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

While another squall passed over the city, and Marion busied herself unpacking their bags, Bell went through the telegrams. Chief Wilson cabled to tell him that a subsequent dive had discovered the boat’s ownership papers in an oilskin pouch. The cabin cruiser had belonged to a couple from Huntington Beach. A check with the local police found that they had been missing almost a week.

Bell didn’t need Chief Wilson’s speculation that they were dead. He was sure they’d been murdered for their boat and their bodies weighted down and dumped somewhere off the coast of Orange County.

The other telegrams were from Van Dorn about ongoing investigations unrelated to his current mission.

Bell and Marion ate dinner in the hotel and then went strolling through Casco Viejo. He was surprised by the number of bars. It seemed every other business was a saloon of some sort. Some seemed respectable enough, while others were no more than a scrap of canvas strung over the back corner of an alley with a couple stools pulled up to a sawhorse bar. The streets were filled with men in various states of inebriation. Some were out having some fun with their friends and swayed from place to place, others were passed out in gutters and against walls. The second-floor windows of many establishments were adorned with red curtains. In the doorways leading to the stairs up were heavily rouged women making suggestive gestures.

It all reminded Bell of the tales of the Old West. Panama City indeed was a frontier town on the edge of a jungle so thick that very little of it had ever been mapped. Bring in a labor force of some thirty thousand men and they’d seek the same distractions that slaked the appetites of the men who’d built the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Colosseum in Rome.

As if to reinforce the image of the city Bell was constructing, two men tossed a third out the open door of one of the rougher-looking establishments. He hit the muddy road with a smack but quickly got to his feet, his anger fueled by plenty of drink. He rushed back toward the bouncers, arms flailing. The larger of the bar employees stepped forward, nimbly ducked a floppy haymaker, and put the sot down with a straight right that caused his nose to erupt with blood.

The bouncer shook out his hand and slapped his partner on the shoulder as if to say the next turn was his laying out an overly intoxicated patron. From inside the bar, Bell could hear a pianist pounding out a quick-tempo rag.

He managed to find a clothing store that was still open and bought himself a straw hat that, while made in Ecuador, was called a panama. He also bought a pair of shin-high, well-fitted rubber boots. They were as comfortable as loafers and had a clever venting tube on the inside so his feet wouldn’t overheat. His current shoes were already waterlogged, and his feet were white and dimpled from being wet. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any boots small enough for Marion, but she assured her husband that she had no intention of traipsing around in the mud.

The last few minutes of their walk was in a downpour every bit as powerful as the afternoon deluge. Bell’s head and feet stayed dry, and he realized he was already becoming accustomed to the tropics.

9

The administration building for the Canal Authority overlooked the waterway from partway up Ancon Hill. It was still under construction but was where Goethals wanted to meet. As the Canal Zone was sovereign American territory, there was a checkpoint to gain access. Talbot was friendly with the guard, as he crossed into the zone frequently, but Bell had to present his credentials and have his name written in a ledger.

It truly felt like they had left Panama for the United States. Behind them, French and Spanish influences dominated the architecture and the everyday life. The pace was more languid and without urgency. On this side of the line, the buildings had a barracks-like quality and had been constructed with American efficiency and were diligently maintained. Lawns were well tended and bordered by whitewashed rocks. Roads were perfectly delineated, and the people on them moved with purpose.

Again, Bell was struck by the contrast of the two worlds coexisting side by side and could understand the resentment it could foster in groups like Viboras Rojas.

Talbot’s driver took them around Ancon Hill and parked behind the massive building. Half of the roof was missing, as were a number of windows. Scaffolding climbed part of the way up its three-story façade.

The morning sky was a cloudless blue, but the humidity was a physical presence that made everything uncomfortable. Bell felt certain he’d sweat through his suit by noon. Talbot looked more at ease. He wore khakis and riding boots, with his befeathered bush hat on his head. There was just a trace of moisture on his freshly shaved upper lip.

An aide saw them through to Goethals’s corner office. The Authority director had a reputation of being terse and to the point. He didn’t wear his uniform while in Panama, but there was no disguising his military bearing. He was a little shorter than Bell, with thick silvered hair and a darker mustache.

“Talbot,” he said as they entered, and nodded his way. He looked to Bell. “You’re the Van Dorn man?”

“Isaac Bell.”

They shook hands, and Goethals settled behind his cluttered desk and indicated chairs for his guests. His office was completed down to the stucco walls and wooden baseboards but was so filled with books, maps, rock samples, and other junk that it was hard to tell.

“This is from Senator Densmore,” Talbot said and handed over the handwritten page.

Goethals read it through and laid it on his blotter. “Given the attack on you in California, and Bill’s telegram, I was inclined to let you and