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

carried away in my quest to hunt the vermin down. Again, I am sorry for the fright I must have given you.”

Dreissen turned to Ortega. “Detective, would you excuse us for a moment. I need to ask Mr. Bell the specifics of what he might have seen in my office. There are important patents involved that need to remain secret.”

Ortega stood and straightened his jacket. “I understand, señor. I will be right outside, should you need me.”

“Danke.”

When the door to the interrogation room closed behind the detective, and the two men were alone, Bell and Dreissen dropped all pretense of civility.

“What are you getting at?” Bell said, snarling.

“Proving to you that you are in far over your head, Herr Bell. Goethals and the Americans hold sway in the Canal Zone. Out here, I’m more powerful than you know. With a snap of my fingers, I can see you stuffed down a hole so deep and so dark you’ll wish I’d had you killed instead.”

In one fluid motion, Bell pulled the knife from his ankle sheath, the one the police hadn’t found because, foolishly, they’d not frisked him after he gave up his .45. He was over the table with the blade against Dreissen’s throat before the businessman had time to react. “Feel powerful now?” Bell snapped.

Dreissen groped for the folder he’d brought into the room. He flipped it open and held up the single photograph it contained.

Isaac Bell’s brain had been through a lot in recent days, so it took him an extra second to understand what he was seeing. The woman in the glossy held that morning’s edition of the Canal Record newspaper, the local weekly. She couldn’t read the broadsheet’s headlines because she was blindfolded with a narrow strip of black cloth. Worse, she also couldn’t see the Luger pistol and the out-of-frame man aiming it at her temple, its hammer cocked and his finger on the trigger. What took so terribly long for Bell to grasp was that the woman he saw in the picture in such helpless peril was supposed to be safely aboard the Spatminster. Somehow, Otto Dreissen and his Red Vipers had kidnapped his wife.

The picture was of Marion, and the bastard across the table held her life in his hands.

Bell fell back into his chair. His entire world collapsed into uncertainty. He couldn’t get his mind around this unexpected twist, and it felt like a knife had cut through his very being.

With unmatched arrogance, Dreissen took a moment to adjust his tie and check to see if any blood came from where the razor-sharp boot knife had been pressed to his skin. There was a single claret droplet. “Yes, Herr Bell.” His lips pursed in a smile. “I feel especially powerful now.”

Bell found an anchor amid his swirling emotions strong enough to hold him steady. “What do you want?”

Dreissen used his foot to drag over the knife Bell had dropped so he could pick it up. “Originally, I wanted you on the next ship out of the country, with the understanding that you would never return. Once you were back in the United States, I would release your wife.”

“How do I know you just wouldn’t kill her and be done with it?”

“You don’t, actually, but I think under those circumstances you would hunt me to the ends of the earth.”

“You think I won’t anyway for what you’ve already done to her?”

Dreissen’s eyes narrowed. He could tell that Bell’s words weren’t an idle threat. He matched the deadly tone. “Her time with my men can be very easy on her or very hard, do you understand? She can be returned to you without so much as a hair out of place or she’ll come back a shattered husk of her former self, a living corpse that has endured the unendurable.”

“If you—”

The German cut him off. “Never counter a threat with another threat when you have no leverage. Agree that this ends now, that there will be no reprisals in the future, or your wife will pay a price far higher than your desire for revenge.”

Unable to speak because of the rage coursing through his body, Bell nodded.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Dreissen’s arrogance was growing in step with his confidence. He slipped the photograph of Marion back into its folder and stood. “I need to know what you saw in my office, Bell. A man like you can’t be trusted to tell the truth, which is why I needed your wife as assurance you will cooperate. I will give you a few days to consider the balance between her fate and your commitment to duty.”

He opened the door. Ortega was leaning on the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. He straightened and approached.

“Detective, I am sorry to say that we couldn’t come to an understanding after all. I want this man held on all charges. Also, he threatened me with a knife that your men failed to find.” He showed Ortega the thin weal on his throat and handed him the blade. “I would consider it a personal favor if you held him for a while.”

The wad of cash Dreissen handed over vanished into a jacket pocket. Ortega’s smile was greasy. “I think there is no judge to hear any arraignment for many days.”

“Perfect.” Dreissen gave Bell a condescending glance.

“What about my wife?” Bell shouted at him.

“What indeed, Herr Bell? What indeed?” He moved off down the hallway and out of view.

Bell leapt from the table to give chase. He knew he could blow through Ortega easily enough even if the man had his knife. But then his two henchmen stepped into view, wooden batons at the ready. Bell stopped short and held up both hands. “Okay, boys. It’s all okay.”

It wasn’t okay.

They went after him with the nightsticks. This too was a psychological ploy, as was so much of what the police did to suspects and prisoners. The beating wasn’t personal, it was just to show the prisoner that he