The Englishman sighed, heavily. You make it abundantly clear that I am at your mercy.
Who is Yamamoto Kenta?
Bell was gambling that, not unlike bank robbers and confidence men, the spies of the international naval race were aware of their rivals and fellow practitioners. He saw it was true. Even in the dim light, Abbington-Westlake's eyes gleamed as if he suddenly saw a way out of the mess he was in.
Careful! Bell warned. The instant I hear a breath of fiction this photograph goes to that gentleman of the Secret Service, along with copies to the British Embassy and U.S. Naval Intelligence. Do we understand each other?
Yes.
What do you know of him?
Yamamoto Kenta is a highly decorated Japanese spy. He's been at it for donkey's ears. And he is number one at the Black Ocean Society, which acts in the Japs' overseas interests. He was a prime instigator of the Jap infiltration of the Russians' Asiatic Fleet and a prime reason the Japs now occupy Port Arthur. Since the war, he's operated in Europe and made an absolute mockery of Britain's and Germany's attempts to keep secrets in their ship works. He knows more about Krupp than the Kaiser, and more about HMS Dreadnought than her own captain.
What is he doing here?
I don't know.
Commander, Bell said warningly.
I don't know. I swear I don't know. But I will say one thing.
It better be interesting.
It is interesting, Abbington-Westlake shot back confidently. It is very interesting because it makes absolutely no sense that a Japanese spy of Yamamoto's caliber is operating here in the United States.
Why?
The Japs don't want to fight you chaps. Not now. They're not ready. Even though they know you Americans are not ready. It doesn't take a naval genius to rate the Great White Fleet as a joke. But they damned well know that their fleet is not ready either and won't be for many, many years.
Then why did Yamamoto come here?
I suspect that Yamamoto is playing some sort of double game. Bell looked at the Englishman. There was a certain puzzlement in his expression that looked absolutely genuine. How do you mean?
Yamamoto is working for someone else.
Other than the Black Ocean Society?
Precisely.
Whom?
I haven't the foggiest. But it's not for Japan.
If you don't know who he is working for, what makes you think it's someone other than the Japanese?
Because Yamamoto offered to buy information from me.
What information?
He suspected that I had information concerning the new French dreadnought. Offered a pretty penny for it. Expense was obviously no object.
Did you have the information?
That's neither here nor there, Abbington-Westlake answered opaquely. The point is, the Japs don't give a hang about the Frogs, old boy. The French Navy can't fight in the Pacific. They can barely defend the Bay of Biscay.
Then what did he want it for?
That is the point. That is what I am telling you. Yamamoto intended to sell it to someone who does care about the French.
Who?
Who else but the Germans?
Bell studied the Englishman's face for a full minute. Then he leaned closer, and said, Commander, it is now clear to me that behind a faASSade of amiable bumbling, you are extremely well informed about your fellow spies. In fact, I suspect you know more about them than the ships you're supposed to be spying on.
Welcome to the world of espionage, Mr. Bell, the Englishman replied cynically. May I be the first to congratulate you on your very recent arrival.
What Germans? Bell demanded harshly.
Well, I can't tell you with any precision, but--
You don't believe for one second that the Germans are paying Yamamoto Kenta to spy for them, Bell cut in. Whom do you really suspect?
Abbington-Westlake shook his head, visibly dismayed. No one I have heard of-none of the regulars one bumps into . . . It's as if the Black Knight galloped out of the ether and threw his gauntlet on King Arthur's Roundtable.
A freelance, mused Bell.
Chapter 28
A FREELANCE INDEED, MR. BELL. YOU'VE HIT THE NAIL on the head. But the possibility of a freelance merely raises the larger question. Abbington-Westlake's round face brightened with relief that he had so intrigued Bell that the tall detective would let him go. Whom does the freelance serve?
Are freelances commonly used in the spy game? Bell asked.
One employs all available resources.
Have you ever worked as a freelance?
Abbington-Westlake smiled disdainfully. The Royal Navy hires freelances. We don't work for them.
I mean you personally-if you need money.
I work for His Majesty's Navy. I am not a mercenary. He stood up. And now, Mr. Bell, if you will excuse me, I believe I have paid you for your photograph in equal coin. Agreed?
Agreed, said Bell.
Good day, sir.
Before you go, Commander?
What is it?
I have been dealing with you in my capacity as a private investigator. As an American, however, let me warn you that if I ever again see or hear of you taking photographs of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, or any other shipyard in my country, I will throw your camera off the bridge and you after it.
ISAAC BELL HURRIED UPSTAIRS to the Van Dorn office. A big case kept getting bigger and wider. If Abbington-Westlake was telling the truth-and Bell bet he was-then Yamamoto Kenta was not the head of the spy ring attacking Hull 44 but only another of its many agents. Like the German, and the hired killer Weeks, and whoever threw the young fire-control expert off the cliff. Who was the freelance? And whom did he serve?
Bell knew he was at a crossroads. He had to decide whether to arrest Yamamoto and squeeze what information they could out of him or continue following him in the hope that the Japanese spy would lead them higher up the chain of deceit. There was risk in waiting. How long would it take a seasoned professional like Yamamoto to catch the scent of his stalkers and go to ground?
As Bell strode into the back room, the man on
