Isaac Bell 12 - The Saboteurs Page 2

  “Good to have you aboard, Herr Dreissen,” the blond senior officer said. The gold piping on his tropical white uniform gleamed like jewelry.

  “I haven’t sailed aboard the São Paulo since just after the turn of the century. You do her a credit. She’s in great shape.”

  “Our government agrees, Herr Dreissen. They’ve agreed to purchase her from the line.”

  “Then I am glad to have enjoyed a final trip on the old girl. Good day.”

  Dreissen was the first down the gangway and was settled in the Rolls by the time Kohl and the porter had fitted the trunk onto the rack over the rear bumper. It was a short ride to the Plaza Hotel on Calle Florida, but with so much of the streets ripped up for the construction of South America’s first subway, it took far longer than normal. They had to detour all the way around San Martín Square and approach the nine-story, Second Empire–style hotel from the side.

  The manager himself waited at the entrance and greeted Dreissen with a warm smile and handshake. Like so much of BA, the Plaza Hotel and its staff wanted to make all their European guests feel right at home. The fact that the Argentines chose to copy the Old World more than the American model was a deliberate snub to their neighbors far to the north. Animosity toward the United States dated back to the founding of the nation and the implementation of the Monroe Doctrine a few years later.

  “Welcome back, Herr Dreissen. I have your usual suite waiting for you.”

  Dreissen responded in fluent Spanish, “You’re looking prosperous, Raoul.”

  The hotelier rubbed his expanding belly with a grin. “These are good times for Argentina, so why shouldn’t I grow with our nation?”

  A guest of Otto Dreissen’s status needn’t bother with formalities like check-in. The manager had the suite’s key in his pocket, and porters were already swarming over the rear of the hotel’s limousine to secure the trunk. Kohl watched the scene and scanned the bustling sidewalks for potential threats.

  “If I may be so bold and to ask what brings you to BA, Herr Dreissen?” Raoul asked.

  “The verdammt British got the concession to supply subway cars to the first lines being built, but we want to build the carriages and engines for the line the Lacroze Company is planning. I have meetings with their senior staff in two days.”

  The Argentinian frowned. “The English have a near monopoly on all things railroad-related here. I wish you luck.”

  They took the brass elevator to the top floor, and Raoul opened the suite’s heavy door. The windows looked out over the busy streets, but the view was obscured by smoke belching from a steam shovel chewing away at the street for the new underground. Dreissen noted the bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket and a bottle of Napoléon cognac on a tray with a cut-crystal snifter.

  “Anything else for you, Herr Dreissen?” the manager asked as Kohl and the porter maneuvered the large trunk into the suite. Kohl immediately set about unpacking his master’s things.

  Dreissen popped the top of the Pol Roger and poured some of the frothing wine into a flute. “Might as well send up another bottle of this. The old São Paulo isn’t known for her wine cellars.”

  “Of course.” With that, the hotelier and porter departed, well tipped by Kohl for their efforts.

  Dreissen ate dinner in his suite and was cracking the second bottle of champagne when his expected guest knocked, and Kohl opened the door. The Argentine Foreign Minister wore a black suit but no hat. His name was Matias Guzman. Unlike the ruggedly built Dreissen, Guzman was willow thin, with a wisp of a mustache and the hands of a pianist. Like Dreissen, he had a formidable mind and was a strategic thinker. Their occasional games of chess usually left both men exhausted.

  Dreissen stood from the dining table and strode over to shake his friend’s hand. Guzman clasped the German’s shoulder in an extra display of affection. “It is good to see you, Otto. It has been far too long since you’ve come to the Paris of the Americas.”

  “When you work for my family, you go where they tell you.”

  They sat, and Dreissen poured some champagne.

  “Am I to understand we are celebrating your recent success?” Guzman asked, saluting Dreissen with his flute.

  “My success?”

