The Cutthroat by Clive Cussler & Justin Scott

Author:Clive Cussler & Justin Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-02-21T17:09:03+00:00

Fog was thickening when Isaac Bell pulled up in front of the Charing Cross railroad station in a closed carriage, a roomy cab that Londoners called a growler. He opened the door and beckoned Commander Abbington-Westlake. The Navy spy was dressed identically to the hordes of City bankers rushing home in bowlers and raincoats, with one exception. Instead of an umbrella, he carried a walking stick with an ivory knob carved to resemble the head of a crocodile.

Bell moved over to make room on the seat beside him. Abbington-Westlake climbed in, and the Van Dorn driver set his horse at a quick trot up the Strand.

“Wait. Where are we going?”

“Our German changed his mind at the last minute. Trafalgar Square.”

“But—”

“But your picked men are at Charing Cross?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Because I suspect this fellow is going to run us in circles until he feels safe.”

At Trafalgar Square, a flower girl tapped the window and handed Bell a scrap of paper.

Bell read aloud, “‘Berkeley Square.’”

“How did that girl distinguish this cab from a hundred others?”

“The same way the German will. The driver has a white ribbon tied to his whip.”

The horse trotted up Cockspur to Pall Mall, up Pall Mall and across Regent Street to Piccadilly, where it turned at the Ritz Hotel onto Dover and down Hay Hill into Berkeley Square. It stopped abruptly. James Mapes flung open the cab door and climbed heavily inside with a strongbox under his arm. He was dressed in a fine suit of clothes, a rabbit-felt fedora, and the latest Burberrys waterproof. Bell could almost hear Joe Van Dorn’s howls of protest over his expense sheet.

“Took your time,” Mapes said in an accent so heavy that Abbington-Westlake, straining to see his face in the dark, said, “What was that?”

“He said,” said Bell, “we took our time.”

“Damn right, we took our time, and we’ll continue to take our time until we’re convinced you have something of value.”

“Vere ist der muny?”

“Where are the fire control plans?”

Mapes patted the strongbox. “In der buks.”

“Open it.”

“Show der marks.”

Bell passed him an envelope. “Give me the key.”

Mapes pulled a key from his pocket but held on to it and used it like a letter opener to slit the envelope. Suddenly a shadow loomed out of the fog. The driver knocked a warning, but he was too late, and the shadow took the shape of a constable’s helmet. A truncheon rattled the window.

“Ist der trick!” Mapes shouted. “Schweinhund!”

Bell snatched the key from his hand, but Mapes held on to the envelope as he pushed open the opposite door. Bell lunged for him, blocking Abbington-Westlake’s attempt to trip him with his walking stick. Mapes tumbled out, eluding Bell’s grasp, and ran into the gardens of Berkeley Square.

The constable lumbered after him, blowing his whistle. Abbington flung open his door.

Bell pinned his arm. “Let him go.”

“He’ll escape.”

“We have his strongbox,” said Bell. “There’ll be coppers all over us.” He called to the driver, “Get us out of here!”

The horse galloped onto Fitzmaurice Place,

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