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

“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