The Saboteurs

by Clive Cussler

  Dreissen groped for the folder he’d brought into the room. He flipped it open and held up the single photograph it contained.

  Isaac Bell’s brain had been through a lot in recent days, so it took him an extra second to understand what he was seeing. The woman in the glossy held that morning’s edition of the Canal Record newspaper, the local weekly. She couldn’t read the broadsheet’s headlines because she was blindfolded with a narrow strip of black cloth. Worse, she also couldn’t see the Luger pistol and the out-of-frame man aiming it at her temple, its hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger. What took so terribly long for Bell to grasp was that the woman he saw in the picture in such helpless peril was supposed to be safely aboard the Spatminster. Somehow, Otto Dreissen and his Red Vipers had kidnapped his wife.

  The picture was of Marion, and the bastard across the table held her life in his hands.

  Bell fell back into his chair. His entire world collapsed into uncertainty. He couldn’t get his mind around this unexpected twist, and it felt like a knife had cut through his very being.

  With unmatched arrogance, Dreissen took a moment to adjust his tie and check to see if any blood came from where the razor-sharp boot knife had been pressed to his skin. There was a single claret droplet. “Yes, Herr Bell.” His lips pursed in a smile. “I feel especially powerful now.”

  Bell found an anchor amid his swirling emotions strong enough to hold him steady. “What do you want?”

  Dreissen used his foot to drag over the knife Bell had dropped so he could pick it up. “Originally, I wanted you on the next ship out of the country, with the understanding that you would never return. Once you were back in the United States, I would release your wife.”

  “How do I know you just wouldn’t kill her and be done with it?”

  “You don’t, actually, but I think under those circumstances you would hunt me to the ends of the earth.”

  “You think I won’t anyway for what you’ve already done to her?”

  Dreissen’s eyes narrowed. He could tell that Bell’s words weren’t an idle threat. He matched the deadly tone. “Her time with my men can be very easy on her or very hard, do you understand? She can be returned to you without so much as a hair out of place or she’ll come back a shattered husk of her former self, a living corpse that has endured the unendurable.”

  “If you—”

  The German cut him off. “Never counter a threat with another threat when you have no leverage. Agree that this ends now, that there will be no reprisals in the future, or your wife will pay a price far higher than your desire for revenge.”

  Unable to speak because of the rage coursing through his body, Bell nodded.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Dreissen’s arrogance was growing in step with his confidence. He slipped the photograph of Marion back into its folder and stood. “I need to know what you saw in my office, Bell. A man like you can’t be trusted to tell the truth, which is why I needed your wife as assurance you will cooperate. I will give you a few days to consider the balance between her fate and your commitment to duty.”

  He opened the door. Ortega was leaning on the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. He straightened and approached.

  “Detective, I am sorry to say that we couldn’t come to an understanding after all. I want this man held on all charges. Also, he threatened me with a knife that your men failed to find.” He showed Ortega the thin weal on his throat and handed him the blade. “I would consider it a personal favor if you held him for a while.”

  The wad of cash Dreissen handed over vanished into a jacket pocket. Ortega’s smile was greasy. “I think there is no judge to hear any arraignment for many days.”

  “Perfect.” Dreissen gave Bell a condescending glance.

  “What about my wife?” Bell shouted at him.

  “What indeed, Herr Bell? What indeed?” He moved off down the hallway and out of view.

  Bell leapt from the table to give chase. He knew he could blow through Ortega easily enough even if the man had his knife. But then his two henchmen stepped into view, wooden batons at the ready. Bell stopped short and held up both hands. “Okay, boys. It’s all okay.”

  It wasn’t okay.

  They went after him with the nightsticks. This too was a psychological ploy, as was so much of what the police did to suspects and prisoners. The beating wasn’t personal, it was just to show the prisoner that he no longer had rights, not even freedom from harm—especially not that. Bell’s shoulders and arms took a savage number of blows as he fought to protect his head. Through it all, he thought nothing of himself and only of Marion and her uncertain fate.

