The Saboteurs by Clive Cussler (top 10 best books of all time .TXT) 📗

to three days—the average time needed for a typical stakeout. He dressed and used the washroom before heading downstairs.

The main dining room was locked, as he suspected it would be until everything returned to normal. He went down one more flight to the beach level. The waiters for the casual eatery were just getting ready for early rising guests. He convinced a waitress to combine three bone china cups of coffee in a beer stein and he headed out onto the beach.

The breeze off the Pacific was a cleansing breath that dispelled the fuzziness from only three hours’ sleep. With the sun just climbing up from the east, the vast ocean remained dark, like spilled ink, except where the waves curled in on the sugary sand. Seabirds clustered at the tideline, picking at something dead that had washed ashore. A collegian in a USC shirt was just coming back from a barefoot run down the beach.

“Excuse me,” Bell said as the student athlete slowed. His face was flushed, and he was breathing hard.

“Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“How far did you just run?”

“Probably three miles down and three back.”

“Didn’t notice any abandoned boats, did you?”

“Boats? No, sir. Nothing but beach and seaweed.”

“Thanks.”

Bell started walking in the opposite direction, grateful the young runner had saved him from having to search the beach in both directions. He was fairly sure the attackers wouldn’t have risked sneaking past Tent City to the south of the hotel, but having the student confirm it gave him some peace of mind.

Sipping his coffee, Bell set out to the north. It was going to be a beautiful day, and he found himself enjoying the walk. Living in New York for the past few years, he’d forgotten what it was like to be so close to nature. The only sounds were the sea, the wind, and the occasional cry of a gull. He couldn’t even hear any ships’ horns from inside San Diego Harbor. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel if Marion wanted to relocate. He loved the hustle and bustle of life on the East Coast, but it would be a nice change to come west again and take part in California’s transformation once the trans-isthmus canal made it more accessible.

He’d covered about a mile when he came upon a thicket of seagrass about thirty feet above the tideline. The beach sand was smooth, but not in a naturally windblown way. It looked like it had been disturbed and then kicked back into place and then raked over with a broom or leafy branch from a tree farther inland.

Bell turned to investigate the tufts of head-high grass, and, just as he’d predicted, there was a small rowboat hidden in the densest part of the little patch. The craft was wooden and poorly maintained. The duckboards were slimy with mold, and rot was eroding the gunwales. The brass oarlocks were pitted from years of exposure to salt air. He checked it thoroughly. There was no name on the transom or any manufacturer’s tag. It was just an anonymous boat, but it was doubtlessly the one the attackers had used to come ashore from their stolen cabin cruiser.

He left it alone and began to walk back to the Hotel Del, his now depleted stein swinging from a finger.

7

A bellhop found Isaac Bell eating a breakfast of soft scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with toast at the poolside restaurant. Though it was still early, eager sunbathers were already staking out their spots for when the day warmed. They sat bundled in robes and towels for now, while a handful of children, who seemed to be immune to cold, were already at play in the saltwater pool.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bell. Chief Wilson just got word to the hotel that he would like you to meet him at the ferry dock at the base of Orange Avenue.”

“When?”

“Now, sir. I took the liberty of arranging a motor taxi.”

Without another word, Bell forked the remaining lox and eggs onto a piece of toast and folded it over like a tortilla and wolfed down the first half in a single bite. He settled his hat atop his head and allowed the teen to lead him upstairs and out the main lobby entrance. A black Model T was waiting. The driver was at the wheel, but the door to the rear bench seat was open.

As soon as Bell settled in, the car lurched from the curb and out onto Orange. He shouted to the bellhop, “Cancel my long-distance reservations.”

As they sped down the palm-lined street the driver said, “There’s no need to pay, sir. My service will be tacked onto your room charge, as a convenience to hotel guests.”

“Thanks,” Bell said, thinking this would all go onto the bill the Van Dorn accountants would be preparing for the Republican Party. He finished his folded breakfast sandwich.

The ride took only a handful of minutes. The ferry wasn’t at the dock, but there was a tubby fishing boat with a small pilothouse jutting forward over her flaring bows. Long trolling poles angled off her stern. Bell recognized Keno Wilson, and another of the cops from the night before, standing just behind the bridge. Exhaust burbled from a vent in the fishing boat’s transom.

“I found the rowboat about a mile north of the hotel,” Bell said as he approached.

“Well done. Bill, go check it out.” The other cop stepped up off the boat just as Bell jumped down into it.

“It’s hidden in a thick patch of seagrass,” Bell called after the cop. “Take my taxi, courtesy of the national Republican Party, since they are ultimately picking up the tab.”

A deckhand released a line securing the fishing boat to the dock, and the captain at the helm fed in more power. The boat gathered speed, but ponderously, like a dowager trying to swim. They started across the bay toward the white-hulled battlewagons. Bell turned his attention to