Page 33 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm (An Isaac Bell Adventure #15)

The interior of the building was gloomy, its distant corners in heavy shadow.

Rather than a large open space full of cargo ready for transshipment on river barges, it looked like small buildings had been constructed within the echoing volume.

A man with a medical bag, though perhaps not a medical license, came out of one of the buildings at the urging of the partisan who’d accidently shot Fox, eager to get back in his commander’s good graces.

A pair of men carrying a canvas stretcher also appeared, and in moments Fox was out of the truck and on his way to what Bell assumed was the guerrillas’ makeshift surgical dispensary.

Holmes, as the ranking British officer, nodded to Logan and Baltimore, the two clutchmen from the tank, to follow and make sure Fox received proper care. Rath came over to Holmes and Bell, as they both knew he would once he’d gotten his men settled in.

“I think breakfast is in order, yes?” Rath read their expression. “He is not a doctor, but he has been looking after my crew for months now. He has seen many bullet wounds and knows how to treat them. Come. There is much I would like to discuss with you.”

The big freedom fighter led the pair to another of the wooden structures built within the large warehouse.

It had a door and a single window, and when Rath gestured for them to precede him inside, it showed that it had no roof and was open to the high ceiling above.

The building was laid out like an apartment, with the appropriate furniture including a dining table, though there was no kitchen or bathroom visible.

A bedroom lay beyond a partially closed door.

A woman had been sitting on the couch when Rath had thrown open the door and she guiltily leapt to her feet.

She was pretty, about twenty-five, with dark hair and eyes. She crossed to Rath and he kissed her cheek. The light touch made her wince ever so slightly. He was twenty years her senior and his bulk made her appear so small and fragile.

Fragility , Bell thought. That was the exact word.

She had a fragility about her that he had seen a thousand times over the course of his career.

Women too scared of their man to ever leave.

Living in constant fear made them timid and unable to express themselves for fear of retribution.

He had known agents who’d tried to rescue such women from their psychological captors only for them to physically resist being taken away or, more disturbingly, returning to their abusers at the first opportunity.

Bell didn’t understand the dynamic himself, but knew each one, abuser and victim, exploiter and exploited, fulfilled some dark need by staying together.

It made his blood boil because in such an uneven relationship the man generally flourished, while the woman withered away.

He looked at her more carefully and noted the color on one of her cheeks was slightly more yellow than the other, the final stage of a fading bruise.

“Magdalena, be a good girl and get us breakfast. See if you can find tea for our English friends.”

“Mr. Rath, I want to thank you for our rescue,” Liam Holmes said rather stiffly. He’d also sensed an uncomfortable undercurrent just then, even if he couldn’t quantify it the way Bell had.

“It is not without price,” the man said bluntly.

“I figured that. What exactly do you want from us?”

“First, I must know how it was that you ended up in a tank. A most interesting, ah, escape vehicle.”

“We broke out of our cell by pretending Bell here was ill with the intention of stealing a motorcar or truck. We were discovered during our escape and everything went to pot with guards shooting left and right with little regard to target. We figured we’d be safe from their small-arms fire in that behemoth. ”

“It had the added bonus of enough firepower to knock out the only bridge across the moat,” Bell added.

Rath cocked his head like a dog who’d heard an unfamiliar sound. “Your accent. It isn’t British.”

“No. I’m an American civilian. From New York.”

Rath’s rather moody demeanor changed and a smile creased his face. “I sent my brother to live in New York. How is it you were captured by the Germans?”

“Long story short, I ended up in the rear seat of an observation plane that found its way across the lines.”

Rath suddenly looked very concerned. “You are not a pilot?” He looked to Holmes. “You are, yes? And the others?”

“I’m a pilot,” Holmes assured him. “Bell is one, too. Though I’ve not seen him fly. The wounded man, Fox, is also a pilot. The others are observers and rear gunners.”

“You really can fly a plane?” Rath asked Bell.

“I learned back in 1910 in order to participate in a cross-country air race from New York to San Francisco.”

Holmes looked at him with incredulity. “What on earth for?”

Bell didn’t want to get into the details of how he was protecting one of the participants from a murderer, so he simply said, “For the fun of it. Oh, and a fifty-thousand-dollar first prize purse.”

“Good Lord. Did you win?”

Bell gave him a sad grin. “Afraid not.”

Holmes shook his head and once more addressed their mysterious host. “I can safely guess that you rescued us for our ability to pilot an aircraft.”

“Is true,” Rath said. “I told you we are fighters who want to end the war.

We want to go back to our homes, pick up our lives again, and put all this ugliness behind us.

But we are a small band of like-minded men.

Yes, we find sympathizers in towns and villages up and down the front lines, but most are unwilling to risk themselves in order to end the bloodshed.

“Because of this, we have had limited success. We have ambushed a few trucks, derailed a train, and stolen supplies. Like a gnat to an elephant is our efforts against a juggernaut like the German army. We want to do something greater. Something that will really hurt the Germans and also aid the British gearing up for the spring offensive.”

Holmes made to protest. Rath held up a forestalling hand. “It is not exactly a secret that you have amassed three armies near the town of Arras, with supporting artillery. And the French have an even bigger force to the north.”

Magdalena appeared just then with a wooden tray of food. There was bread with butter, and cheese, hard-boiled eggs, and a hunk of salami as thick around as Bell’s calf.

“ Je suis désolé ,” she said in a soft voice before switching to English. “I am sorry. We have no tea, only some, er, imitation coffee.”

Bell made note that her eyes were downcast as she made this admission, fearful of Rath’s anger at even a minor infraction that wasn’t her fault. He wanted to conduct a test and said to her in poor French, “As an American, I prefer coffee to tea.”

She looked up at him in surprise and smiled at his attempt to speak her language.

Bell said, “Your English is better than my French. Where did you learn?”

“Before the war, my father’s tavern was very popular with tourists.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bell saw Rath’s scowl deepen.

He made a noise deep in his barrel chest that was almost too low to hear and yet Magdalena picked up on it and the smile dropped from her face and her shoulders sagged inward.

Bell gave her the most empathetic look he could muster, and it must have struck home because she regarded him for an extra beat before fleeing the room.

Perhaps not a lost cause after all.