Page 43 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm (An Isaac Bell Adventure #15)
A fter 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 like moth 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.
The two 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.”
The docks at Rotterdam were a frenzy of ships, vehicles, and men—a riotous chaos of chugging tugboats, swinging cranes, and lumbering trains accompanied by a tin-eared symphony of ships’ horns and steam whistles.
As the Netherlands remained neutral, much of Germany’s international trade came through the port, including most of its imported food.
The Allies had a treaty in place to curb some activity, but the temptations of smuggling meant the Germans remained supplied and shipowners and captains were getting rich.
Rotterdam was also a hotbed of espionage, with cadres of spies from both the Allies and the Central Powers prowling the docks and the streets of the ancient central city.
It was from here that British intelligence ran spy rings throughout Germany and occupied Belgium.
The city was also home to a large number of Belgian refugees as well as deserters from the French and German armies.
Bell stood at the rail of the fishing boat as it approached a wooden pier that looked ready to collapse at any moment.
As a precaution against German spies, he wore a battered peacoat over his suit and his luggage was slung over his shoulder in a dirty canvas seabag.
He stepped onto the dock and the boat’s skipper immediately pulled away into the channel to swing back around and return to France.
Bell walked to the end of the pier, where a man was waiting next to an empty truck.
“Welcome to the Netherlands, Mr. Bell,” he greeted in Oxford-accented English.
“Needn’t worry about disguising yourself as a fisherman today.
The Germans who usually watch this part of the port were tipped off about some fiction of British agents arriving today aboard a Spanish-flagged schooner. We’re quite alone.”
Bell shook the spy’s bony hand and shrugged out of the salt-rimed peacoat. “Glad to hear it. This jacket smells like a seal colony my wife made me visit in La Jolla.” He tossed it into the truck’s bed along with the unnecessary seabag. “And you are?”
“No one of consequence or whose name you should worry about. I have your train tickets and will be your chauffeur to the station. The return tickets are all open-ended, so take all the time you need.”
“Fair enough. What about getting back to England?”
“When you get back here to Rotterdam, just buy a bloody ticket to London. Passenger liners aren’t running, of course, but you can cross on a freighter braving the Boche and their U-boats.”
The nameless driver needed the better part of an hour to get them out of the sprawling port.
A short while later found them at one of the city’s four principal train stations.
“You have a bit of a journey ahead of you, as there are no trains currently crossing into occupied Belgium, your final destination as I understand it.”
“That’s where I was taken after escaping the German prison.”
“Didn’t need to know that,” his British minder said. “Anyway, you have tickets to Amsterdam, and from there south into Germany and across into Belgium. Good luck, Mr. Bell, and I hope to hell it’s worth it.”
Bell hoped so, too.
An hour later he was in a crowded carriage on the first leg of his journey into occupied Belgium.
The train car was dirty, with soot ground into the wooden floor and litter gathered in the corners and under the seats.
The people themselves were quiet, stoic, even.
Though they were neutral, the strain of massive armies fighting to the death just across the border was clearly leaving its mark on the Dutch people.
No one made eye contact or offered to chat up a neighbor.
Bell changed trains in Amsterdam. He had time for a sandwich at a café as the shadows lengthened with dusk’s impending arrival.
The bread was good, if not exactly fresh.
He couldn’t determine the origin of the meat by taste alone.
It was fatty and shot through with gristle and only made palatable by the honey mustard that had been spread across the whole of the sandwich.
The coffee was little more than hot water stained black.
He was jolted awake hours later when his southbound train reached the German border and came to a coupling-crashing halt. Powerful lights on tall poles gave the scene a garish, brassy glare that cast stark shadows of barbed-wire fences and men with dogs on tight leashes.
All of the passengers were ordered off the train by German border guards armed with Mauser rifles.
They were told to bring their luggage. When Bell stepped down onto the ballast stones next to the tracks, he saw that the train had entered an enclosure made of barbed wire with doors at either end that could be closed while the carriages and locomotive and its passengers were examined. It felt like a prison.
While inspectors went through the boxcars at the end of the train, customs agents checked the two dozen or so passengers headed into Germany. Many were German citizens on day trips to Amsterdam and were quickly let back aboard the train.
“ Name ,” Bell was asked when he reached the little table the Germans had set up next to the lead carriage.
“My name is Isaac Bell,” he said as casually as possible.
The customs man looked up sharply, sucking air through his teeth. Two nearby guards moved closer, their grip on their weapons a little tighter.
“I’m an American businessman,” he added in hopes of cutting the thickening tension. “I plan to make some sales in your beautiful country.”
The customs man took the visa and studied Bell’s identification.
It was a company ID from the Fullerton Forge company and thoughtfully included a photograph of Bell.
He recognized it as half of a couples picture that Marion liked to keep in a silver frame on their bedside when they traveled.
She’d cropped out herself and the fact Bell was wearing a tuxedo.
“What do you sell?” the German asked, his eyes like slits in the harsh light.
Bell lifted his sample case from the ground and shook it.
“Ball bearings, the finest America has to offer, in fact.” The agent indicated Bell was to open the case on his desk.
He did. The man poked around the little cubbies of steel balls with the tip of his pen.
He waved away the case, which Bell secured and closed.
The man started writing information on his ledger sheet. It seemed to be more information than Bell had provided and the silent scribblings went on while the locomotive chuffed nearby.
“Is there a problem?” Bell finally asked, his concern genuine.