Devil's Gate by Clive Cussler
Kurt explained to someone a version of what had happened, promised to pay for any damages, and insisted that the ultralight rental outfit would come for its plane tomorrow.
As the soccer game began again, he and Katarina made their way out to the street. Somewhere near the field there had to be a cab waiting or bus they could take. A microvan pulled up with some kind of sign on it.
“We need to go to the harbor,” Kurt said.
“I can take you,” the driver said.
Kurt opened the door. Katarina went to climb in but paused.
“That was really quite incredible,” she said, gazing into his eyes.
They’d almost been killed three times, her rental car had been sent off a cliff and turned into a burning hulk, and she was still almost blue from the cold, but her eyes sparkled as if he’d just shown her the time of her life. He had to admire that.
He reached out, pulled her to him, and kissed her on the lips. They kissed for a few seconds longer, her arms wrapping around him from the front this time, until the driver coughed lightly.
They parted.
“Was that to warm me up?” she asked.
He smiled. “Did it work?”
“Better than you know,” she said, turning and climbing into the taxi. He got in after her, and the little bubble van moved off toward the harbor.
“You know,” she said, “we’re only a mile or so from the house where the French team is staying.”
“Really,” he said, remembering what she’d told him earlier. “Do you have the address?”
“It’s right on the beach at Praia Formosa. The most luxurious rental in town.”
That sounded like the French way to him.
“Driver,” Kurt said. “Take us to Praia Formosa.”
29
New York City, June 24
THE AVENUES OF MANHATTAN bustled with traffic and energy on a warm summer night. The people were out in droves, crowds on foot, others in cars and cabs and even carriages taking romantic rides around Central Park. It was twenty minutes after dusk, and the city that never sleeps was just getting started.
Dirk Pitt rode in a taxi headed for a five-star restaurant. As he cruised down Park Avenue, the orange reflection of the streetlights traveled methodically up the polished yellow surface of the car’s hood. One after another, they passed, steady and slow like silent heartbeats. He imagined Paul Trout’s heartbeat, prayed it was remaining strong, and thought of Gamay, watching over him, trying to will her husband back to consciousness.
He had come to meet with Takagawa face-to-face, but, assuming he’d be denied entry at the reception desk, Dirk decided to seek out his old acquaintance somewhere other than the office. He’d procured information as to where Takagawa would be dining this night and decided to surprise him on neutral ground.
The restaurant was called Miyako, a place known for local celebrities and ballplayers who brought their supermodel dates in late at night. Miyako served traditional Japanese fare in an ultramodern, upscale environment. Twenty-dollar martinis and shots of sake flowed like water, while traditional delicacies, such as poisonous puffer fish, sea cucumber intestines, and uni—otherwise known as sea urchin—filled out the menu.
Haruto Takagawa was expected to be dining there with his son, Ren, several ranking members of Shokara Shipping’s executive staff, and at least two hedge fund managers looking to invest in Shokara’s latest venture.
Dirk knew they’d be in a private room in the back, but he wasn’t expecting they’d welcome him to join them. Just in case, he’d brought along a little reminder of Takagawa’s debt.
The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of Miyako, and Dirk stepped out.
He paid the driver, and included a generous tip, and then strode into the restaurant’s foyer, eyeing the room. A high wall with water cascading down it divided the main dining area from the private rooms in the rear. Dirk stepped forward just as an officious-looking man came around the corner. He stepped in front of Dirk, looking at him suspiciously.
“Excuse me,” the man said. “We seat only those with reservations. And you must wear proper dress.”
Dirk was wearing black slacks with a crease like a razor blade, an eight-hundred-dollar dinner jacket, and a two-hundred-dollar button-down shirt open at the collar.
“You must wear a tie to dine here,” the man explained.
“I’m not here to eat,” Dirk said, pushing past the man.
Leaving the host behind, Dirk crossed the room. In a town filled with politicians, power brokers, and celebrities, Dirk Pitt was an unknown, but he cut a striking figure as he moved.
At least a dozen of the patrons turned from their important conversations to watch him pass. If asked, they might have said he had an aura about him, one that drew their attention, a purpose in his step that carried conviction, determination, and confidence without arrogance or conceit. Or they might have said nothing. But they watched him walk until he disappeared behind the wall of trickling water.
Dirk Pitt stepped into the private dining room, and the conversation died. His arrival was abrupt and unexpected. It jarred the room, just as he’d hoped it would.
One by one the diners looked at him, Takagawa raising his eyes last. He sat at the far end of the table, and the look on his face suggested he was gazing upon the specter of Death. The other members of the group were stunned, but closer to anger than anything else.
One of the hedge fund managers stood, his five-thousand-dollar suit making Dirk’s look as if it had come off the rack.
“Whoever you are, you’re in the wrong place,” he said, walking toward Dirk and reaching a hand toward him as if to usher him out of the room.
Dirk never even looked at the man, but he spoke in a tone that was almost a growl. “You put that hand on me and you’ll never use it to count money again.”
The hedge fund manager looked as if he’d been slapped in the face, but he stepped back and said nothing.
