{"product_id":"the-spy-isbn-9780425241752","title":"The Spy","description":"\u003cb\u003eTwentieth century detective Isaac Bell takes on the world of warfare when America’s naval research and development experts begin to die one by one in this #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e-bestselling historical action adventure.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 1908 marks a year of ever-escalating international tension as the world plunges toward war. And with America on the brink, it comes as a devastating blow to learn of the apparent suicide of one of the United States’ most brilliant battleship-gun designers. The death becomes a media sensation, and the man’s grief-stricken daughter turns to the legendary Van Dorn Detective Agency to clear her father’s name. Van Dorn puts his chief investigator on the case, and Isaac Bell soon sees that the clues point not to suicide, but to murder. As Bell notices more suspicious deaths among the nation’s sharpest technological minds, he begins to suspect the work of an elusive spy somehow connected to a top-secret project called Hull 44.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But that is just the beginning. As the intrigue deepens, Bell will find himself pitted against German, Japanese, and British spies, in a mission that encompasses dreadnought battleships, Teddy Roosevelt’s Great White Fleet, Chinatown, Hell’s Kitchen, and the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Isaac Bell has certainly faced perilous situations before, but this time it is more than the future of his country that’s at stake—it’s the fate of the world. | \u003cb\u003eClive Cussler \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of more than fifty books in five bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt, NUMA Files, Oregon Files, Isaac Bell, and Fargo. His life nearly parallels that of his hero Dirk Pitt. Whether searching for lost aircraft or leading expeditions to find famous shipwrecks, he and his NUMA crew of volunteers have discovered more than seventy-five lost ships of historic significance, including the long-lost Confederate submarine \u003ci\u003eHunley\u003c\/i\u003e, which was raised in 2000 with much press publicity. Like Pitt, Cussler collects classic automobiles. His collection features more than eighty examples of custom coachwork. Cussler lives in Arizona and Colorado.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eJustin Scott\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of thirty-one novels, including \u003ci\u003eThe Shipkiller\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eNormandie Triangle\u003c\/i\u003e; the Ben Abbott detective series; six thrillers under his pen name Paul Garrison; and his coauthorship with Cussler of \u003ci\u003eThe Wrecker\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Spy\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Race\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Thief\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Striker\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Bootlegger\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Assassin\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003eThe Gangster, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Cutthroat\u003c\/i\u003e. Scott lives in Connecticut. | \u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHE GUNNER’S DAUGHTER\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 4\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 7\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 10\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 11\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 12\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 13\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 14\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eARMORED COFFINS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 15\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 17\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 18\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 19\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 20\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 21\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 23\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 24\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 25\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 26\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 27\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 29\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 30\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 31\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 32\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 33\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHE FLEET\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 34\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 35\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 36\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 37\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 38\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 39\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 40\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 41\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA STREAK OF GOD\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 42\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 43\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 44\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 45\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 46\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 47\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 48\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 49\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 50\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 51\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 52\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 53\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 54\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 55\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 