  “Rumors out of Manaus say you secured a lucrative contract for all of Don Antônio Oliveira’s rubber harvest for this year and next.”

  “That is true. Essenwerks’s new automotive division will now be able to supply all its own tires.”

  “There was also a rumor that the French representative from Michelin had the inside track for those contracts and that he was found dead, floating in the Amazon River. Rather lucky for you.”

  Dreissen said, deadpan, “I tend to make my own luck.”

  That statement, and all its potential meaning, hung in the air for several seconds. Guzman finally said, “What brings you to BA? Your telegram was rather cryptic. And why meet here under a false pretense rather than my office?”

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “Of course they do. My mistress and I had dinner here at the hotel. She’s downstairs, sulking in our room, because I left her.” Guzman saw a shadow of concern in his host’s face. “This is Latin America. Friday nights are for the girlfriend, before you go to the country house to spend the weekend with the wife and kids. Surely you know this.”

  “I do, but I’d rather no one can link the two of us being at the same hotel together.”

  “You worry too much.” Guzman set his drink aside, then said, “Tell me why all the cloak-and-dagger.”

  Dreissen ignored the inquiry. “I noticed the port is even busier now than during my last visit.”

  Guzman leaned back, recognizing early on that their conversation may turn out as exhausting as one of their marathon chess matches. “It is. Exports are up three percent over last year. We are seeing a record number of immigrants coming from Europe to try their hand at a better life here.”

  “And imports?” Dreissen knew well it was a touchy subject.

  “Also up,” Guzman said a little tightly.

  “And foreign investments? I see the subway is scheduled to open this year. It was built with English money, yes?”

  “You know it was. And to answer your question, we receive plenty of foreign capital.”

  “Do you, though?” Dreissen asked, an eyebrow cocked over a bright gray eye. “Railroad construction is down dramatically because all the profitable lines have already been laid. You are now forced to offer very generous terms to lure investors to install track to the more remote reaches of the interior. The best lands have already been put under the plow and converted to agriculture. Meanwhile, few European investors are interested in bringing manufacturing to your country. You lack indigenous coal or petroleum, so it makes no sense for anyone to open an energy-intensive factory.”

  The Minister’s mouth tightened. “Your point?”

  “My point is, your investors have turned Argentina into exactly what they need, a market for their expensive manufactured goods while at the same time a supplier of good-quality but inexpensive beef, mutton, and other agricultural goods. You’ve gained your independence from Spain, certainly, but your nation remains a colonial state wholly dependent on Europe.”

  A long moment passed as the two men stared each other down. Guzman was the first to look away. “I don’t think I would put our situation in quite those terms.”

  “Harsh, but essentially true. And now the other proverbial shoe is going to drop, and any hope you have of luring manufacturing here will wither on the vine.”

  Guzman nodded, knowing he’d lost the opening gambit. “The canal.”

  “The estimate is, it will open a year from this August.”

  “At that point they will succeed in effectively cutting off South America from international commerce as Africa had been bypassed by the building of the Suez Canal. You were the one to point that out to me, Otto.”

  “I recall our conversation. Except for South Africa, there is so little investment taking place there that it will remain colonized and impoverished for generations. The Suez Canal is why my family doesn’t have a representative in Africa the way we do in America, Argentina, and in the Orient.”

  “And you’re certain the same will happen here?”

  “We’ve talked about it in the past,” Dreissen reminded him. “The newly discovered oil fields around Maracaibo in Venezuela may prove out, giving them something the states of the northern bloc will want, but for the rest of South America, the economies will contract markedly without outside investment. You’ll be in a stranglehold from which there is no escape.”

  Guzman cursed the Americans in no uncertain terms and stood quickly, clearly agitated, for he knew his host was correct. The canal was going to isolate South America as if the entire continent ceased to exist. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced the suite for a moment. Dreissen clearly saw how much Guzman loved his country, and the Foreign Minister was good enough at his job to see the inevitable failure it would become. He liked that Guzman’s passions were so easily inflamed. Such men made an easier mark. He let the Minister pace two full laps across the sitting room carpet before throwing him an unexpected lifeline.

