The Spy by Clive Cussler; Justin Scott

Author:Clive Cussler; Justin Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: PENGUIN group
Published: 2010-04-29T22:00:00+00:00

EVERY VAN DORN, from apprentice to chief investigator, was taught from the first day he went to work that coincidences were presumed guilty until proven innocent. Bell asked Research to look into the gem importers Riker & Riker. Then he turned over his camera, ordered the film to be developed and brought to him immediately, and went down to the hotel’s basement lobby, off of which was snugged a quiet, dimly lit bar.

Abbington-Westlake had arrived ahead of him, a good sign that he had frightened the daylights out of the Naval Attaché with his threat to go to the British Embassy.

Bell decided that he would get more out of him now with a milder approach, and he said, “Thank you for coming.”

He saw immediately it was a mistake. Abbington-Westlake glowered imperiously, and snapped, “I don’t recall being offered a choice in the matter.”

“Your choice of snapshots,” Bell fired back, “would get you arrested if I were a government agent.”

“No one can arrest me. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Will your diplomatic immunity bail you out of trouble with your superiors in London?”

Abbington-Westlake’s lips shut tightly.

“Of course it won’t,” Bell said. “I’m not a government agent, but I certainly know where to find one. And the last thing you want is for your rivals in the Foreign Office to learn you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

“See here, old boy, let’s not go off half cocked.”

“What did you bring me?”

“I beg your pardon?” Abbington-Westlake stalled.

“Who did you bring me? Give me a name. A foreign spy whom I can have arrested instead of you.”

“Old chap, you have an extremely inflated estimate of my powers. I don’t know anyone to bring you.”

“And you have an extremely inflated estimate of my patience.” Bell glanced around inquiringly. Couples were drinking at the nearly dark tables. Several men stood alone at the bar. Bell said, “Do you see the gentleman on the right? The one wearing the bowler hat?”

“What about him?”

“Secret Service. Shall I ask him to join us?”

The Englishman wet his lips. “All right, Bell. Let me tell you what I can. I warn you it is very little.”

“Start small,” said Bell coldly. “We’ll work from there.”

“All right. All right.” He wet his lips again and glanced around. Bell suspected that he was starting a lie. He let the Englishman speak without interruption. After tangling himself in it, he would be more vulnerable to pressure.

“There is a Frenchman named Colbert,” Abbington-Westlake began. “He trades in arms.”

“Colbert, you say?” God bless the Van Dorn Research boys.

“Raymond Colbert. And while trading arms is hardly a savory enterprise, it is actually a blind for Colbert’s sinister deeds . . . You are familiar with the Holland submarine?”

Bell nodded. He’d had Falconer fill him in and borrowed a book.

As the Naval Attaché wove his tale, Isaac Bell was struck with admiration—which he concealed—for Abbington-Westlake’s cool nerve. Faced with the threat of exposure, he was turning it into an opportunity to destroy the man who was blackmailing his wife.

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