56\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eON DISTANT SERVICE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDIRK PITT® ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eArctic Drift\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTreasure of Khan\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eBlack Wind\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTrojan Odyssey\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eValhalla Rising\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAtlantis Found\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFlood Tide\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eShock Wave\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eInca Gold\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSahara\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDragon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTreasure\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eCyclops\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeep Six\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePacific Vortex!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eNight Probe!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eVixen 03\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eRaise the Titanic!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eIceberg\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Mediterranean Caper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFARGO ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER\u003cbr\u003e WITH GRANT BLACKWOOD\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSpartan Gold\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eISAAC BELL NOVELS BY CLIVE CUSSLER\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Wrecker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(WITH JUSTIN SCOTT)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Chase\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER\u003cbr\u003e WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMedusa\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Navigator\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePolar Shift\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eLost City\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhite Death\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFire Ice\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eBlue Gold\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSerpent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER\u003cbr\u003e WITH JACK DU BRUL\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Silent Sea\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eCorsair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePlague Ship\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSkeleton Coast\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDark Watch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWITH CRAIG DIRGO\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eGolden Buddha\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSacred Stone\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIRGO\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Sea Hunters\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Sea Hunters II\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eClive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eCLIVE CUSSLER AND JUSTIN SCOTT\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished by the Penguin Group\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCopyright © 2010 by Sandecker, RLLLP\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished simultaneously in Canada\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCussler, Clive.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe spy \/ Clive Cussler and Justin Scott.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ep. cm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eISBN: 9781101188057\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e1. Bell, Isaac (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. 3. Sabotage—Fiction. 4. Railroad trains—Fiction. 5. Washington (D.C.)—History—20th century—Fiction. I. Scott, Justin. II. Title.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePS3553.U75S79 2010\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e2010009053\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e813’.54—dc22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhile the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor Amber\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE GUNNER’S DAUGHTER\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eMARCH 17, 1908\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eWASHINGTON, D.C.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eT\u003c\/b\u003eHE WASHINGTON NAVY YARD SLEPT LIKE AN ANCIENT city guarded by thick walls and a river. Old men stood watch, plodding between electric time detectors to register their rounds of factories, magazines, shops, and barracks. Outside the perimeter rose a hill of darkened workers’ houses. The Capitol Dome and the Washington Monument crowned it, glittering under a full moon like polar ice. A whistle moaned. A train approached, bleeding steam and clanging its bell.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eU.S. Marine sentries opened the North Railroad Gate.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo one saw Yamamoto Kenta hiding under the Baltimore and Ohio flatcar that the locomotive pushed into the yard. The flatcar’s wheels groaned under a load of fourteen-inch armor plate from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Brakemen uncoupled the car on a siding, and the engine backed away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto eased to the wooden crossties and stone ballast between the rails. He lay still until he was sure he was alone. Then he followed the tracks into the cluster of three-story brick-and-iron buildings that housed the Gun Factory.