. The United States government was footing the entire bill.

  There was another angle he just couldn’t see yet.

  A spine-jarring pothole tore him from his reverie and reminded him to focus more on his driving. The road was a soggy quagmire, and he passed several vehicles pulled to the verge because of the conditions. Though it was only early afternoon, the storm and the shadow of the encroaching jungle made Bell’s view of the road murky at best. The truck had oil lamps, but he doubted he’d get them lit with the constant pattering rain. He hunched over the wheel and steered into the gloom. He halted at the swiftest wash yet, where rain poured out of the jungle and swept across the road in a shallow river.

  He considered turning back, but he wouldn’t without at least trying to cross the hazard. He eased out into the water. The truck’s tires were two inches of solid rubber around wooden-spoked wheels, so they offered little resistance to the current. The front of the truck, with the heavy engine and Bell’s own weight, remained solidly rooted to the road. It was the back end that swayed and skipped drunkenly, forcing Bell to crab the vehicle like an airplane caught in a crosswind.

  Even though he kept the speed steady, as he reached the far side of the watery hazard the road dipped so that the level of the water rose dangerously fast. The tail of the truck slewed hard, and he had no choice but to gun the motor, dashing from the trap like a hippopotamus launching itself from some African river. The truck bellowed and snorted and didn’t let him down. He was soon out of the zone of danger and on gravel once again.

  A short distance later, the jungle to Bell’s right vanished as the road began to run parallel to the rim of the Culebra Cut. The huge earthen dam back in Gamboa prevented the rising waters of Lake Gatun from flooding the works, yet Bell had been told by Sam Westbrook that it would be blown up in the autumn by President Wilson pressing a button in the Oval Office. The remainder of the excavations within the cut would be carried out by floating dredges.

  The left side of the road remained an impenetrable wall of tropical trees, bushes, and creeping vines.

  Bell was reaching around the edge of the windshield with his sponge-tipped stick to clean mud from the glass when he spotted something on the road. Though at first it looked like a narrow channel of water cutting across the dirt track, he soon realized it was a downed tree. He straightened and slammed his foot on the brake, the big truck’s tires cutting deep grooves into the muddy roadway.

  In the seconds until impact, he considered turning the wheel but wisely kept it straight. Hitting the foot-thick trunk at an angle would likely flip the water carrier. Its rear end started to slip sideways, as he slowed, and he steered the vehicle through the skid. It straightened and came to a stop a few feet from the downed tree. Had he hit it, the wooden-spoked front wheels would have come apart and the front of the truck would have collapsed. Bell had seen such accidents before. The driver invariably went through the windshield like he’d been launched from a catapult. Survival was a fifty/fifty proposition.

  He shook out his hands because they were clutching at the wheel tightly enough to have gone bloodless and white. Leaving
the motor sputtering, he swung down from the truck, his attention on the fallen tree. The rain had intensified, the sound of it falling through the jungle was like standing next to a waterfall.

  He hadn’t gone even two steps when there came a roar from the jungle, and a truck much like his own burst out of the foliage in reverse so that it led with its big water tank. Bell had no option but to leap back into his truck, and he managed to wedge himself into the footwell with the gas and brake pedals by the time the other vehicle slammed into his.

  It hadn’t built enough speed to stave in the side of Bell’s cab yet had the momentum to shove his truck bodily across the road to the precipice of the Culebra Cut. Bell clutched the underside of the steering wheel. He knew he was going over.

  Geology dictated how steep the sides of the cut had to be. In areas where there was solid rock, the workers shaved the walls so they were near-vertical cliffs. In other places, where the soil was particularly soft, the earth had to be gently sloped so that it didn’t break free and ooze into the canal like the Cucaracha slide that had vexed the French effort and still defied the Americans.

  The ambush to take out Isaac Bell had been laid in a spot that was a mixture of both. The ground was solid enough, but not so stable that there wasn’t some degree of slope.

  When the two outside tires went over the edge, it felt like the truck was going to remain upright for a joyride down to the bottom. And then they hooked, and the heavy truck fell onto its side. Bell felt like he’d just been mule-kicked in the chest.

  Had Westbrook lent him any other type of vehicle, what happened next would have seen the truck barrel-roll down the quarter-mile hill, shedding bodywork with each ever-accelerating tumble, until there was nothing left but the chassis and engine, spinning like a dervish. Bell’s lifeless body would have been jettisoned from it like a rag doll long before it came to rest in the muddy mess at the canal’s bottom.