  28

  The beating finally stopped when one lucky blow glanced off Bell’s temple, tearing skin and opening a patchwork of tiny veins and arteries. Blood welled from the wound, looking far worse than it was. Bell hadn’t lost consciousness, but the gore was enough to satisfy the cops’ lust for violence.

  “Alto,” Ortega said.

  Bell was certain that once he was back in a cell, he wouldn’t see freedom for weeks. Ortega didn’t care who he was, never even asked how Dreissen knew Bell’s identity. The detective had his own part to play in the sham and now he would fulfill whatever promises he’d made to Dreissen. Once they had Bell caged, it was over. He had to make a move now. Acting like the blow had affected him more than just bloodying his face, he rolled his eyes back into his head and crumpled to the dirty floor.

  Ortega said something that could have been an admonishment, that his men had gone too far, Bell wasn’t sure. The detective issued an order and left. Each man taking ahold of a wrist, Bell was dragged out of the interrogation room and down the hall to the stairs. In a move that had been perfected by frequent repetition, they spun Bell so that his boots dangled over the top step and began pushing him down feetfirst. They had to tighten their grip on his wrists to take the weight, but in no time they reached the ground floor, where they spun Bell around a second time and continued to drag him behind them.

  The outer door to the cell block was open, so there was no need to pause. They kept going, past several cells, until they reached the one Bell had been tossed into earlier.

  The instant the guards released Bell’s wrists, he clenched his abdominal muscles with every ounce of his strength to jerk his torso off the floor, the heels of his hands pumping upward for extra power. The right hand landed squarely at the juncture of one guard’s legs in a crippling blow that sent him staggering back and clutching his agonized groin. The second strike was off target and mostly hit the guard’s thigh and barely made an impression. Bell continued up off the floor, twisting his body and sweeping a leg as he rose to knock the uninjured cop off his feet.

  Bell spun once more, building momentum. The closest guard was on his back and already trying to get up. Bell leveraged the weight of his body behind his fist, slamming it into the man’s face with everything he had. The nose exploded and head and body crashed backward onto the cement floor. The man’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then he was out.

  The second guard, still clutching his crushed manhood, sensed the danger he was in and tried to draw his baton. Bell was on him like a wraith. He pulled the stick from the cop’s hands and whipped it around his throat, choking off the flow of blood to his brain. The man struggled, but Bell’s fury could not be matched. The cop’s movements slowed, and then the man went limp in Bell’s arms. He let him fall.

  Just eleven seconds had elapsed.

  Bell removed the Sam Browne belt from the officer closest to his size and tugged the man’s arms out of the sleeves of his blue uniform coat. Bell’s own pants were a close enough match, so he didn’t bother swapping. He ripped a swath from the man’s shirt to clean the blood from his face. Once he had the jacket on, he cinched the belt and pulled the cop’s visored cap over his head at an angle to cover the wound.

  He was running on pu
re instinct now and didn’t know if trying to disguise himself was worth it. He grabbed the ring of keys, stepped out of the cell, and broke its key off in the lock.

  Imitating the cop’s leisurely pace and slouch, Bell left the cell block and immediately turned his back on the main room beyond in order to lock the outer door. He’d swept the squad rooms with his eyes as he’d turned and noted everyone’s position. Two uniformed cops were just leaving the building, two others in plain clothes were at their desks, one typing a report, the other taking a statement from an overwrought woman in a black dress. There were three more people, talking, at a round table in a corner near a bunch of filing cabinets.

  The doors to the offices along the left-hand wall, through one of which Ortega had vanished earlier, were all closed.

  Certain of his route, Bell turned and started ambling through the police station like he didn’t have a care in the world. No one showed even the remotest interest. To maintain as much distance as he could from the others, Isaac walked along the left side of the room and could only hope none of the higher-ranking members of the city’s police force chose that moment to step from his office.

