the Spy (2010) by Cussler Clive (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

Bottoms up, she smiled.

Bottoms up, Scully whispered back. You know, I never met a girl quite like you. Gazing soulfully into her pretty blue eyes, he reached blindly for his glass and knocked it off the table.

ISAAC BELL GOT to the Knickerbocker's cellar bar ten minutes early. Midafternoon on a sunny day, it was largely empty, and he saw right away that Abbington-Westlake had not yet arrived. There was one man at the bar, two couples at tables, and a single slight figure seated on the banquette behind the small table where he had sat with the English Naval AttachE in the darkest corner of the room. Immaculately dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat, high-standing collar, and four-in-hand tie, he beckoned, half rising and bowing his head.

Bell approached, wondering if he could believe his eyes.

Yamamoto Kenta, I presume?

Chapter 32

MR. BELL, ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH THE NAMBU TYPE B?

Low-quality, 7-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, Bell answered tersely. Most Japanese officers buy themselves a Browning.

I'm a sentimental patriot, said Yamamoto. And it is remarkably effective at a range of one small tabletop. Keep your hands where I can see them.

Bell sat down, laid his big hands on the table, one palm down, one up, and scrutinized a face that gave away nothing.

How far do you think you will get if you shoot me in a crowded hotel?

Considering how far I have gotten from a dozen professional detectives for the past two weeks, pursuit by ordinary citizens drinking in a hotel bar holds few terrors for me. But surely you can guess that I did not lure you here to shoot you, which I could have done late last night as you walked home from this hotel to your club on 44th Street.

Bell returned a grim smile. My congratulations to the Black Ocean Society for teaching their spies the art of invisibility.

I accept the compliment, Yamamoto smiled back. In the name of the Empire of Japan.

Why does a patriot of the Empire of Japan become the instrument of an English spy's revenge?

Don't be put out with Abbington-Westlake. You hurt his pride, which is a dangerous thing to do to an Englishman.

Next time I see him, I won't hurt his pride.

Yamamoto smiled again. That is between you and him. Let us remember that you and I are not enemies.

You murdered Arthur Langner in the Gun Factory, Bell shot back coldly. That makes us enemies.

I did not kill Arthur Langner. Someone else did. An overzealous subordinate. I've taken appropriate measures with him.

Bell nodded. He saw no profit in challenging that cold-eyed lie until he learned Yamamoto's intention. If you didn't murder Langner and we are not enemies, why are you pointing a gun under the table at my belly?

To hold your attention while I explain what is going on and what I can do to help you.

Why would you want to help me?

Because you can help me.

You are offering to deal.

I am offering to trade.

Trade what?

The spy who arranged Langner's murder and the murder of Lakewood, the fire-control expert, and the murder of the turbine expert, MacDonald, and the murder of Gordon, the armorer in Bethlehem, and the attempt to sabotage the launch of the Michigan, which you so ably thwarted.

Trade for what?

Time for me to disappear.

Isaac Bell shook his head emphatically. That makes no sense. You've demonstrated that you could disappear already.

It is more complicated than simply disappearing. I have my own responsibilities-responsibilities to my country-which have nothing to do with you because we are not enemies. I need to get clean away and leave no tracks to haunt me or embarrass my country.

Bell thought hard. Yamamoto was confirming what he had suspected-that a spy other than he was the mastermind who had recruited not only the Japanese murderer but the German saboteur and who knew how many others.

Yamamoto spoke urgently. Discretion is survival. Defeats, and victories, should be observed quietly, after the fact, at a distance.

To save his own skin-and who knew for what other motives-Yamamoto would betray the mastermind. As the treacherous Abbington-Westlake had put it so cynically at this same table, Welcome to the world of espionage, Mr. Bell.

How can I trust you?

I will explain two reasons why you should trust me. First, I have not killed you, and I could have. Agreed?

You could have tried.

Second, here is my pistol. I am passing it to you under the table. Do what you will.

He handed Bell the pistol, butt first.

Is the safety on? asked Bell.

It is now that it's pointed at me, replied Yamamoto. Now I will stand up. With your permission.

Bell nodded.

Yamamoto stood up. Bell said, I will trust you more after you hand me that second pistol hidden in your side pocket.

Yamamoto smiled faintly. Sharp eyes, Mr. Bell. But in order to deliver the goods, I may need it.

In that case, said Bell, take this one, too.

Thank you.

Good hunting.

LATE THAT NIGHT, Yamamoto Kenta confronted the spy in his Alexandria, Virginia, waterfront warehouse. Your plan to attack the Great White Fleet at Mare Island, he began in the formal, measured phrases of a diplomat, is not in the interest of my government.

It had been raining for two days, and the Potomac River was rising, swelled by the vast watershed that drained thousands of square miles of Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Washington, D.C. The powerful current made the floor tremble. The rain drummed on the ancient roof. Leaks dripped into a helmet turned upside down on the spy's desk, splashed on the old searchlight behind him and streamed down its lens.

The spy could not hide his astonishment. How did you find out?

Yamamoto smiled thinly. Perhaps it is my natural aptitude for spying, and a cunning and self-control not found in the West.' His smile froze in a hard line, his lips so tight that the spy could see his teeth outlined against them.

I will not