Isaac Bell 12 - The Saboteurs Read online

  A bellhop saw Isaac up to his room. He discussed the hotel’s amenities, including the saltwater swimming pool and the fact that each of the hotel’s many guest bathrooms featured hot and cold salt and fresh water and that The Del was one of the largest electrified buildings in the country when it was built. He boasted it was also home to the very first outside Christmas tree decorated with electric lights.

  After tipping the man and seeing him to the door, Bell pulled a fresh shirt from his leather grip, a towel from the pile of linens, and his dopp kit. He walked down the hall to one of the baths, passing a dark slender man who Bell soon discovered had left the shared washroom a mess. He looked back to see the man enter a room and considered confronting the breach of etiquette but decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  At the basin counter, Bell stripped to the waist, then cleaned up at the sink, using warm fresh water, then switched to hot salt water to lather and shave his face. It left his skin feeling tight. He regarded his reflection for just a moment. He was not yet thirty-five but his face looked years younger, with fine features, wide-set blue eyes, and a wave of blond hair he was now wearing slicked back. He worked a dollop of cream into his hair and smoothed it down. He also took a moment to trim his mustache with scissors from his dopp. He checked the Cartier Santos wristwatch that was a gift from Marion. She’d gotten it for him in England following their near-fateful trip aboard the Titanic. He quickly donned a fresh shirt.

  A tall figure in a tan suit loitered outside his room as he made his way back down the hall. Seeing Bell, the man doffed his boater and held the stiff hat in his hand. He had a lean, eager face, but the suspicious eyes of all Van Dorn detectives.

  “Sorry, Mr. Bell, when the bellhop told me you were here, I was at the boathouse.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Renny. Come on in.” Bell keyed open his door and held it open for the younger man. “How’s everything looking?”

  Bell worked on his tie, without need of a mirror, while his advance man from the Agency’s Los Angeles office, Renny Hart, gave his report.

  “The hotel has been cooperative and allowed me to speak with any of the guests whose reservations were made after Senator Densmore set up this meeting with Courtney Talbot. They’re all legit.” Bell opened his mouth to ask a 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 hand. “I’m Isaac Bell.”

  Talbot wasn’t sure what to make of this, but he released the door and shook the proffered hand. “Court Talbot.”

  Bell used the distraction to open the dining room door. The main hall was as large as an aircraft hangar, with an arching coffered ceiling made up of individually jointed glossy planks. The walls were paneled in dark wood as well. The hanging chandeliers were massive affairs, but their glow was intentionally anemic to give the impressive space a sense of intimacy.

  Along the far long wall was a raised platform for a band to entertain the diners while they ate, though at this time it was empty. There was only one occupied table and it sat at the opposite end of the dining room under the darkened, almost floor-length windows. It was round and large enough to seat a dozen.

  The table was indeed set for a dozen, but there were only two people seated and just one was eating. A waiter in a black uniform hovered close by.

  “Gentlemen.” Senator J. William Densmore’s booming voice managed to fill the cavernous, barrel-vaulted space.

  The two newcomers strode through the dining room, weaving separate paths around the countless tables to arrive at the exact same moment. They nodded at each other, for it had been a contest, though one that drew to a tie.

  Senator Densmore wore a white suit that was probably sewn by a tentmaker. He was tall, but grossly overweight. His salt-and-pepper hair was thick, and he wore a beard with two silver stripes running downward from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were dark and quick. His nose was bright red from sunburn, but it gave him the cheery glow of Santa Claus. His hands were busy slicing into a tuna steak the size of a dictionary. Bell supposed it was one of the fish he’d caught that afternoon.

  To the Senator’s right was a young woman wearing a flouncy skirt and buttoned-up blouse under a thin cardigan with Stanford stitched over her left breast. Her skin was touched by the California sun, but she was young enough to suf
fer the embarrassing red welts of teenage acne. Her hair was dark yet shot through with blond streaks from her time in The Del’s saltwater swimming pool. Her eyes were as blue as Bell’s own, and bright and inquisitive, and they made her rather indistinct features more attractive.

  Hands were shaken all around. Bell asked, “And who is your charming companion?”

  “This is my niece, Bitsy Densmore.”

  The girl went red under her tan. “Uncle Bill, now that I’m going to be a freshman at Stanford, I want people to call me Elizabeth. I told you.”

  “Right, dear, I forgot. Elizabeth Densmore.”

  “My wife went to Stanford,” Bell told her. “She’s going to be here tomorrow, and I bet she has a lot of good advice for a freshman coed, like which are the best dorms and who are the worst teachers.”

  At first, she seemed disappointed that the handsome stranger was married, but then overcame her swift girlish crush and rallied at the prospect of an insider’s knowledge of the perils and pitfalls of Stanford University. “Gee, that would be swell. Thank you, Mr. Bell.”

  “Excuse me, Senator,” Talbot said with flint in his voice, “but I thought this was to be a private meeting.”

  “It was, Mr. Talbot,” Densmore said affably. “But then my party bosses reached out and asked for Mr. Bell here to sit in on the briefing. As I want to keep my seat in Washington, I listen to what my bosses ask. Elizabeth says she might want to work for the government when she graduates, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to see how the real world operates. That isn’t a problem, is it?”

  Bell could tell that Talbot was troubled by the turn of events but also thoroughly outmaneuvered. He now could see how Densmore had enjoyed such a successful political career. The man could turn a situation to his benefit effortlessly. Talbot wiped his palms on his riding breeches. “No, Senator. No problem at all.”

  A waiter approached and asked if Bell wanted anything. He declined, while Densmore ordered another glass of Napa chardonnay for himself, and his niece ordered a lemon soda.

