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

ever had, but the old guy was so happy to have company, Isaac made the appropriate grunts of appreciation.

“How can I help? What exactly do you need?”

“I’m not sure,” Bell said. “I guess I’m looking for someplace secluded along the shores of Lake Gatun where I can hold a secret rendezvous.”

“Between . . . ?”

“A fifty-foot workboat and a Zeppelin, let’s guess, four hundred and fifty feet in length.”

To his credit, Townsend didn’t send Bell away. Or maybe he was so bored and lonely, he welcomed the lunatic’s request. He sat still for a few moments before asking, “And these meetings are taking place now or sometime in the past? Remember, the lake continues to rise, so its shoreline is constantly changing.”

“Currently taking place,” Bell assured him.

“Okay, then.” Townsend stood. “Come with me.”

The old archivist led Bell down a short hallway, past a closet-sized washroom and through a door at the back of the reception room. Beyond was a vast, open space, with exposed wooden beams and V-bracing columns. Light came from tall, narrow windows, as well as from electric bulbs. The room was filled with waist-high metal filing cabinets with wide but very shallow drawers for storing maps flat. It looked like there was enough space for tens of thousands of plats and charts.

Bell was overwhelmed by the task he’d set out for himself.

“The upstairs is more of the same. It’s said that Panama is the best-mapped place on earth, and I’m not one to argue with that. There are two other buildings like this one for storing all the engineering drawings done for the canal, all in metal file cabinets to protect them in case of fire. Those facilities are still busy because we’re still building stuff, but all the site work’s done. No real need to look at the maps any longer.”

“But you’ve kept them?”

“This is a government project, which means everything must be accounted for.”

“Job security?”

“I’ve been here since the beginning almost,” Townsend said proudly. “Any chance you can narrow your search some? The lake’s pretty big, even if it has another year to reach its full size.”

In Bell’s experience, the most convincing lies always contain a bit of the truth. It’s easier to remember and comes across as more trustworthy. Talbot had lied to Goethals about killing two Viboras Rojases. The dead men were no doubt hapless fishermen in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he’d said they’d been found on the lake’s western side, a detail mentioned to make the lie feel authentic.

“Let’s concentrate on the western side of the lake for now.”

“Easy enough.”

Bell followed Townsend as he wound his way through the maze of filing cabinets until he stopped at one as anonymous as all the others. He opened a drawer about halfway down and pulled out a map that was four feet by four. He set it on top of the cabinet, studied it for a second, then slid it back in its drawer. He pulled another map from one drawer higher up and set it on top of the cabinet.

“We’re looking for hills that became islands when the lake rose, Mr. Bell. Hills big enough to hide a dirigible hovering close to the water. Is that how you envision it?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“What you’re looking at is not a map, per se, but a projection of what the shoreline around Gatun should look like this month, give or take. It could be off by several feet because rainfall actuals are likely to be different from the early estimates. It’s still good enough to get us in the ballpark. You a baseball fan by any chance?”

“I was born in Boston, so baseball is in my blood.”

“Think the Red Sox will win the Series this year?”

Bell smiled. “In my line of work, we try not to predict the future, but, in this case, I’ll make an exception and say we may not win it this year, but we’re going to do quite well in the next few years. After that, who knows?”

“As a Cleveland Naps fan, I hope you’re wrong.” He pointed at the map, all official again. “This is an overview, a reference for us to pick some likely candidate. See all those boxes?”

The map of the Canal Zone and surrounding jungle was divided up into hundreds of separate little blocks, each with a reference number too small to read with the naked eye.

From an inside pocket of his vest, Townsend pulled an ivory-handled magnifying glass. “Once we have some choice spots picked out, we’ll pull the corresponding topographical maps, the ones with elevation notations, to see if the hills are high enough to hide your airship.”

“Mr. Townsend, I don’t think I could do this without you,” Bell said gratefully.

“You could, I’m sure. You seem like a sharp fellow, but it might take you a couple weeks.”

“Months.” Bell laughed.

Together, the archivist and the investigator pooled their talents and pored over dozens of maps, discussing the merits of various locations, discarding unlikely places, and holding aside the topographical maps of possibles. They worked as they shared Townsend’s lunch, a ham sandwich, on stale bread, with fiery mustard that made Bell’s eyes swim, washed down with the dregs of the cold, watery coffee.

Bell’s eyes were gritty, and his back ached from stooping over so many maps, by the time they had narrowed it down to two potential places where Court Talbot could be meeting Otto Dreissen’s airship. Both had been deep valleys before the lake began to fill them and now they resembled Norwegian fjords with enough breadth for a massive dirigible to maneuver in. Townsend allowed Bell to keep one map, to annotate it with navigational directions and waypoints, provided he filled out a receipt and promised to return it.

A Model T passed Bell on his walk back to the administration building, and he would have thought nothing of it if he had not looked over his shoulder and seen it slow to a stop in front of the map building’s front portico. He turned