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

question, but the younger man held up a finger. “To be on the safe side, I also checked guests who made their reservation a week prior to Densmore’s summit.”

Bell nodded. He expected no less from any of the men working for Joseph Van Dorn, the legendary founder of his namesake agency.

He shrugged into the leather shoulder rig with a holster for his Colt 1911 .45 caliber pistol and a separate case for two spare magazines. A snap loop securing the bottom of the holster to his belt ensured it would fit discreetly against his body no matter how he moved. The cream linen jacket he pulled on was tailored so that the weapon’s outline was further obscured. Without the shoulder rig, the suit looked ill fitted, but, with it on, only the most sharp-eyed observer would know Bell was armed.

“Where’s the Senator now?” Bell asked.

“He’s out fishing, on a charter from the marina. That’s why I was at the boathouse. Waiting for him to return.”

“And the Major?”

“Talbot checked in about an hour before you. He’s in his room.”

“Okay. This meeting should be a routine briefing. Talbot doesn’t know I’m here, but it shouldn’t matter. I want you to look at this whole thing as a training exercise. Van Dorns are often hired to act as bodyguards and provide security. Your supervisor says you don’t have much experience at either, so stay vigilant but discreet.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Bell.”

3

One of the hotel’s bellhops knocked on Bell’s door a few minutes before six. Bell was at the desk, writing in his journal, as he normally did when he had free time. With a life so richly detailed, he found he could remember it better if he first committed it to paper. He set aside his pen and opened the door.

“Apologies, Mr. Bell. Mr. Hart asked that you be informed that the Senator has not yet returned to the property. He has further instructed me to inform you that Mr. Talbot received an order of drinks from room service.”

Bell chuckled at such a measured and formal mode of speech coming from a lad who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. He fished a coin from his pocket and sent it arcing into the boy’s palm with a flip of his thumb. “Thanks, kid. Stay close to Mr. Hart for more updates.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy tipped his cap and stepped away from the door.

By seven, and still with no word of the Senator’s return, Bell went downstairs to the bar overlooking the beach for an icy beer and poached fish with mousseline sauce.

A different bellhop found Bell while he was finishing his meal. The bar was filled with laughing summer revelers and music provided by a trio playing some fast-tempo ragtime for the handful of people on the tiny dance floor. Upstairs, in the towering Crown Room, the shining jewel of the Hotel Del, a full orchestra was playing to a more formal crowd.

“Mr. Bell,” the boy said. “Senator Densmore is back. There was some boat trouble, and he sends his apologies. He says the meeting is to take place at nine o’clock in the main dining room, when service has ended.”

“Thanks,” said Bell, and he flipped the kid a coin.

At the appointed hour, Bell approached The Del’s dining room. Renny Hart already was sitting in the deserted shoeshine stand, with the evening paper held up to catch the light from a wall sconce. Bell gave the barest of nods as he passed. Just as he reached for the closed door, a figure rushed up and barred him with a raised hand from entering.

The stranger looked like he’d stepped out of central casting at a motion picture studio, lantern-jawed, with sharp, dark eyes and a rugged blue-black shadow of stubble across his cheeks and chin. His nose was aquiline and strong. He wore khaki riding breeches jammed into old but well-cared-for riding boots and matching jacket, replete with pouches and leather shotgun shell loops. A broad-brimmed bush hat with an exotic animal skin band rested on his head.

This, Bell knew, was Courtney Talbot, Major, U.S. Army (ret.). When he was just a sergeant during the Spanish–American War, he’d been among a group of soldiers who’d volunteered to scout landing sites for an attack on an iron fort near the mouth of the San Juan River in Cuba. Once on the beach, they came under withering fire from the fort and from Spanish patrols on foot. Eventually, cannon fire from the gunboat USS Peoria bought them room on the beachhead for a rescue attempt carried out by a handful of Buffalo Soldiers from the fabled black 10th Cavalry Regiment who’d come ashore from the steamship Florida. Talbot was credited with leading the beach’s defense during the desperate battle after the officers were either wounded or killed outright. He’d declined a Medal of Honor so as not to take away those awarded to the four brave soldiers who rescued them off the hellish beach. He did, however, accept a battlefield commission.

According to the bio Van Dorn research had thrown together in the short amount of time they’d been given, Talbot spent the next ten years in various capacities throughout Central America and the Caribbean, usually working out of embassies and often in countries on the verge of revolution. Rumors that he helped stir up said revolutions made him persona non grata in much of that part of the world, so he’d then gone off to fight against the Tagalogs in the Philippines, before resigning at age forty. He was now somehow attached to the Panama Canal project, though the people Bell had research his life couldn’t find an official title or position within the canal-building Authority.

“Sorry, friend. The dining room is closed for a private meeting.” Talbot’s tone wasn’t threatening, but, in it, Bell heard that he expected to be obeyed.

“I know. I was asked to sit in.” Bell thrust out his