Page 59 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Behind Bell, the chase turned into farce.
The Germans all wore stiff-soled jackboots that were especially susceptible to slipping on the countless skittering ball bearings. Kreisberg was the first to go down. His feet came out from under him so suddenly that he didn’t have time to brace for the fall. He landed flat on his back and his head hit the floor with the sound of a melon falling off a table. The man right behind him went sideways when he lost his footing and smashed an elbow through one of the train’s windows.
When he tried to right himself, he stepped on more of the elusive little balls and went down yet again. Unfortunately for him he reached out to steady himself and ripped open his hand on the jagged glass shards still attached to the windowsill. He screamed and clutched the bloody member to his chest as he fell the rest of the way to the floor.
Behind them, more German officers had their feet kick out from under them. They often took down the man next to them in a desperate bid to stay upright. The ball bearings were as effective as a layer of grease spread across the car’s floor. No sooner did one man get back to his feet, he either stepped on more ball bearings and went down again as the car swayed and lurched or was taken down by a comrade who was trying not to tumble himself.
Bell had already fled the car, raced through the next one, andstopped in the windblown vestibule. The coupling linking the carriages together was nowhere near as complex or substantial as the ones back in the States. It didn’t even have safety chains. As he pulled a pin from the decoupling handle, he guessed that with everything being poured into the war effort, old stock was once again rolling on German rail lines.
He looked up just as the coupling opened and the train’s last three cars started to fall away. He could see shadows rushing down the hallway of the final car. In seconds he witnessed the hatred on Deiter Kreisberg’s face as he reached the door. Already thirty feet separated Bell from the slowing compartments. Too far for the German to jump, but close enough for the Luger he still wielded.
Bell scrambled away as Kreisberg threw open the door. He took aim, but Bell had already vanished into the next carriage. The German still fired a full clip in angered frustration that accomplished nothing.
At the next station, Isaac Bell was the first passenger off the train. He didn’t recognize the name of the city, but judging by the number of uniformed men milling about, he guessed there was a large army base nearby. Seeing a string of military staff cars waiting outside led him to further deduce that this was Kreisberg and the other officers’ destination. There were a few taxis waiting for officers who didn’t rank a government vehicle.
Bell approached the first in line, held up the Doxa pocket watch Marion had provided and said, “Netherlands,ja? Holland? Dutch?”
The elderly driver got where Bell wanted to go, noted the make of the expensive Swiss watch, and jerked a thumb to the rear passenger compartment while he stepped from the vehicle to crank the engine. Just as it fired, a commotion started to build in the halls of the glass-roofed station when the stationmaster tallied that thenewly arrived train was missing three cars. Whistles were blown, conductors began shouting, and drivers waiting to take their charges to whatever meeting had been planned looked about with uncertainty.
Bell’s driver looked to the station for a second, turned to look at Bell in a moment of indecision, and finally shrugged as if to say it wasn’t his problem.
Two hours later, Bell passed through the border post into the Netherlands on foot, raising no suspicion from either side as he crossed. He was able to convert some of his remaining British pounds into guilders and pay for transportation in the back of a truck heading to Amsterdam. From there it was a quick trip to Rotterdam and then a boat across the English Channel to London.
He’d figured it would take him about eighteen hours in all. He ended up doing it in twelve.
31
Marion Bell rushed out thedoor of Winston Churchill’s sprawling Tudor manor house and into her husband’s arms as soon as he stepped from the car sent to fetch him from London. She’d been a guest of the Churchills the entire time he’d been away. Winston and his charming wife, Clementine, waited with more decorum by the front door.
Bell greeted them with Marion still clinging to his arm and her beaming face turned to his.
“Welcome back, old boy,” Winston said with a firm handshake. Marion and Clemmie, as Marion had been given the privilege to call her, had become friends enough for her to allow Bell to kiss her cheek in greeting.
“Good to be on friendly soil again,” Bell said as the Churchills led them inside their newly acquired home.
They settled in a large informal library and Churchill had a servant pour champagne all around. Churchill lit an enormous cigar.
“Was the trip worth your time?” he asked.
“I don’t think it was, to be honest. Karl Rath and his men had moved on as soon as they sent Holmes and me on our one-way flight. I spoke to the girlfriend he left behind, in the family way, I might add. She confirmed that Rath had more men than I ever saw, forty-five to be exact. She also shared he and his men would often toast someone named Joaquim Marques Lisboa. Mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say that it does. Give me a moment.” He pulled a discreet chain attached to a summoning system to alert a servant. When he arrived, he whispered instructions into the man’s ear. Churchill tuned back to Bell. “I always have my computer on hand, even when I’m out in the country.”
“Computer?”
“Maths whizz, but my girl is a bit of a prodigy and knows practically everything about everything.”
While they waited, Bell told his tale of his time in Belgium and about his escape from the train. Marion admonished him for being reckless, even though she admitted it was just bad luck that Kreisberg was on the same train and it was not Bell’s fault. He knew not to sugarcoat the dangers of his profession, but he vowed to deliver an edited version of his time in France and Germany when the time came. Some things, like flamethrowers and artillery barrages, need never be spoken of again.
A woman in a plain white blouse and simple brown skirt came into the room as his tale was winding down and stood in front of Churchill. She was in her early sixties, plump but not overly so, with the classic British peaches-and-cream complexion, horn-rimmed glasses of considerable thickness, and her hair done into a bun with such expertise that not a single hair managed to escape it.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, Davida. Question for you. Does the name Joaquim Marques Lisboa ring any bells?”
“Lisboa?” She paused as if to think, but Bell could tell by her eyes that the answer had come to her in an instant. “Ah yes, Joaquim Lisboa is considered the father of the Brazilian Navy.”
The British statesman and the American detective traded an intrigued glance. Churchill said, “Navy, eh? That’s a step in the right direction. Is he still alive?”