  He lit a cheroot and said lazily, “There may be something that can be done to delay the completion of the canal and give you the time you need to attract enough capital to build up a manufacturing base.”

  Guzman’s eyes glittered, and he swept back to the table. “What are you saying? Please don’t tease me, old friend.”

  “At this point, let me just say certain technological breakthroughs have been made that would allow an interested party to severely delay the American construction effort, a matter of years rather than months.”

&
nbsp; “You can really do it?”

  “Not me, but a team of men, trained and determined men. They can prevent the canal from opening long enough for you to strengthen Argentina’s economy and ensure a future for your people that’s far brighter than it would be otherwise.”

  “How quickly could this happen?” Guzman asked, knowing the sooner it took place, the better it would be. The canal’s construction had been a concern for several potential investors he was currently courting.

  “It would take some months to lay the groundwork for the operation,” Dreissen admitted. “Security isn’t particularly tight, but access is difficult. The Canal Authority is like a nation unto itself.”

  Guzman took a moment to recharge his glass and calm his nerves. Learning that all may not be lost had let his imagination and ambitions run wild. He gathered his wits, knowing that Dreissen had baited a trap with a bishop or rook while his queen lurked someplace on the board ready to pounce.

  He said, “I understand why you want to keep it unofficial for now. I also see why you would bring this to me and, say, not the Brazilians. They are in no position to offer you much by way of compensation. I must ask what it is you want from me in return?”

  “The rolling stock for the Lacroze line. I want Essenwerks to build the cars and engines and have exclusive contracts for any additional lines constructed below the streets of Buenos Aires.”

  “Done,” Guzman agreed quickly and started to get to his feet, amazed that it was at such a low cost.

  “The rest,” Dreissen said, freezing Guzman, half standing, and the smile on his lips, “will be determined by members of our respective nations’ diplomatic corps.”

  “This is something your government is behind?”

  “It is something we made them aware of. Companies like Essenwerks and Krupp are so large that we need to keep the Kaiser and his Ministers aware of some of our activities. It is so they can manage the economy with the utmost efficiency. It is a partnership of industry and state. I believe the term is synergy. What is best for Essenwerks must also be best for the Fatherland, and vice versa.”

  “I see.” Guzman’s earlier delight had cooled. The subway contract covered Dreissen’s expenses for the operation. The German government would want far more for giving his nation a future beyond that of an agrarian backwater. “Do you have any idea what the Kaiser wants for helping us?”

  “It’s not as bad as you think, Matias. I am about to tell you something under the strictest of confidence because it will help you at the bargaining table. When I first proposed this to the government, the Kaiser himself liked the idea of slowing the Americans’ progress. He doesn’t like their rapid ascent on the world stage since they defeated Spain and took Cuba and the Philippines. He would like to see them slowed in their rise. He tried and failed once before to interfere in their internal affairs and likes the opportunity to try again. My government will want much from you, no doubt, but they also want this to happen so the negotiations will succeed.”

  Guzman recognized the gift he’d just been given. “Thank you for sharing that.”

  “I will also share that they think so highly of this plan, they’re embedding an agent in Panama to monitor our progress.”

  “You don’t seemed so pleased by that.”

  “It is the price of working with the government, I suppose. They don’t understand the motives of a capitalist. I am in the business of selling machines—trains, automobiles, aircraft. The more customers I can keep, the more my factories prosper. Synergy.” He drew on his slender cigar and blew a cloud of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling. “If I may offer some advice . . . With the time this operation buys you, I recommend partnering with the Venezuelans and locking in contracts for their oil. If you have the fuels needed for an industrial economy by the time the canal finally opens, its presence won’t matter. Argentina will be a destination port for trade with every civilized nation on earth.”

