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

was nothing compared to some of the bigger ones slowing the excavation. A great tongue of soil and rocks stretched from the canal’s rim at Bell’s feet almost halfway across its breadth. In the middle of the rubble field, he could see where the workers had excavated around the water tank that had saved his life. The tank was still buried, but he saw the piles of dirt that had been shoveled from the hole and some large rocks that had been levered out of the way to give them access.

Bell was moved by the dedication his rescuers had shown—the amount of rubble they’d excavated was impressive.

Looking down the artificial valley that was the canal, he spotted work crews already laying a fresh set of tracks to reach the avalanche. They were a mile away or more, but he could see a large mobile crane, which was capable of swinging prefabricated sections of rail in place, atop the gravel bed, the men swarming it tamping each rail flat. When the track was completed, a steam shovel would be brought in to tackle the slide. The debris would be hauled out on a separate rail spur, while the ore cars would remain on the main line to haul out the overburden.

It might take them months—or, in the case of the Cucaracha slide at Panama City, years—to undo the damage, yet they went about their job undeterred.

What Bell didn’t get was the spark that coming here was supposed to ignite to make him remember additional details of that day’s events. While it was a gap of only a couple hours he couldn’t remember, Bell felt a hollowness he could not fill. He lacked trust in himself, his mind, his instincts. He could see yet felt like he was blindly groping, stumbling and lurching when he should be walking easily. Isaac Bell had never been defined by his memories but rather by his ability to recall them so readily. The chunk of missing time was a reminder that he was no longer himself.

He spent ten minutes scouting the area around where he’d left the road. Just beyond the grass verge, he did spot a twenty-foot-long log. He didn’t know its significance. Had it fallen off a lumber truck and forced him off the road? Had it been deliberately laid there as a roadblock? Given the attempts on his life, the latter seemed the more likely option.

Too much time had passed for any subtler clues to have remained. The rains here were so intense, they dissolved footprints and tire tracks in minutes.

Bell saw no point in clambering down the hillside to get a better look at his temporary prison. Not only did he not need to see the oversize and inky black claustrophobic tank, he had no idea if the ordnance disposal team had made certain there weren’t more undetonated charges littering the slope.

Rather than return to an uncertain future in Panama City, Bell continued to the company town of Gamboa. Sam Westbrook told Isaac about meeting with Courtney Talbot there, and Bell recalled a boat being involved. He also recalled the bronze oarlocks. However, driving into the drab town brought back no new memories. There were warehouses near a train station, and a few bunkhouses for workers, plus a handful of dilapidated railcars that had been pulled from the line and left in a field. They housed more workers, and one was a general store.

Bell parked the Renault in an alley between two warehouses. He leaned a pair of rotting cargo pallets against its grille, and, from even a few feet away, it looked like a pile of scrap left abandoned and out of sight.

He double-checked his .45 and crossed the tracks, heading away from the speeding Chagres River to a small field, where he found a makeshift restaurant. Outside, there were no chairs, and the tables were empty barrels set on end. Men stood as they ate. The ten or so watched Bell approach. He didn’t sense hostility, but rather a surprised curiosity. Gamboa was populated exclusively by West Indian islanders. Bell crossed under the awning and stepped into the restaurant proper. That was a misnomer. Inside was just a serving line that separated the entrance from a large commercial kitchen built inside a tin shanty.

“I think you lost, yes?” said a lady at the end of the counter. She was accepting paper scrip from the workers to pay for their meals. She had a heavily lined face, which told of a hard life, but laughing eyes. When she moved her plump arms, bracelets made of twisted copper wire tinkled faintly.

“Not if your food tastes as good as it smells,” Bell replied.

She liked his reply, and a smile creased her face even more. “It taste even better, love, but you ain’t a company man so I can’t feed you.” While her accent was thick, her grasp of English was good.

“Tell you what.” Bell pulled a dollar from his pocket. It was almost enough to get a filet mignon at Delmonico’s. “What say we pretend I’m a company man just for today.”

The bill vanished into a pocket of her voluminous apron. “Best if you eat out back.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Bell, but he thought it was probably a good idea.

“Go out and sit yourself down, and I’ll bring you a plate,” she told him. She motioned to one of the women tending the stove inside the kitchen. She came out and took over the till while Bell’s new friend went to get him lunch.

Behind the makeshift restaurant was a small garden with meticulously straight rows of lettuce, tomato plants, and all manner of herbs. Some chickens scratched at the ground, and in the distance was a rickety bamboo pen with two goats in it. They rushed the fence when they saw Bell, hopeful he was bringing food. When Bell sat on an overturned bucket next to a covered coal locker, the goats lost interest.

A moment later, the restaurant’s back screen door banged