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMoonlight lancing down from high windows, and the ruby glow of banked furnaces illuminated an enormous cavern. Traveler cranes hulked in shadows overhead. Colossal fifty-ton dreadnought battleship guns crowded the floor as if a fiery hurricane had leveled a steel forest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto, a middle-aged Japanese with threads of gray in his shiny black hair and a confident, dignified manner, wove a purposeful route through the watchmen’s prescribed paths, examining gun lathes, machines for rifling, and furnaces. He paid special attention to deep wells in the floor, the brick-lined shrinking pits where the guns were assembled by squeezing steel jackets around fifty-foot tubes. His eye was sharp, refined by similar clandestine “tours” of Vickers and Krupp—the British and German naval gun factories—and the Czar of Russia’s ordnance plants at St. Petersburg.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn old-style Yale lock secured the door to the laboratory storeroom that dispensed supplies to the engineers and scientists. Yamamoto picked it open quickly. Inside, he searched cabinets for iodine. He poured six ounces of the shiny blue-black crystals into an envelope. Then he scrawled “crystal iodine, 6 ounces” on a requisition sheet with the initials “AL” for the Gun Factory’s legendary chief designer, Arthur Langner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn a distant wing of the sprawling building, he located the test caisson where armor experts simulated torpedo attacks to measure the awesomely magnified impact of explosions underwater. He rummaged through their magazine. The sea powers locked in the international race to build modern dreadnought battleships were feverishly experimenting with arming torpedoes with TNT, but Yamamoto noted that the Americans were still testing formulations based on guncotton propellants. He stole a silk bag of Cordite MD smokeless powder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs he opened a janitor’s closet to filch a bottle of ammonia water,  he heard a watchman coming. He hid in the closet until the old fellow had shuffled past and disappeared among the guns.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSwift and silent, Yamamoto climbed the stairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eArthur Langner’s drawing loft, which was not locked, was the workshop of an eccentric whose genius spanned war and art. Blueprints for stepped-thread breeches and visionary sketches of shells with smashing effects as yet unheard of shared the workspace with a painter’s easel, a library of novels, a bass violin, and a grand piano.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto left the Cordite, the iodine, and the ammonia on the piano and spent an hour studying the drafting tables. “Be Japan’s eyes,” he preached at the Black Ocean Society’s spy school on the rare occasions that duty allowed him home. “Take every opportunity to observe, whether your ultimate mission is deception, sabotage, or murder.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat he saw frightened him. The 12-inch guns on the factory floor could throw shells seven miles to pierce ten inches of the newest face-hardened side armor. But up here in the drawing loft where new ideas were hatched, the Americans had preliminary sketches for 15-inch guns and even a 16-inch, seventy-foot-long monster that would hurl a ton of high explosives beyond the curve of the Earth. No one knew yet how to aim such a weapon when the distances were too great to gauge range by “spotting” the splashes of near misses. But the bold imagination that Yamamoto saw at work warned him it was only a matter of time before America’s “New Navy” invented novel concepts for fire control.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto stuffed a wad of paper money in the gun designer’s desk—fifty twenty-dollar U.S. gold certificates—considerably more than what one of the arsenal’s skilled workmen earned in a year.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlready the U.S. Navy was third only to England’s and Germany’s. Its North Atlantic Fleet—brazenly rechristened the “Great White Fleet”—was showing the flag in a swaggering voyage around the  world. But Britain, Germany, Russia, and France were not America’s enemies. The true mission of the Great White Fleet was to threaten the Empire of Japan with naked steel. America aimed to command the Pacific Ocean from San Francisco to Tokyo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJapan would not allow it, Yamamoto thought with a prideful smile.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was only three years since the Russo-Japanese War spawned in blood a new master of the Western Pacific. Mighty Russia had tried to strong-arm Japan. Today the Empire of Japan occupied Port Arthur. And Russia’s Baltic Fleet lay under three hundred feet of water at the bottom of the Tsushima Strait—thanks in no small part to Japanese spies who had infiltrated the Russian Navy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs Yamamoto closed the drawer on the money, he had the eerie sensation of being watched. He looked across the desk into the bold gaze of a beautiful woman whose photographic portrait stood in a silver frame. He recognized Langner’s dark-haired daughter and admired how faithfully the photographer had captured her compelling eyes. She had inscribed it in a flowing hand “For Father, the ‘gunner’ who ‘dreads nought’!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto turned his attention to Langner’s bookshelves. Bound volumes of patent applications vied with novels for the space. The applications filed recently had been written on a typewriter. Yamamoto pulled volume after volume, working his way back to the last year that applications were submitted in longhand. He spread one on the designer’s desk, then chose a sheet of paper from a side drawer and a Waterman fountain pen with a gold nib. Referring repeatedly to the sample of handwriting, he forged a brief, incoherent letter. Ending it with the words “Forgive me,” he scrawled Arthur Langner’s signature.