  “That’s good,” Densmore practically purred. “So, tell me why I need to listen to you and convince my old West Point roommate, George Washington Goethals, that the canal he currently oversees is in peril.”

  The former military man checked the time on a big wall clock before launching into what was a well-rehearsed speech. “In a nutshell, the completion date of the Panama Canal is in doubt. While it’s generally accepted that it will open next year, likely in late summer, something unforeseen has reared up that is slowly grinding work to a halt.”

  “Is it more disease, like malaria or yellow fever?” Elizabeth asked, to show she wasn’t ignorant of the canal’s past troubles.

  “No, thank God. Both those scourges have been contained for the most part, thanks to Dr. Gorgas and his medical teams, by eradicating mosquitoes from the isthmus and draining the swamps where the infernal creatures bred. No, I’m talking about a local insurgency called Viboras Rojas.”

  “Can we step back for a moment,” Bell interrupted. “I’m newly hired, and I’m not quite sure how the players all fit. Mr. Talbot, who are you exactly and how is it that you can reach out to a United States Senator and convince him that the current head of the Panama Canal Authority is apparently in dereliction of his duty?”

  “Let me answer that,” Senator Densmore said. “Court was a sergeant in my regiment during the war in Cuba. We were pinned down on the banks of the San Juan River. A shell exploded close enough to blow me off my feet and scramble my brains for the better part of an hour. When I came to, we were still under heavy fire, but I sat there and watched as Sergeant Talbot rallied our defenses and led our men better than any officer. He saved a lot of us that day, me included. I was the one who put him up for a battlefield commission and fought the rest of the war at his side.

  “I’d spent four years at West Point learning from the finest military minds our country has ever produced and they all pale in comparison to Court’s tactical and strategic thinking.”

  Talbot looked embarrassed by such high praise and mumbled his thanks.

  Densmore continued. “Don’t get me wrong, George Goethals is a fine man, a brilliant engineer, and a hell of an administrator, but he doesn’t have the combat experience or the kind of situational awareness that Court has. If Court says there’s a new danger to the canal that Goethals is overlooking, I plan to give him my full attention and endorsement if warranted.”

  “Thank you, Senator,” Bell said. “Now I understand the full picture. Mr. Talbot, please continue.”

  “Over the past few months an insurgency has arisen on the isthmus. They call themselves Viboras Rojas. It means ‘Red Vipers.’ Overly dramatic, but effective. In parts of the world where people live alongside jungles, children are taught to fear even harmless snakes because the poisonous ones are all so deadly. I saw it myself in the Philippines, and it’s the same in Panama. The local population was at first fearful of the Viboras, but now they are viewed as true Panamanian patriots.”

  “What do they want?” Bell asked.

  “Nothing short of a Marxist takeover of Panama, and they advocate for Vladimir Lenin’s form of totalitarian Bolshevism. Are you familiar with him?”

  “Russian revolutionary currently in exile someplace in Central Europe,” Bell replied.

  “Kraków, to be precise,” Talbot said. “He’s a dangerous character and one I’d hate to see topple the Tsarist regime, even if that group is a corrupt anachronism these days. Viboras Rojas want all foreign influence out of Panama and a Communist system of government installed where all labor is collectivized and all capital is controlled by the state. They especially renounce the Monroe Doctrine, which gives the United States unprecedented influence over Central American affairs.”

  Densmore grunted. “That’s some irony for you. Panama wasn’t a country until just a couple years ago. Without the United States, it would still be a backwater province of the nation of Colombia.”

  “That is true,” Talbot conceded. “But because Panama was cut off from the bulk of Colombia by the Darién Gap’s impenetrable jungle, they’ve always maintained a high level of local patriotism and a fierce sense of independence.”

  “The what?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Bitsy, please,” Densmore grumbled.

  “No, it’s okay,” Talbot said. “There is an area south of the Canal Zone called Darién that consists of rivers, mountains, and jungle so thick that even the native Indians don’t live there. A few expeditions have been able to cross it on foot, but more have simply vanished.”

  “Back to the Red Vipers,” Bell prompted.

  “Ah, yes. They want the Americans out of their country, as well as the thirty thousand or so Caribbean islanders working as laborers all along the canal’s forty-mile length. ‘Panama for the Panamanians’ is their motto.”

  “What kind of insurgency is it?” Bell asked. “Are they targeting civilians?”

  “No. They want to win over the hearts of the people, so they are raiding depots belonging to the Canal Authority for supplies that they turn over to villagers and distribute throughout Panama City on the Pacific Coast and Colón on the Atlantic side. That is why the people no longer fear the Vipers but are starting to see them as heroes.

  “Few outside Panama realize that the average Panamanian’s life has not improved since the canal was first begun. Labor comes from Barbados and Jamaica, and all the skilled workers hail from the United States. The locals get nothing. They don’t even sell to the Americans because the Canal Authority limits its workers to commissaries and dining halls they themselves operate. Panama will soon have a path between the seas, as they say, but it has done little for people’s lot. Many feel like they’re second class in their own land. Therefore, a group of insurrectionists distributing stolen food and fuel are well regarded by the local poor.”

  “Is that all they’ve been doing?” Bell asked. “Playing Robin Hood?”

  “No,” Talbot admitted. “They have begun sabotaging machinery, the big steam-powered excavators and rail lines mostly. The Authority has instituted twenty-four-hour guards in the Culebra Cut, where most of the steam shovels are deployed, and extra sentries along the railroad.” He leaned forward to emphasize his next point. “That said, several workers have been injured as a result of their sabotage, and I feel, at best, that this is emboldening them. There are rumors swirling around Panama City that they have something large planned, something that will galvanize the people and garner international support.”