Devil's Gate

He had to laugh, imagining her with a giant fur hat on.

“Lean forward,” he said. “Press against me and put your arms around me.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said.

In an instant he felt her pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his chest. It was a lot warmer and nicer that way.

They continued on, buzzed their way through the last of the mountain passes, and watched as Vila do Porto spread out before them. The town had fifty thousand inhabitants, or thereabouts, but it looked like Metropolis at that moment.

“Where are we going to land?” Katarina asked.

Kurt had been thinking about that the whole way down. The ultralight only needed a two-hundred-foot strip to land and stop in. In the daylight there might have been fifty places to put down safely, but at night everything that wasn’t lit up looked the same. Thinking he was descending toward a flat field or patch of open ground, he could easily have them ramming a telephone pole, or a house, or a stand of trees.

They had to land somewhere lighted to be safe. The only problem was, most lighted areas had power lines strewn around them. Then Kurt spotted a sight that looked as glorious to him as the runway lights at JFK International. A soccer field, lit for a night game and open to the sky.

A hundred twenty yards of smooth, flat grass without any power lines crossing it or obstructions in the way. It was perfect. He angled toward it, descending slightly. There was a crosswind coming off the Atlantic, and Kurt had to crab the little plane sideways at a thirty-degree angle to keep them from getting blown inland.

At five hundred feet, he could see a crowd around the perimeter but no players on the field. Katarina pressed into him tighter.

“I need my arms back,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said. “Don’t like flying. Especially takeoffs and landings.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “This one’s going to be a breeze.”

Within a minute of saying that, Kurt wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He saw players taking the field, either it was the start of the game or halftime had just ended.

He and Katarina were a hundred feet up, three hundred feet from the end of the grass. They had to hear him. Of course hearing a plane flying around didn’t exactly make one run for cover. He guessed that would change in a few seconds.

The engine began to sputter and cough.

“We’re almost out of fuel,” he said.

“Just land, already,” she shouted back.

He continued on, wishing the damn thing had a horn. “Too bad I don’t have my vuvuzela,” he shouted.

He could see the players shaking hands, the referee standing in the center with his foot on the ball about to blow the whistle. The engine sputtered again, and Kurt put the nose down to pick up speed. The prop sped up again, and he saw the players look his way. The crowd turned as well.

He zoomed over the crowd. A flagpole or something he hadn’t seen hit the right wing. The frame bent, the right side dropped, and Kurt overcorrected back to the left.

Players began ru

They hit the grass and bounced. The ultralight almost nosed over, but Kurt corrected and planted the wheels firmly in the middle of the field, right at the fifty-yard line.

He reached for the brake, pulled it, and felt the small plane skid across the wet grass. One last player dove out of the way, and the ultralight slammed into the goal at the far end of the field.

The net wrapped around them, the propeller died, and the little plane stopped.

Kurt looked up and back. The crowd, the players, the ref, everyone, just stared in an incredible silence. They looked at him and Katarina, and then at one another, and then finally at the ref. He did nothing for a second, then slowly raised one arm, blew his whistle, and yelled, “Goooooaaaaaallll!”

The crowd shouted in unison, raising their arms as if it were a triumph, as if it were an overtime goal to win the World Cup for tiny Vila do Porto, and in moments the players were reaching for Katarina and Kurt, laughing and clapping, as they freed the plane from the net and dragged it back out onto the field.

The players helped Katarina climb out, admiring her form as they did. The ref helped Kurt. And then they were escorted off the field to the sidelines.

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.