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe took the iodine and the ammonia into the gun designer’s washroom. With the butt of his Nambu pocket pistol he crushed the iodine crystals on the marble washstand and brushed the resultant  powder into a shaving mug. He wiped the gun clean with the washroom towel, leaving a purplish smear on the cloth. Then he poured ammonia onto the iodine powder, stirring with Langner’s toothbrush until he had a thick paste of nitrogen iodide.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe propped open the lid of the grand piano, reached into the narrow end farthest from the keyboard, and smeared the paste on the closely bunched strings. After it dried, the explosive concoction would become unstable and extremely sensitive to impact. A gentle vibration would set off a loud bang and a flash. Alone, the explosion would damage little beyond the piano. But as a detonator, it would be deadly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe placed the silk sack on top of the cast-iron frame, immediately above the strings. The sack contained enough Cordite MD smokeless powder to propel a twelve-pound shell two miles.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYAMAMOTO KENTA LEFT the Gun Factory the way he had entered, his eyes still stinging from the ammonia. Suddenly, things went wrong. The North Railroad Gate was blocked by an unexpected burst of late-night activity. Switch engines were huffing gondola cars in and out, attended by a horde of brakemen. He retreated deeper into the arsenal, past the powerhouse, through a maze of roads, buildings, and storage yards. Orienting himself by the powerhouse smokestacks and a pair of experimental radio-antenna towers silhouetted against the moonlit sky, he crossed a park and gardens bordered by handsome brick houses in which slept the families of the commandant and officers of the yard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe ground rose higher here. To the northwest he glimpsed the Capitol looming over the city. He saw it as yet another symbol of America’s fearsome might. What other nation could have erected the largest cast-iron dome in the world at the same time they were fighting  a bloody Civil War? He was almost to a side gate when a sentry surprised him on a narrow path.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto had just enough time to back into a hedgerow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis capture would disgrace Japan. He was ostensibly in Washington, D.C., to help catalog the recent contribution of the Freer Collection of Asian art to the Smithsonian Institution. The front allowed him to mingle with the Diplomatic Corps and powerful politicians, thanks to their wives who fancied themselves artists and hung on his every word about Japanese art. Genuine experts at the Smithsonian had caught him off base twice already. He had blamed gaps in his hastily learned knowledge on a poor command of English. So far, the experts accepted the excuse. But there would be absolutely no plausible explanation for a Japanese curator of Asian art caught prowling the Washington Navy Yard at night.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe watchman came up the path, boots crunching on gravel. Yamamoto backed in deeper, drawing his pistol as a last resort. A gunshot would rouse Marine guards from their barracks at the main gate. Deeper he pushed, feeling for an opening in the branches that would lead out the other side.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe watchman had no reason to look into the hedgerow as he plodded by. But Yamamoto was still pushing backward against the springy branches, and one snapped. The watchman stopped. He peered in the direction of the sound. In that instant the moon bathed both their faces.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Japanese spy saw him clearly—a retired sailor, an “old salt,” supplementing his meager pension with a night watchman’s job. His face was leathery, his eyes bleached by years of tropical sunlight, his back stooped. He straightened up at the sight of the slender figure hiding in the hedge. Suddenly galvanized, the pensioner was no longer an old man who should have called for help but was hurled back to his time as a long-limbed, broad-shouldered “blue jacket” in the  full tide of life. A strong voice that once carried to the mast tops demanded, “What the devil are you doing in there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto wormed out the back of the hedge and ran. The watchman pushed into the hedge and got tangled in it and roared like a bull. Yamamoto heard answering shouts in the distance. He changed course and raced along a high wall. It had been raised, he had learned while preparing for his “tour,” after looters invaded when the Potomac River flooded the yard. It was too high to scale.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBoots pounded on gravel. Old men shouted. Electric flashlights flickered. Suddenly he saw salvation, a tree standing near the wall. Digging his india-rubber crepe soles into the bark, he shinnied up the trunk to the lowest branch, climbed two higher, and jumped onto the wall. He heard shouts behind him. The city street below was empty. He jumped down and cushioned a hard landing with flexed knees.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAT BUZZARD POINT, near the foot of 1st Street, Yamamoto boarded an eighteen-foot motorboat powered by a two-horse Pierce “Noiseless.” The pilot steered into the current and down the Potomac River. A shroud of surface mist finally closed around the boat, and Yamamoto exhaled a sigh of relief.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHuddling from the cold in the cubby under the bow, he reflected upon his close call and concluded that his mission had suffered no damage. The garden path where the night watchman had almost caught him was at least a half mile from the Gun Factory. Nor did it matter that the old man had seen his face. Americans were contemptuous of Asians. Few could distinguish between Japanese and Chinese features. Since immigrants from China were far more numerous than those from Japan, the watchman would report an intrusion by a despised Chinese—an opium fiend, he thought with a relieved  smile. Or, he chuckled silently, a nefarious white slaver lurking to prey on the commandant’s daughters.