the Spy (2010) Cussler Clive (uplifting books for women txt) 📖

The wedge is already in motion, the spy said mildly.

What good would come of it?

Depends on your point of view. From the German point of view, embroiling Japan and the United States in conflict would open up opportunities in the Pacific. Nor will Great Britain mourn if the U.S. Navy is forced to concentrate its battleships on its West Coast. They might even seize the opportunity to reoccupy the West Indies.

It does nothing for Japan.

I have German and British friends willing to pay me for their opportunities.

You are even worse than I thought.

The spy laughed. Don't you understand? The international dreadnought race presents splendiferous opportunities to a man with the intestinal fortitude to seize them. The rival nations will pay anything to stop each other. I'm a salesman in a seller's market.

You are playing both ends against the middle.

The spy laughed louder. You underestimate me, Yamamoto. I am playing every end against the middle. I am building a fortune. What will it cost me to keep you out of my game?

I am not a mercenary.

Oh, I forgot. You're a patriot. Idly, he picked up a thick black towel that had been draped over the arm of his chair. A gentleman spy with high morals. But a gentleman spy is like a pistol that shoots blanks-good for starting bicycle races, but little else.

Yamamoto was coldly sure of his position. I am not a gentleman spy. I am a patriot like your father, who served his Kaiser as I serve my Emperor. Neither of us would sell out our country.

Will you leave my poor dead father out of this? the spy asked wearily.

Your father would understand why I must stop you. Yamamoto drew from his coat his Nambu semiautomatic pistol, deftly pulled the cocking knob, and pointed the short barrel at the spy's head.

The spy looked at him with a thin smile. Are you serious, Kenta? What are you going to do, turn me in to the U.S. Navy? They may have questions for you, too.

I am sure they would. Which is why I'm going to turn you over to the Van Dorn Detective Agency.

What for?

The Van Dorns will hold you until I am safely out of the country. They will turn you over to the U.S. Navy.

The spy shut his eyes. You're forgetting one thing. I don't have a country.

But I know where you came from, Eyes O'Shay. Mr. Brian Eyes' O'Shay.

The spy's eyes popped open. He stared at the towel that he had been raising to his face. It lay in his hands like an offering.

Yamamoto gloated. Surprised?

I am very surprised, the spy admitted. Brian O'Shay has not been my name for a very long time.

I told you, I was playing this game before you were born. Put your hands where I can see them or I'll give the Van Dorns your corpse instead.

The spy squeezed his eyes shut again. You frighten me, Kenta. I am merely trying to mop the perspiration from my face. He dabbed his forehead, then pressed the black towel as tightly as he could to his eyes. Hidden at his feet was a thick electrical cable that connected the public-utility main to a knife switch in the open position. The switch's hinged metal lever was poised inches above its jaw. He stomped down on the lever's insulated handle, closing the circuit. A fat blue spark cracked like a pistol shot.

From behind him, the 200,000,000-candlepower searchlight capable of illuminating enemy ships at six miles shot a beam like white fire into Yamamoto's eyes. It was so bright that the spy could see the bones in his hands through his eyelids, the thick towel, and his skin and flesh. It seared Yamamoto's retinas, blinding him. The Japanese spy fell backward, screaming.

The spy kicked the switch open again and waited for the light to fade before he dropped the towel and stood up, blinking at the pink circles spinning before his eyes.

Navy captains tell me that searchlights fend off destroyers better than guns, he said conversationally. I can report that they work just as well on traitors.

From his desk drawer, he took a folded copy of the Washington Post and removed from it a twelve-inch length of lead pipe. He circled the desk and stepped around the fallen chair. He was only a few inches taller than the tiny Yamamoto, who was writhing on the floor. But he was as strong as three men and he moved with the concentrated purpose of a torpedo.

He raised the lead pipe high and slammed it down on Yamamoto's skull.

One blow was more than enough.

He felt inside Yamamoto's pockets to make sure he carried identification and found in his wallet a letter of introduction to the Smithsonian Institution from a Japanese museum. Perfect. He rummaged about the warehouse until he found a cork lifesaving jacket. He made sure its canvas was still strong, then he worked Yamamoto's arms into it and tied it securely.

He dragged the body to the dock side of the warehouse where the building cantilevered over the Potomac. A wooden lever that stood tall as his shoulders released the trap in the floor. It dropped with a loud bang. The body splashed. On a rain-lashed night like this, the river would sweep it miles away.

He was done here. It was time to leave Washington. He circled the dusty warehouse, tipping over kerosene hurricane lamps that he had placed there for his departure. He circled again, lighting matches and tossing them on the spilled kerosene, and when all was blazing bright orange flames he walked out the door and into the rain.

Chapter 33

BELL WAITED ALL THE NEXT DAY FOR WORD FROM Yamamoto. Every time a telephone rang or a telegraph key clattered, he startled at his desk only to sit back disappointed. Something must have gone wrong. It made no sense that the Japanese spy would betray him. He