Page 53 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
“Oh, heavens no. I came over on a destroyer parked on the other side of the port. This rattletrap is taking you to Rotterdam, while I head home with the next convoy.” Wrightsmith indicated the two pieces of luggage at his feet. “Your wife and Mrs. Churchill didn’t think one of your regular suits would work with the cover we’ve devised for you, so they went shopping. You should have everything you need for a couple of days in German-held territory.”
“And the other case?” Bell asked.
Wrightsmith lifted it onto a small table between two bench seats bolted to the deck. It took a little more effort than Bell thought necessary and it hit the table with a solid thunk. The British spy workedthe latches and opened the leather case’s lid. He had to open a second flap that covered the main part of the case. The insides were divided into nearly sixty individual cells, like a bee’s honeycomb. In each little cubby were various-sized ball bearings.
“Since no state of war exists between your country and the Germans, you get to keep your name, but from here on you’re a representative for the Fullerton Forge of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It’s an open secret that the Kaiser underestimated the number of these little balls needed to prosecute a modern, mechanized war, and their supplies are dwindling. If you are stopped for any reason, the authorities should look favorably on your mission and will likely give you a pass.”
“Good thinking.”
“You’re not the first spy we’ve sent in using a similar cover,” Wrightsmith confessed. “Rest assured, they all made it back out again.”
The spy handed over a leather billfold of documents. Inside was a visa to enter Germany, letters of introduction to several industrial suppliers inside Belgium, business cards for the Fullerton Forge, and sample order sheets.
“Very thorough,” Bell said.
“We have some of the best forgers in the business,” Wrightsmith said with some pride. “Now, there is a bicycle factory one town over from where this Rath character is based out of. It’s been converted to make motorcycles for the German signal corps, meaning your presence in the area peddling ball bearings won’t arouse suspicion.”
“Okay, good. What about transport? A car?”
“Too conspicuous, even for a traveling American. Best if you use trains. Tickets have already been bought.” Wrightsmith paused to make certain he had Bell’s full attention when he added, “I don’tneed to remind you what would happen should the United States enter the war while you’re in Germany. The Germans not letting you leave will be the least of your worries. They will be suspicious of the timing of your visit and you’ll likely end up in Berlin in front of a man named Walter Nicolai.”
“Who’s that?”
“He heads up Department IIIb. Counterespionage. A real nasty piece of work by all accounts. Rumor has it that he personally outed Margaretha Zelle as a German spy to the French.”
“I’m not sure I recognize—”
“Better known as the exotic dancer Mata Hari. Story we’re getting from our own spies is he grew annoyed that all the intelligence she gathered was about boudoir-hopping French officers and their various conquests and is letting the Deuxième Bureau do his dirty work. Mark my word, the frog-eaters are going to put her up against a wall soon enough, sans blindfold and last cigarette.”
“Grim,” Bell remarked.
“My point being is that if your lot does declare, get yourself out as fast as you can and assume that legal checkpoints are out.”
“Got it.”
“That’s about it, then, Mr. Bell. Consider yourself briefed. The boat will be met in Rotterdam, and you’ll be escorted to the station for a train into the occupied territories.” Wrightsmith shook Bell’s hand and doffed his hat. From the door of the little cabin he said over his shoulder, “Good luck and all that, Yank.”
28
After the Englishmen had gone,Bell opened the suitcase to find a suit of decent rather than luxurious wool and a shirt and tie of matching quality. The shoes on the bottom of the case were used, with just the right amount of scuffs and polish for a busy salesman on the go. The few other items matched his cover story costume and he could imagine Marion having fun with Clementine Churchill picking everything out. As his Cartier wristwatch was back in England, they had included a Swiss pocket watch by Doxa.
He checked it against the ship’s chronometer above the table and gave it a quick wind. He cleaned up as best he could in the galley’s pump sink, using his old shirt as a towel. As he was dressing himself, the tone of the fishing boat’s idling engines deepened as lines were cast and they began to pull away from the pier. He didn’t bother with the tie just yet, but gratefully slipped on the sweater the two women had thoughtfully packed. His eye caught what looked likemoth holes on the bottom hem. Closer examination revealed them to be knitting needle–sized punctures to make the new sweater appear older and more lived in.
He loved his wife all the more for her attention to detail.
He stepped out onto the rear deck to watch the harbor pass by. On some unconscious level he could still smell the loamy mud in the trenches and the stench of death that oozed up from beneath it. It was good to purge his lungs with deep drafts of the tangy sea air. It also served to clear his head.
Bell well knew he was about to risk his life on the belief that President Wilson wouldn’t declare war on Germany until he heard his full report from the front lines. Through Winston Churchill he’d sent some preliminary notes to Washington on the conditions American troops would face and his belief that the war was being fought with twentieth-century weapons but seventeenth-century tactics, and a continuation of this blunder would kill scores of American soldiers unnecessarily.
He hadn’t added that he believed Europe would not enjoy a meaningful and lasting peace at war’s end unless America had a place at the bargaining table. To bring that about, the United States needed a hefty military presence on the battlefront ahead of time.
Bell made his way to the pilothouse. The captain and his mate greeted him with silence. Whatever they were being paid to transport him to Holland clearly wasn’t enough to buy a little courtesy.
It was a ten-hour journey to the port of Rotterdam, a trip that saw fair weather and no German U-boats or bobbing anti-ship mines. The only moment of interest on the voyage occurred when the first mate spotted a pair of massive Zeppelins on their return leg from a bombing run to London. The airships were trundling along at about five thousand feet and looked as big as ocean liners. Thetwo Frenchmen had a quick excited conversation about the dirigibles.
“What is it?” Bell asked, his curiosity piqued.
The captain thought for a moment, translating into English in his head before speaking. “These are different, bigger, and they are painted black. That is new. We will report this when we return to Calais.”