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFive miles downriver, he disembarked in Alexandria, Virginia.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe waited for the boat to depart the wooden pier. Then he hurried along the waterfront and entered a dark warehouse that was crammed with obsolete naval gear deep in dust and spiderwebs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA younger man whom Yamamoto had labeled, scornfully, “The Spy” was waiting for him in a dimly lit back room that served as an office. He was twenty years Yamamoto’s junior and ordinary-looking to the point of being nondescript. His office, too, held the outdated paraphernalia of earlier wars: crossed cutlasses on the walls; a Civil War-era Dahlgren cast-iron, muzzle-loading cannon, which was causing the floor to sag; and an old 24-inch-diameter carbon arc battleship searchlight propped behind his desk. Yamamoto saw his own face mirrored in its dusty eye.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe reported that he had accomplished his mission. Then, while the spy took notes, he related in precise detail everything that he had seen at the Gun Factory. “Much of it,” he said in conclusion, “looks worn out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hardly a surprise.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOverworked and underfunded, the Gun Factory had produced everything from ammunition hoists to torpedo tubes to send the Great White Fleet to sea. After the warships sailed, it forwarded train-loads of replacement parts, sights, firing locks, breech plugs, and gun mounts to San Francisco. In another month the fleet would recuperate there from its fourteen-thousand-mile voyage around South America’s Cape Horn and refit at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard to cross the Pacific.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I would not underestimate them,” Yamamoto retorted gloomily. “Worn-out machines are replaceable.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“If they have the nerve.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“From what I saw, they have the nerve. And the imagination. They are merely catching their breath.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man behind the desk felt that Yamamoto Kenta was possessed—if not unhinged—by his fear of the American Navy. He had heard this rant before and knew how to change the subject by derailing the Jap with lavish praise.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have never doubted your acute powers of observation. But I am awed by the range and breadth of your skills: chemistry, engineering, forgery. In one fell swoop you have impeded the development of American gunnery and sent their Congress a message that the Navy is corrupt.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe watched Yamamoto preen. Even the most capable operative had his Achilles’ heel. Yamamoto’s was a self-blinding vanity.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ve played this game a long time,” Yamamoto agreed with false modesty.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn fact, thought the man behind the desk, the chemistry for the nitrogen iodide detonator was a simple formula found in \u003ci\u003eThe Young Folks Cyclopaedia of Games and Sports\u003c\/i\u003e. Which was not to take away from Yamamoto’s other skills, nor his broad and deep knowledge of naval warfare.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHaving softened him up, he prepared to put the Jap to the test. “Last week aboard the \u003ci\u003eLusitania,\u003c\/i\u003e” he said, “I bumped into a British attaché. You know the sort. Thinks of himself as a ‘gentleman spy.’”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe had an astonishing gift for accents, and he mimicked, faultlessly, an English aristocratic drawl. “‘The Japanese,’ this Englishman proclaimed to all in the smoking room, ‘display a natural aptitude for espionage, and a cunning and self-control not found in the West.’”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto laughed. “That sounds like Commander Abbington-Westlake of the Admiralty’s Naval Intelligence Department, Foreign Division, who was spotted last summer painting a watercolor of the Long Island Sound that just happened to contain America’s latest  Viper Class submarine. Do you suppose the windbag meant it as a compliment?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The French Navy he penetrated so successfully last month would hardly call Abbington-Westlake a windbag. Did you keep the money?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I beg your pardon?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The money you were supposed to put in Arthur Langner’s desk. Did you keep it for yourself?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Jap stiffened. “Of course not. I put it in his desk.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The Navy’s enemies in Congress must believe that their star designer, their so-called Gunner, was guilty of taking a bribe. That money was vital to our message to the Congress to make them wonder what else is rotten in the Navy. Did you keep the money?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I should not be surprised that you would ask such a degrading question of a loyal associate. With the heart of a thief you assume that everyone is a thief.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Did you keep the money?” the spy repeated. A physical habit of maintaining utter stillness masked the steely power of his compact frame.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“For the last time, I did not keep the money. Would you feel more secure if I swore on the memory of my old friend—your father?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do it!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYamamoto looked him full in the face with undisguised hatred. “I swear on the memory of my old friend, your father.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I think I believe you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Your father was a patriot,” Yamamoto replied coldly. “You are a mercenary.