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

in Spanish. Bell was lifted from the floor and held upright on rubbery legs by one of the officers. All his possessions had been packed in his valise, which the other cop carried when they followed Ortega down the hall to the main elevator.

Outside, one of the uniformed patrolmen ran off and returned in a car a few minutes later. Bell was taken to a nearby police station. He wasn’t formally charged with anything. Or told anything, for that matter. While Ortega vanished into a side office, the other two escorted Bell through a central workroom abuzz with activity and the clacking of typewriters. At the far end was a heavy door that had to be unlocked with an enormous key. Beyond was a whitewashed hallway with individual cells along the right-hand wall. The paint was peeling badly and speckled with drops and smears of what could only be blood. There were no bars, just solid brick walls and steel doors.

Bell was shoved into one of the cells and its door slammed shut behind him. The only light came from the dime-thin crack under the door. The lock clanked home. Bell sank to the floor, his back against a wall. The stench was unimaginable.

He hadn’t seen this coming and had no plan. His surroundings were so bad, he found himself overly grateful for that razor slash of light coming from the hallway. It was something, a ray of hope perhaps. But then a switch was flicked, as the cop left the cell block, and the fixtures in the hallway went dark. Bell couldn’t help but feel the claustrophobic dread of being trapped in the water tank all over again.

He had to order his thoughts. Dreissen was playing games, Bell realized. He knew full well why he’d been at the man’s house, so this was just a stunt to involve the police and ramp up the intimidation. As soon as he thought it through, Bell had already considered his options and figured out a way to completely turn the tables on the German.

The big if hanging over his plan was the level of corruption within the Panamanian police. Ortega was obviously in Dreissen’s pocket, and, to a lesser extent, so were the two uniformed cops. Bell needed to talk to someone higher up, someone who couldn’t be bought or, if he had been, wouldn’t do the Hun’s bidding once he realized the truth.

There was one other tack to take, but it again depended on how deep the police corruption ran. If it was as bad as he feared, Bell’s only other option was to hope Court Talbot and Colonel Goethals could somehow spring him.

He estimated two hours had passed when he heard the squad room door creak open in the cell block and the lights turned on. The little aura seeping under Bell’s door was a welcome sight, though he understood the techniques at play here. The deprivation was meant to soften him up.

Fat chance.

He pretended to be asleep when his cell door was wrenched open. He acted like they’d startled him awake and he blinked owlishly. The same two cops stood outside his cell. “Oh, hey, fellas. Morning already?”

They yanked him off the floor and frog-marched him down the hall and into the big reception area. This time, they had him climb to the second floor to a windowless interrogation room. There was a table, with two chairs on the side closest to the door and a single chair opposite. That’s where the men dumped him. The psychological tactic on display here was that for him to gain his freedom, represented by the door, he had to get past the interrogators. The only thing missing was a one-way mirror set into the wall so Detective Ortega could judge how his prisoner was faring.

Bell folded his hands on the table and waited. If they didn’t have access to one of those new mirrors, then there was a peephole someplace for spying. He guessed that Ortega was watching him now and would keep checking in on him for a while. For the next hour, other than the slow blinking of his eyes, Bell didn’t move a muscle.

It was his way of telling the Panamanian officer that petty little intimidations were wasted on him.

At the two-hour mark, the door opened. Ortega strode in and took a seat followed a moment later by a strongly built man in a white tropical suit. Bell’s eyes widened a fraction when recognition hit. It was Otto Dreissen.

“Your accuser wanted to meet you, Señor Bell,” Ortega said. “Señor Dreissen said he might let this matter drop if the two of you can come to an understanding.”

Bell cocked his head. Dreissen removed his hat and sat down. He had a slim file folder in his hands that he set in front of him on the table. The antagonism he showed Bell was instinctual and instant. Dreissen knew he was facing an adversary, and from the squint of his eyes to the tension carried in his shoulders, he let Bell know it too.

“A compromise entails each party wanting something from the other,” Bell said blandly. He’d faced far tougher men than Otto Dreissen. “How can I possibly help you?”

“Detective Ortega was kind enough to inform me when they had arrested the man who broke into my house.” His English was accented, his voice deep. Bell had to admit that the man had a commanding presence. “The detective also mentioned you are in Panama under the auspices of the Canal Authority to help them hunt down the insurgents plaguing the construction efforts.”

“That’s true,” Bell admitted.

“So perhaps you aren’t a spy looking to steal trade secrets from Essenwerks after all, that maybe your presence in my home was a mistake.”

Bell nodded, playing his role, for Detective Ortega, in this bit of theater. “You are correct and have my sincerest apologies,” Bell said. “I had intelligence that the leaders of Viboras Rojas were headquartered in a hacienda on the coast road. I got