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“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. He rattled on a while about purloined architect drawings and a special gyro to keep the boat on course underwater. Bell let him, until the door opened and a Van Dorn apprentice came in with a large manila envelope. Bell noted approvingly that the kid did not approach until Bell gave him the nod and retreated silently after handing him the envelope.
“As we speak, old boy, Colbert is en route to New York on a Compagnie Générale Transatlantique mail boat. You can nab him the instant she docks at Pier 42. Don’t you see?”
Bell opened the envelope and riffled through the prints.
Abbington-Westlake asked acidly, “Am I boring you, Mr. Bell?”
“Not at all, Commander. I can’t recall a more exciting fiction.”
“Fiction? See here-”
Bell passed a print over their table. “Here is a snapshot of you and the Lady Fiona and the Brooklyn Navy Yard-careful, the paper is a still damp.”
The Englishman sighed, heavily. “You make it abundantly clear that I am at your mercy.”
“Who is Yamamoto Kenta?”
Bell was gambling that, not unlike bank robbers and confidence men, the spies of the international naval race were aware of their rivals and fellow practitioners. He saw it was true. Even in the dim light, Abbington-Westlake’s eyes gleamed as if he suddenly saw a way out of the mess he was in.
“Careful!” Bell warned. “The instant I hear a breath of fiction this photograph goes to that gentleman of the Secret Service, along with copies to the British Embassy and U.S. Naval Intelligence. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Yamamoto Kenta is a highly decorated Japanese spy. He’s been at it for donkey’s ears. And he is number one at the Black Ocean Society, which acts in the Japs’ overseas interests. He was a prime instigator of the Jap infiltration of the Russians’ Asiatic Fleet and a prime reason the Japs now occupy Port Arthur. Since the war, he’s operated in Europe and made an absolute mockery of Britain’s and Germany’s attempts to keep secrets in their ship works. He knows more about Krupp than the Kaiser, and more about HMS Dreadnought than her own captain.”
“What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Commander,” Bell said warningly.
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. But I will say one thing.”
“It better be interesting.”
“It is interesting,” Abbington-Westlake shot back confidently. “It is very interesting because it makes absolutely no sense that a Japanese spy of Yamamoto’s caliber is operating here in the United States.”
“Why?”
“The Japs don’t want to fight you chaps. Not now. They’re not ready. Even though they know you Americans are not ready. It doesn’t take a naval genius to rate the Great White Fleet as a joke. But they damned well know that their fleet is not ready either and won’t be for many, many years.”
“Then why did Yamamoto come here?”
“I suspect that Yamamoto is playing some sort of double game.” Bell looked at the Englishman. There was a certain puzzlement in his expression that looked absolutely genuine. “How do you mean?”
“Yamamoto is working for someone else.”
“Other than the Black Ocean Society?”
“Precisely.”
