The Saboteurs Clive Cussler (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

open, and the woman came out with a metal plate mounded with rice and chicken stew. She handed it to him, pulled a spoon from one apron pocket and a bottled beer from the other. “It’s either this or our water, and you don’t want our water.”

“Thank you. It’s fine. Can I ask you something?”

“Your dollar still buyin’, love.”

“Do you know Major Courtney Talbot? He left a few days ago in a boat.”

“We all know him,” she said guardedly. “What you want him for?”

Bell couldn’t get a read on her. He wasn’t sure if she was protecting Talbot or was suspicious of anyone associated with him. He said, “I met with him just before he left. I want to know if he’s come back.”

“You talk to Jimmer. Him run the store. He and Ojo Muerto are . . .” She meshed her fingers together to indicate the two were tight.

“Thanks.”

“You trouble, man?”

“Like, am I in trouble or do I cause trouble?”

“Both, I think,” she said cryptically and then returned to her job.

Bell was grateful for the beer because the stew was fiery hot but delicious. When he’d scraped the plate clean, he returned it to the kitchen, catching the woman’s eye when he set it and the empty bottle on a shelf just inside the door. He nodded his thanks.

He went to the town’s store in the abandoned railroad car. The wheel trucks had been removed, leaving the box portion of the car resting on the ground. Rot was slowly making its way up the walls because the wood wicked moisture from the ground. Inside, shelves fashioned from wood scraps had been built along all four walls and were stocked like this store was the jungle version of a five-and-dime. There were gallon cans of lamp fuel, bolts of cloth to make clothing, boots in several sizes, plus socks, and flour, cornmeal, and lentils in five-pound sacks. Bell saw pouches of tobacco, hand-forged tools, tins of condensed milk, fishing line and hooks. He didn’t see things like soap or shampoo, or any luxury items.

“Help you, sir?” the proprietor asked. He was about the same age as the woman at the commissary, but he was rail thin, and while his hair was silver, his face was smooth.

“I’m looking for Courtney Talbot.”

“He ain’t here.”

“I know that. I saw him off a few days ago. I was wondering if he’d come back.”

“He tell Gemma ’n’ I he comin’ back this afternoon.”

“Gemini?”

“Gemma and I,” he said slowly and pointed to where a woman—his wife, presumably—was coming in from the back storeroom carrying a big pot of yams.

Bell couldn’t believe his luck. Then he reconsidered. It was likely he did know of Talbot’s return but had forgotten it as a result of his amnesia. Yet on some deeper level the knowledge lingered as only a hunch, and that’s why he’d driven to Gamboa.

He wondered what else his lapsed memory was trying to recover. More than his conscious, for sure. Gemini? He admonished himself. The shopkeeper had clearly said “Gemma and I.”

Bell thanked the storeowner and returned to his car. The shadow from one of the warehouses fell across the passengers’ compartment in back. He stretched out as best he could, adjusted his hat so the straw brim better covered his eyes, and napped through the hottest part of the day.

He was awakened by a train chuffing into the Gamboa depot, steam boiling around its four drive wheels, its bell chiming merrily. He would have awoken in a few minutes, as the sun had swung enough to put its light and heat inches from where he lay. No one was waiting to board the train, and no one descended from any of its carriages. It didn’t need to take on coal or water, so no sooner had the wheels stopped than the locomotive began to pull away again, its schedule fulfilled.

Bell left the car and cut around the warehouse so he could stroll across the gravel expanse fronting the harbor. Men were standing at the edge of the pier. He picked up his pace. When he got close enough, he recognized Court Talbot’s silhouette. One of the Major’s men pointed past his shoulder and he turned. He froze for the moment it took to recognize his visitor.

“Bell, how are you?”

“Good. How was your hunting trip?”

“A disaster.”

They shook hands.

“Did you find the Viboras?”

“No. Instead, we discovered twenty or thirty different family groups living on rafts all along the lake’s shore. The first time we saw the cooking fires on one of them, I was certain we’d caught the Vipers—remember how I said that was how we were going to get them? It turned out to be a false alarm, just a family of fishermen, two brothers and their wives, an abuela and a handful of kids. And for the next few days, and the next twenty or so fires we spotted, it was false alarm after false alarm. Maddening. Wait. What’s with the lump on your head? What happened to you?”

“Long story involving an avalanche and me impersonating laundry inside a washing machine. Spent the night after our last meeting in the hospital, and people had to tell me the story because I remember nothing from that day.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing of any significance. The doctor calls it retrograde amnesia. He said it’s not uncommon for people with head injuries. I don’t even remember what you and I spoke about.”

“You had some questions for Rinaldo about his brother. You came to the conclusion that Raul was working for the Colombians. You left here wanting to talk to diplomats back in Panama City.” Talbot glanced over Bell’s shoulder. A group of workmen had opened a warehouse door to give them enough room to reorganize the jam-packed interior.

“There’s more to it than that,” Bell said.

“You suspected another player? A European connection, perhaps?”

“That’s what I’m working on now.”

“Do you have anyone in mind in particular?”

“At this point, I’d rather not say.”

Talbot just about begged. “You’ve got to tell me who. I just spent days chasing my