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re on my payroll,” came the even colder retort. “And when you report to your government the valuable information you picked up in the Washington Navy Yard’s Gun Factory—\u003ci\u003ewhile working for me\u003c\/i\u003e—your government will pay you again.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I do not spy for the money. I spy for the Empire of Japan.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And for me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“GOOD SUNDAY MORNING TO all who prefer their music minus the sermon,” Arthur Langner greeted his friends at the Gun Factory.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRumpled in a baggy sack suit, his thick hair tousled and bright eyes inquisitive, the Naval Ordnance Bureau’s star designer grinned like a man who found interest in all he saw and liked the strange bits most of all. The Gunner was a vegetarian, an outspoken agnostic, and devoted to the theories of the unconscious mind put forth by the Viennese neurologist Sigmund Freud.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe held patents for an invention he named the Electrical Vacuum Cleaning Machine, having hitched his fertile imagination to a heartfelt notion that science-based domestic engineering could free women from the isolation of housework. He also believed that women should have the right to vote, work outside the home, and even practice birth control. Gossips smirked that his beautiful daughter, who ran with the fast set in Washington and New York, would be a prime beneficiary.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A one-man lunatic fringe,” complained the commandant of the navy yard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut the chief of Naval Ordnance, having observed Langner’s latest 12-inch\/.50 caliber gun shoot up his Sandy Hook Atlantic Test Range, retorted, “Thank God he works for us instead of the enemy.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis Sunday-morning chamber musicians, a ragtag mix of Gun Factory employees, laughed appreciatively when Langner joked, “Just to assure any eavesdropping blue noses that we’re not complete heathens, let’s start with ‘Amazing Grace.’ In G.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe sat at his grand piano.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“May we please have an A first, sir?” asked the cellist, an expert in armor-piercing warheads.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLangner lightly tapped middle A, to which note the strings could tune their instruments. He rolled his eyes in mock impatience as they fiddled with their tuning pegs. “Are you gentlemen cooking up one of those new atonal scales?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“One more A, if you can spare it, Arthur. A little louder?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLangner tapped middle A harder, again and again. At last the strings were satisfied.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe cellist began the opening notes of “Amazing Grace.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the tenth measure, the violins—a torpedo-propulsion man and a burly steamfitter—took up “once was lost.” They played through and began to repeat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLangner raised his big hands over the keys, stepped on the sustain pedal, and lofted “a wretch like me” on a soaring G chord.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInside the piano, Yamamoto Kenta’s paste of nitrogen iodide had hardened to a volatile dry crust. When Langner fingered the keys, felt hammers descended on G, B, and D strings, causing them to vibrate. Up and down the scale, six more octaves of G, B, and D strings vibrated sympathetically, jolting the nitrogen iodide.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt exploded with a sharp \u003ci\u003ecrack\u003c\/i\u003e that sent a purple cloud pouring from the case and detonated the sack of Cordite. The Cordite blew the piano into a thousand slivers of wood and wire and ivory that riddled Arthur Langner’s head and chest, killing him instantly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eB\u003c\/b\u003eY 1908, THE VAN DORN DETECTIVE AGENCY MAINTAINED a presence in all American cities of consequence, and its offices reflected the nature of each locality. Headquarters in Chicago had a suite in the palatial Palmer House. Dusty Ogden, Utah, a railroad junction, was served by a rented room decorated with wanted posters. New York’s offices were in the sumptuous Knickerbocker Hotel on 42nd Street. And in Washington, D.C., with its valuable proximity to the Department of Justice—a prime source of business—Van Dorn detectives operated from the second floor of the capital city’s finest hotel, the new Willard on Pennsylvania Avenue, two blocks from the White House.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoseph Van Dorn himself kept an office there, a walnut-paneled den bristling with up-to-date devices for riding herd on the transcontinental outfit he commanded. In addition to the agency’s private telegraph, he had three candlestick telephones capable of long-distance connections as far west as Chicago, a DeVeau Dictaphone, a self-winding stock ticker, and an electric Kellogg Intercommunicating Telephone. A spy hole let him size up clients and informants  in the reception room. Corner windows overlooked the Willard’s front and side entrances.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom those windows, a week after Arthur Langner’s tragic death at the Naval Gun Factory, Van Dorn watched apprehensively as two women stepped down from a streetcar, hurried across the bustling sidewalk, and disappeared inside the hotel.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe intercommunicating phone rang.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Miss\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338553503973,"sku":"NP9780425241752","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425241752.jpg?v=1769572663","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-spy-isbn-9780425241752","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}