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

“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