Devil's Gate

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 di

“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 stu

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 to

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.”