The Spy (Isaac Bell 3)

Yamamoto spoke urgently. “Discretion is survival. Defeats, and victories, should be observed quietly, after the fact, at a distance.”

To save his own skin-and who knew for what other motives-Yamamoto would betray the mastermind. As the treacherous Abbington-Westlake had put it so cynically at this same table, “Welcome to the world of espionage, Mr. Bell.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I will explain two reasons why you should trust me. First, I have not killed you, and I could have. Agreed?”

“You could have tried.”

“Second, here is my pistol. I am passing it to you under the table. Do what you will.”

He handed Bell the pistol, butt first.

“Is the safety on?” asked Bell.

“It is now that it’s pointed at me,” replied Yamamoto. “Now I will stand up. With your permission.”

Bell nodded.

Yamamoto stood up. Bell said, “I will trust you more after you hand me that second pistol hidden in your side pocket.”

Yamamoto smiled faintly. “Sharp eyes, Mr. Bell. But in order to deliver the goods, I may need it.”

“In that case,” said Bell, “take this one, too.”

“Thank you.”

“Good hunting.”

LATE THAT NIGHT, Yamamoto Kenta confronted the spy in his Alexandria, Virginia, waterfront warehouse. “Your plan to attack the Great White Fleet at Mare Island,” he began in the formal, measured phrases of a diplomat, “is not in the interest of my government.”

It had been raining for two days, and the Potomac River was rising, swelled by the vast watershed that drained thousands of square miles of Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Washington, D.C. The powerful current made the floor tremble. The rain drummed on the ancient roof. Leaks dripped into a helmet turned upside down on the spy’s desk, splashed on the old searchlight behind him and streamed down its lens.

The spy could not hide his astonishment. “How did you find out?”

Yamamoto smiled thinly. “Perhaps it is my ‘natural aptitude for spying, and a cunning and self-control not found in the West.’ His smile froze in a hard line, his lips so tight that the spy could see his teeth outlined against them.

“I will not permit this,” the Japanese continued. “You will drive a wedge between Japan and the United States at precisely the wrong time.”

“The wedge is already in motion,” the spy said mildly.

“What good would come of it?”

“Depends on your point of view. From the German point of view, embroiling Japan and the United States in conflict would open up opportunities in the Pacific. Nor will Great Britain mourn if the U.S. Navy is forced to concentrate its battleships on its West Coast. They might even seize the opportunity to reoccupy the West Indies.”

“It does nothing for Japan.”

“I have German and British friends willing to pay me for their opportunities.”

“You are even worse than I thought.”

The spy laughed. “Don’t you understand? The international dreadnought race presents splendiferous opportunities to a man with the intestinal fortitude to seize them. The rival nations will pay anything to stop each other. I’m a salesman in a seller’s market.”

“You are playing both ends against the middle.”

The spy laughed louder. “You underestimate me, Yamamoto. I am playing every end against the middle. I am building a fortune. What will it cost me to keep you out of my game?”

“I am not a mercenary.”