The Saboteurs by Clive Cussler (life changing books .txt) 📕

And so Bell sat as still as a statue while a naturally corrosive liquid dripped and dribbled inches from his face. He reduced his breathing to shallow sips of air, fearing that the sap would easily be dispersed during storms. The only positive of his situation was that local wildlife avoided the noxious plants. He didn’t have to worry about snakes.

Bell crouched under his poncho with his hands now resting on his knees. After just five minutes his legs and back began to ache, but he dared not move. At the ten-minute mark, his muscles were screaming for relief. And after fifteen, he was contemplating a course to get him out of this minefield of toxic trees when the hacienda’s front door opened, and a figure, hunching under the rainfall, dashed back to the car. Last drags of cigarettes were taken and butts were hastily tossed onto the drive. The passenger jumped to open the rear door for the team leader and then rushed around to the front of the car to crank the four-cylinder engine to life.

Moments later, the Model T looped around the circular drive and headed back to the coast road. Bell levered himself to a standing position, his knees protesting like he was an eighty-year-old man.

It had grown dark enough that lights were turned on inside the big house. Bell stepped out onto the lawn, moving slowly to his left to circle the house on its darker side, where he assumed most of the bedrooms were located. The poncho was perfect camouflage against the dark trunks of the manchineel trees. He reached a back terrace and could sense the vastness of the Pacific stretching out behind the mansion. He could see the blurry lines of white surf curling against the beach. Palms swayed in the stormy breeze while rain continued to fall. Bell’s shoes were soaked through and squelched with each step.

He found cover behind a planter and watched the hacienda’s interior through multiple pairs of French doors. The back of the house was essentially all glass. An elderly servant in dark livery glided across the airy living room with a silver tray in hand that was holding a heavy cut-crystal tumbler filled with amber liquor. The man reached the door and was about to knock. Bell could see through the glass doors that the servant had approached the study, where the master of the house was at work at his desk. The furniture in the home office was heavy and dark, more befitting Old Europe than the New World. There were few books on the towering shelves, and Bell imagined that without proper conservation the pages of any volumes would disintegrate quickly.

Bell saw the owner’s head rise from his work at what had to have been the knock on the door. He heard a muffled response, and the study’s door opened inward. The majordomo stepped in to place the drink within reach atop the massive desk. They spoke for just a moment, and the butler backed out. Bell tracked his progress back across the living room. The man vanished through a set of doors Bell assumed led to the kitchen.

Bell shifted his position, finding cover behind another planter that afforded him a better view into the study. He couldn’t see what the man was working on, and the tall back of his desk chair prevented Bell from seeing the man himself. Bell could only see his arm, in a billowy white shirtsleeve, his hand plucking the glass off the blotter and returning it seconds later with its level noticeably lower.

The homeowner worked at his desk for another thirty minutes and then suddenly started closing up the ledgers strewn around him. Bell leaned forward to adjust his aching legs and bumped into the planter, which scraped against the stone flooring of the terrace. The storm more than covered the sound of the light clatter. At least for the man.

A dog had been curled, unseen, at its master’s feet and leapt up at the sound, pressing its snout to the glass door and barking madly. It was sleek and black, with cropped ears and a mouthful of teeth like those of an industrial saw. With its front paws pressed high up on the window, it stood almost as tall as a man.

Fifteen feet and a tightly closed door separated Bell from the dog, but for a fleeting moment Bell was sure he could smell its breath and feel its angry heat on his face.

Knowing what was coming next, Bell backed away from the planter and then off the patio entirely. His best hope was reaching the ocean and waiting out the animal in the surf. The homeowner stood, and Bell caught a glimpse of a large-framed man several inches taller than himself. He opened one of the French doors, and the dog, a breed Bell had never seen before, shot out like a rocket, its ears erect and its mouth wide, powerful haunches launching each smooth stride.

It raced for the exact spot where Bell had been crouched behind the planter. Bell was still in motion and had another thirty feet of beach to cover before reaching the surf. The dog would track his scent and cover that distance in half the time it would take Bell.

The animal put its nose to the patio and suddenly began yelping in pain. Bell stopped and watched as the poor dog bowed its head down so it could swipe at its longish snout with its paws, all the while crying pitiably.

The manchineel, Bell realized. The rain had washed the rest of the toxic sap off his poncho and the concentrate that pooled at his feet had burned the canine’s sensitive nose when it tried to pick up his scent. The animal sneezed several times and seemed to get the worst of the toxin out of its nose, but its enthusiasm for chasing the intruder had died. It high-stepped back to the study door