  2

  San Diego, California

  April 1914

  As the Coronado Ferry neared the halfway point across San Diego Bay, Isaac Bell turned to look back at the burgeoning city. The skyline was still modest, just a few buildings with multiple stories, but he knew the fate of the city—in fact, the entire West Coast—was about to undergo tremendous upheaval. Los Angeles, this town, and even his beloved San Francisco, still recovering from the earthquake and subsequent fire just eight years prior, were all going to experience unprecedented growth in the coming years.

  It wasn’t so hard to believe, he mused, that the fundamental nature of the entire country was going to change as a result of what was happening in Central America.

  He glanced over his other shoulder at the two warships lying at anchor close to a dry dock facility. Already, the Navy was considering a new base along the California coast, and these two battlewagons, plus others, were exploring all the major harbors. The big, armored cruiser, USS Maryland, was over five hundred feet in length and had the distinct pale hull and khaki upperworks of Teddy Roosevelt’s Great White Fleet. Her four funnels were as straight as stovepipes, while her hull and turrets bristled with cannons. With her was a smaller escort destroyer, the USS Whipple. Around both ships, men rowed sleek longboats to deploy anti-torpedo netting that hung from hundreds of cork floats and dangled to below the bottom of each fighting ship’s keel.

  There was no fear of an enemy submarine lurking in these waters but rather a thorough test that there were no bottom obstructions to leave gaps in the ships’ protective enclosure.

  A short while later, the side-wheeler reached the docks of Coronado. The wood pilings stank of newly applied tar. The passengers disembarked before a horse and wagon loaded with silage was led off the ferry. A pair of carriages provided by the hotel waited to take those passengers who were also its guests to their destination. The passengers headed for a day trip to Tent City, a family-friendly area of amusements and restaurants that had sprung up on the spit in recent years, and either paid the penny for the trolley or walked.

  From the ferry landing on 1st Street it was a straight shot down Orange Avenue to Bell’s destination. The Hotel del Coronado, known locally and affectionately as The Del, evoked images of every bride’s fantasy wedding cake, with walls of white fondant and a red icing roof. The hotel had the ageless quality of a European castle but was so much brighter because of its whimsical turrets and countless gables and dormers and how it sat happily on sand rather than brooding on some mist-shrouded moor.

  Bell couldn’t help but smile at seeing the Queen Anne–style resort for the first time. He regretted not sharing this moment with his wife, Marion, who loved whimsy.

  Off to the right, along the length of the Silver Strand, the spit of land connecting Coronado to the mainland, Bell eyed Tent City. While there were countless tents, many gaily striped, the entertainment destination had permanent buildings as well—bathhouses, restaurants, and wood-framed boardinghouses. A narrow-gauge electric trolley ran down the middle of the main street, its bell chiming merrily to roust pedestrians from its path.

  Bell also noticed a boathouse built on pilings over Glorietta Bay. It looked like a miniature version of the main hotel. The carriage driver noticed his interest in the white and red building. He said, “The architect had the carpenters practice the Queen Anne style building the boathouse before turning them loose on the main hotel.”

  “His idea worked,” Bell remarked. He looked back at the sprawling resort. “What an astonishing achievement.”

  An army of uniformed bellhops appeared when the carriage reached the entrance, and soon Bell and a couple checking in at the same time as him were whisked into the hotel. The lobby was paneled in dark wood that made it feel intimate despite its vast size and lofty coffered ceiling. Registration was to the left, while a large staircase corkscrewing up around a cage elevator was ahead on the right. The buzz of conversation was constant, as guests mingled or made arrangements for the next day’s activities with the concierge.

  While the rooms overlooking the central courtyard, with its jungle-like landscaping, were considered the premier accommodations, Bell requested an outside room so he could sit on the veranda and watch the ever-changing ocean. Not that there would be much time today. Tomorrow was another story. Marion was going to join him for two blissful weeks at The Del, a long-overdue vacation.