  A door did open, and a shapely woman’s backside appeared. The secretary continued backing out of the office, muttering something to the superior inside. She closed the door and straightened. In her hands was Bell’s shoulder holster with the .45 nestled inside. An evidence tag dangled from one strap. She also had his boot knife.

  Without thinking, Bell took the items from the stunned woman’s hands and kept walking. “Gracias, señorita.”

  “Hey,” she shouted indignantly, and all the attention in the room swung to Bell and the woman.

  Bell ran out of the room. He’d pushed his luck too far. He should have just made his way out the door and onto the street. The typewriters had gone silent, and he could hear chairs scraping back as officers rose to get a better look at the disturbance.

  The desk sergeant happened to be out from behind his counter and talking to a couple kids waiting on a couch while their mother was giving a statement. He was older, rounded, yet he had good reflexes. And he wasn’t fooled by the uniform. He tried to stop Bell, as he raced for the front door, grabbing at one of his arms. Bell easily twisted free, but the veteran cop was on his heels when he burst out onto the street.

  A police car sat at the curb. Bell couldn’t tell if the engine was running, but there was a driver in the front seat, with another cop leaning in the window, chatting.

  Bell turned right and kept running. He looped an arm through the shoulder holster strap to keep one hand free. At the end of the block, he slowed just enough to look back. The sergeant was jumping into the backseat of the patrol car. It accelerated from the curb, its horn honking to make room in the traffic. They would be on him before he made another block.

  As a truck was just about to roar past, Bell ran into the street, trying to keep pace with the vehicle. The two-ton Mack had an open bed with tall wooden stakes along the sides. Able to match its speed for barely a second, Bell leapt and managed to grab two of the stanchions just behind the cab. His feet hung dangerously close to the spinning rear wheels. He pulled and groped and climbed to get his legs clear of danger.

  The truck went around a corner, and Bell’s grip was almost broken as his legs swung out away from the vehicle. When the truck was back on the straightaway, the centrifugal force dissipated, and Bell slammed into its side. He was forced to tuck his legs to keep them from being torn off.

  A second later, the police car careened around the same corner, its driver honking the horn furiously. The sound was muffled by the din in the street and the truck engine’s noise.

  Bell clamped the blade with his teeth and straightened himself out a bit, climbing high enough for one foot to find purchase and free up a hand. He transferred the knife to its sheath. From his perch, clinging to the outside of the truck, it felt like they were rocketing down the street. In fact, the police car chasing them was much faster and would overtake the Mack in just a few more seconds. Bell noted the truck’s cargo contained tidy ranks of small wooden barrels. Hand over hand, he clambered to the rear of the vehicle and swung himself over the single length of chain that acted as a tailgate. He landed atop the barrels and rushed to unhook one side of the chain. It dropped free, twisting and rattling on the rough road like a snake.

  He kicked one of the two-foot-tall pony kegs off the back of the truck. It smashed onto the ground hard enough to crack some of its staves, and a thick black fluid oozed out. It was either engine grease or molasses.

  The police car slowed in plenty of time to swerve around the obstacle and continue the chase. When it drew closer, Bell unleashed another projectile. He kicked the second barrel much harder this time, causing it to land farther behind the truck and nearer the pursuing sedan. The driver had to brake hard before jerking the wheel over to avoid the keg.

  Bell did this two more times before the cops decided they didn’t need to close in on the truck again but seemed satisfied to tail the big Mack for as long as it took. They thought ahead and knew the driver had a destination for his cargo and would reach it at some point. All they had to do was stay behind it.

  For a moment, Bell sensed that he was trapped. The .45 hanging under his arm wasn’t an option. There was no way he was going to open fire on the police. If he somehow made it into the Canal Zone, he doubted Ortega would launch a formal protest over some trumped-up charges. But if Bell took potshots at the police, he imagined Colonel Goethals would be compelled to turn him in.