Takagawa’s son Ren stood next. “I’m calling security,” he said to his father.
Takagawa did not respond to his son’s actions; he just stared at Dirk as if in a trance. Dirk guessed it was time to snap him out of it.
He tossed an eight-inch length of metal toward him. It rattled as it hit the table, and some of the other diners jumped back as if it might spring to life and attack them. It stopped in front of Takagawa.
Shokara’s CEO reached out and took the metal shard in his hands. A nameplate, bent and twisted and blackened with soot. It read “Minoru.” Smaller numbers beneath the name listed tonnage.
The son’s call had gone through. “Security, this is Ren, I have a—”
Takagawa reached out and put a hand on his son’s arm, stopping him midsentence.
“Put the phone down, my son,” he said.
“But this man could be a threat,” Ren said. “He disrespects you.”
“No,” Takagawa said wearily. “I have disrespected him. He is right to come here and find me. I am only ashamed, like an insect hiding underneath a stone.”
Over Ren’s phone, a voice. “Ren, this is the security team. Do you need something? We’re right outside.”
Ren looked at his father, who stared once more at the piece of metal.
“If not for this man,” Takagawa said, “I would have burned to death thirty years ago when my ship went down. I would never have seen your face. Your mother gave birth to you while I was at sea, and there were no pictures yet.”
Takagawa studied the carbon-charred metal placard. He’d given it to Dirk in thanks for saving his life and others on the crew. He looked at his right hand. Poking out from beneath the cuff was an area of burned and scarred skin, which Dirk knew ran halfway up Takagawa’s arm.
“Is everything okay?”
Ren brought the phone up to his mouth. “Yes,” he said finally. “A false alarm.”
He hung up. Glared at Pitt for a moment, took a breath, and nodded in a bow of respect. “I apologize,” he said.
“A son defending his father is nothing to apologize for,” Dirk said.
Ren Takagawa stood back and pulled out his chair, offering the seat beside his father to Dirk.
“Arigato,” Dirk said, sitting down.
The hedge fund managers and the other members of the party still appeared confused.
“This is highly irregular,” one of them said.
“Please leave us,” Takagawa said gravely. “We have something more important than business to discuss.”
“Look, Haruto,” one of them began. “I don’t know what this is—”
A glance from Takagawa stopped him, and then one by one the group stood and left, some of them muttering under their breaths as they went.
“I’ll talk to them,” Ren said. He followed them out, and the two old acquaintances were left alone.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Dirk said.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Takagawa replied.
“You know what I want,” Dirk said.
Takagawa nodded.
“Then why didn’t you just give it to my people?”
For the first time, the wizened old man looked into Dirk’s eyes.
“They came for the manifest,” he said. “I could have given it to them. But I would not do it because it would have misled you. And I was not willing to lie to you.”
“So you gave them nothing,” Dirk said.
Takagawa nodded. “There seemed to me some honor in not being overtly deceptive. If I said nothing, I have not lied. At least you would know to be concerned. But to tell you a falsehood after what you have done for me . . . I could not do such a thing and face you.”
“Why not just tell me the truth?” Dirk asked.
“My position in Shokara is not absolute,” Takagawa said. “Always there is palace intrigue to be dealt with. To tell you the truth would offend others. Perhaps even expose Shokara to liability. Or sanctions by your government.”
Pitt didn’t blink. He needed answers. At this point the cost to Shokara Shipping did not concern him.
“Haruto,” Dirk said, “three of my people were injured trying to stop the hijacking of your ship. Two more have been attacked since we began investigating, and one of them is now in a coma while his wife prays for him to come back to her. So forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t care what kind of problems it brings. If you’re the man I think you are, then you know it’s time to speak.”
Takagawa looked at the twisted metal nameplate in front of him and then into Dirk’s eyes. He stared long and hard before speaking. “Perhaps you have saved me twice,” he whispered.
With that, he reached for a briefcase at his feet and lifted it up to the table. He laid it flat, popped the latches, and opened it. Reaching inside, he pulled out a folder, which he handed to Dirk.
“This is the information you seek,” he said.
“What am I going to find in here?” Dirk asked.
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“The cargo on the Kinjara Maru was bound for Hong Kong. Most of it was standard bulk materials, but included in the mix and not listed on the manifest were three hundred tons of titanium-doped YBCO.”
“What’s YBCO?” Pitt asked.
“Yttrium, barium, copper, oxide,” Takagawa explained. “It’s an intricate crystalline compound that acts as a high-temperature superconductor. A newer, more advanced version has been developed that can be doped with titanium and iron peptides: the Ti version. It’s by far the strongest superconductor ever created.”
“Strongest?” Pitt asked. “What do you mean?”
“I wouldn’t be able to explain it,” Takagawa said. “I’m just an old ship’s captain. But you must have people who will understand. The information I have on it is in there.”
Pitt would get the information to Hiram Yaeger as soon as he returned to the office. “Why were you afraid to tell me that?” Pitt asked.
“Because it’s not a naturally occurring compound,” Takagawa said. “It’s created in a lab. The Ti version is patented by an American corporation, and, more important, it’s listed as a restricted technology. Transfer to other nations, including China, is illegal. By allowing it onto our ship, Shokara is in violation of this law.”
Now Pitt began to understand. With economic tensions between the U.S. and China always simmering, and claims, mostly substantiated, that the Chinese government and its corporations preferred espionage and theft to honest development, neither the Chinese nor the U.S. government would be happy to hear that this compound had been shipped to Hong Kong. But with both countries needing each other, the most likely candidate to be punished and made a scapegoat would be the shipper: Shokara.
“Why would you be involved in something like this?” Pitt asked. “This country has been phenomenally good to you.”
“I was not aware of it until after the Kinjara Maru went down,” Takagawa said.
Dirk believed that. He sensed the heavy heart and the weight of dishonor that Takagawa felt.
“I believe someone boarded that ship to steal something,” Pitt said. “It sounds like this YBCO was the most likely target.”
“It is worth more than its weight in gold,” Takagawa said.
“Do you know anything about the people who hit your ship?” Pitt asked. “Any rumors even?”
Takagawa shook his head.
There had to be something. “Where did you load the compound?”
“Freetown,” Takagawa said. “Sierra Leone.”
Dirk had been in Freetown ten years back when NUMA had consulted on a project to deepen the navigation channel. Though the country was still a shambles, Freetown was still one of the busiest ports in West Africa at the time.
From what he’d heard, things had improved quite a bit under the autocratic leadership of its president, Djemma Garand, but it wasn’t exactly a hub of high-tech activity.
“Could it have come from there?” he asked.
Takagawa shook his head. “Sierra Leone has mines and mineral wealth, but, as I said, YBCO doesn’t come from the ground.”
“So Freetown was a transfer point,” Pitt said.
“It happens this way,” Takagawa said. “The loophole. You transfer to a country that is legally allowed to take the material and they send it to a third party without violating any of their own national laws. And then that third party sends it to Russia or China or Pakistan.”
“Do you have any idea who the buyer is?” Dirk asked.
“They will deny it, but it’s in there,” Takagawa said. “Certainly it does not matter now. They did not receive what they paid for.”
Dirk’s mind was working overtime, playing catch-up. “What about the seller?”
Takagawa shook his head. “Not known to me.”
Dirk didn’t like the picture that was forming. “I need a favor,” he said respectfully.
“I can give you no more.”
Pitt stared at him. “Many of your crew died in flames, Haruto.”
Takagawa closed his eyes as if in pain. His left hand went unconsciously to his right wrist and the scars. “Are you chasing them?” he asked.
“I’m about to start,” Dirk said.
“Then I will give you all I can find.”
Pitt stood and bowed his head slightly. “Thank you,” he said. “I promise it will go no further.”
Takagawa nodded but seemed unable to look directly at Dirk. Finally, Pitt turned to go.
“I was wondering,” Takagawa said, “do you still have such wonderful cars? I collect them now myself.”
Pitt stopped and turned back. “Yes, I still have them, and a few more.”
“What one did you drive here tonight?” Takagawa asked, smiling just a bit, no doubt remembering how he and Pitt had discussed cars as a way to stay calm during their escape from the inferno thirty years back.
Pitt shook his head. “I took a cab.”
Takagawa seemed disappointed. “A pity.”
Takagawa’s face brightened, as if the thought of Pitt at the controls of the luxurious automobile warmed his heart somehow.
“Friday,” Takagawa said.
Dirk nodded. “It was a nice day for a drive.”
30
KURT AUSTIN SLID THE DOOR of the microvan open and stepped out onto the street fronting Praia Formosa. The night was quiet; he could hear the waves breaking on the beach just beyond. He offered a hand to Katarina, helped her through the door, and paid the driver.
“Do you want to earn another fare?” he asked.
“Sure,” the driver said, his round face lighting up.
“Go around the block,” Kurt said, “and wait down the end with your lights off and watch for us.”
In his hand Kurt held out a hundred-dollar bill. He ripped it in half and gave one piece to the driver.
“How long do you want me to wait?” the driver asked.
“Until we come back out here,” Kurt said.
The driver nodded, put the vehicle in drive, and began to move away.
“You sure we’re not putting him in danger?” Katarina asked.
Kurt was pretty certain they’d lost whatever tails had tracked them to the restaurant. “He’s in no danger,” Kurt said confidently. “Neither are we, unless the French team wants to fight about the core sample they’ve taken.”
“Not the French way,” she said.
“Which house?” he asked, noticing several villas along the stretch of sand.
“This way,” she said. She turned and began walking, stepping off the rough pavement and onto the grass. Kurt guessed that felt better on her bare feet.
“We have to get you some shoes,” he said.
“Or get rid of yours, and we’ll go for a walk on the beach,” she said, smiling at him.
That sounded like more fun than waking up a group of scientists and accusing them of stealing.
They arrived in front of a yellow-painted villa.
“This is the one,” she said.
Kurt knocked. And then knocked again. They waited.