  He was contemplating jumping out of the moving vehicle when inspiration hit. He dumped two more barrels haphazardly to give himself some working room. The police car dodged them with ease. Bell then lined up four barrels at the very edge of the cargo bed, but rather than kick them off one by one, he lay down and wedged his back against them and waited until the opposite lane was choked by traffic. Against the barrels’ combined two hundred–plus pounds of deadweight, he pushed with his arms and legs. The barrels dropped in unison, and all four split open and stuck fast.

  The lane was effectively blocked. Bell dusted off his hands in triumph as the cops had no choice but to stop. It would be several minutes before there was a hole in the traffic, buying Bell enough time to improvise the next part of his escape.

  The policeman didn’t hesitate. He swung the wheel and took the cruiser up onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians and smashing apart the wooden boxes of vegetables displayed outside a greengrocer’s. The car dropped back onto the road past the gooey barricade, and this time kept coming. The sergeant leaned out the window, a revolver in his hand.

  Bell wormed his way into the remaining barrels to protect himself. The gun roared. Bell heard the bullet hit close by.

  Unbeknownst to him, the truck’s driver had a second man in the cab with him. At the sound of gunfire, the man looked back to see a police car on their tail with one officer brandishing a weapon. He yelled at the driver to stop.

  The truck slowed rapidly, its brakes squealing and the barrels shifting so that Bell felt their weight pressing in on him from all sides.

  Traffic in the other lane also came to a quick stop. Horns began to sound off, mimicking the noise of a flock of angry geese.

  Bell got to his feet as the police were about to get out of their car. He climbed to the top of the truck’s staked side and jumped down onto the roof of a car idling in the other lane. He leapt from there to the hood of the next car, scrambled up its windshield and dashed across its roof too. Twice more he did this until he found himself at an intersection. Right at the corner was a livery stable with the horses penned close to the street.

  He jumped from the last car roof to the top of the split-rail fence, fought to keep his balance, and then launched himself across the corral, stepping his way across the backs of five horses, moving swiftly yet softly enough that the animals barely had time to react. He reach
ed the far fence rail, and from its top he jumped astride a horse that had just been saddled for its owner—a local farmer or ranchero, by the look of him.

  “Sorry,” Bell said, shaking out the reins and putting a heel to the horse’s flank. “I’ll have it brought back within the hour.”

  Because the horse had been saddled, it was primed to ride even if Bell’s style of mounting wasn’t what it expected. It started off at a decent trot. The owner had been too stunned to move for a second, but he quickly gave chase. Bell drew his .45 and pointed it back at the man. He stopped and cursed at Bell until he’d ridden out of earshot.

  There was no sign of the police. He’d given them the slip.

  He made note of the street, so later he could pay someone to deliver the horse back to the stable, and then rode aimlessly for several minutes to fully get his bearings.

  As much as he wanted to race straight to Dreissen’s house and beat the man until he divulged Marion’s location, Bell knew not to give in to the urge. Dreissen would have been tipped off the minute he’d escaped. Either the German would leave or turn his house into a guarded fortress. Probably both. Bell’s best course of action if he wanted to rescue his wife was getting to the Canal Zone as quickly as possible. If Ortega got his hands on him again, Bell suspected they’d kill him outright, and to hell with any consequences.

  He couldn’t risk encountering a police barricade on the main road into the zone. It would be Ortega’s first order even before freeing his men from the cell. Bell didn’t have the time to wait them out or try to sneak past that night, so he rode toward Ancon Hill, the six-hundred-foot, jungle-covered peak that partially overlooked the section of the canal where he had met the tour guide Jorge Nuñez.

  The side of the mountain facing the city wasn’t as developed as the canal side. Once across Martyrs Avenue, Bell had to bushwhack his way up the hill. To its credit, the horse seemed more than game and exploited the tiniest opening between the bushes and shrubs and knew to keep its head down to avoid the vines draped between the trees like so many Christmas garlands. It was amazing how the humidity shot up under the jungle canopy and how the light became weak and gauzy.