Devil's Gate

Dirk leaned back in his chair, looking as casual as could be. “Sure,” he said to Brinks and then turned to Kurt. “Are you serious about this plan?”

“Yes, sir,” Kurt said. “I know someone who Andras used as a contact years ago. I believe he’s still active.”

“Then what are you doing wasting your time with us? Get your butt moving.”

Kurt smiled and stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“This is ridiculous,” Brinks said.

“And take Joe with you,” Pitt added, “if he wants to go.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Joe said.

Brinks ground his teeth and leaned over the table, looking at Dirk Pitt.

“One call and I’ll override this,” he said.

“No you won’t,” Pitt said confidently. “For one, Kurt’s right. Sticking him and Joe on a destroyer is a waste of resources. For another, it puts all our eggs in one basket: your basket. Which I realize, having spent so much time in Washington lately, is half the point. You get the credit if we succeed and you blame them and NUMA if you fail. Simple math. But you forgot a very important variable and that is: I don’t work for you and neither do these men. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you put the country or maritime community at risk for your own personal political agenda.”

Brinks looked about like a man who’d been gored in a bullfight. Even Admiral Farnsworth seemed pleased with the outcome, no doubt wondering what he needed a couple of NUMA civilians on his boats for anyway.

The admiral chuckled and then looked over at Gamay. “We could still use you, Mrs. Trout. Our sonar teams are very friendly.”

“I’ll do my best to help,” she said.

Kurt stepped to the door.

“One thing, Kurt,” Dirk said.

Kurt looked back.

“Stay on the narrow road. This is a mission for us,” Pitt reminded him, “not a sortie of revenge.”

Kurt understood Dirk’s concern. He could feel the conflict inside himself, and no doubt it was easy for someone like Dirk Pitt to pick up on.

He nodded to Pitt, glanced at Brinks, and then headed for the door. He opened it and ran right into one of NUMA’s administrative assistants, a young woman he didn’t know.

“Are you okay?” Kurt asked.

The young woman nodded. “I just came to give Mrs. Trout some news.”

Kurt opened the door wider and let her in.

“Paul’s awake,” the woman said. “He’s asking for you.”

40

Freetown, Sierra Leone, June 28

DJEMMA GARAND STOOD TALL in the commander’s position in the turret of an aging Russian-made battle tank. His nation had only forty of them, and as Djemma sprung his nationalization plan on the world he intended to put together a show of force in the most public way possible.

While infantry units supported by helicopters and militiamen took control of the mines out in the country, Djemma and twenty of his precious tanks rolled through downtown.

They traveled in a long column, flanked by missile-carrying transports and jeeps and armored perso

As the convoy rolled past, the cheers sounded genuine, and Djemma took pride in what he was doing. His force was headed to the port in a ceremonial gesture. It was already in his hands, as was the large refinery a few miles to the north and the airport and the few factories on Sierra Leone’s soil.

Riding beside him, a handpicked reporter and cameraman recorded the event.

“President Garand,” the reporter said, almost yelling to be heard over the roaring tank engine and its rumbling, squeaking tracks, “I understand you’ve informed the IMF that Sierra Leone will no longer be making payments on its outstanding portfolio of loans. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Djemma said. “We are tired of breaking our backs just to pay interest.”

“And that choice is tied to today’s actions?” the reporter asked right on cue.

“Today is a day of liberty,” Djemma said. “Once upon a time, we became free of colonialism. Today we are freeing ourselves from a different kind of oppression. Economic oppression.”

The reporter nodded. “Are you concerned that there will be reprisals for this action?” the man said. “Surely the world will not stand by while you violate the property rights of dozens of multinational corporations.”

“I am only obeying the principle of an eye for an eye,” Djemma said. “For centuries they have violated the property rights of my people. They have come here and taken from us precious gems and metals and treasures and given us only pain in return. A cook in one of these companies’ executive lunchrooms makes twenty times more than a miner who toils in heat and danger, risking his life every day. Not to mention the executive who does less work than the cook.”

Djemma laughed as he spoke. A little good cheer went a long way.

“But the mines, the refinery, the infrastructure, these things cost billions of dollars in investment money,” the reporter said.

“And my people have already paid for them,” Djemma said. “In blood.”

The tanks rolled on, rumbling toward the dockside cranes. A small cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky to the west of the port. It was definitely a fire, but Djemma doubted there had been any real resistance.

Perhaps someone had done something foolish. Or perhaps the black smoke had nothing to do with the events. A car or truck fire or some other industrial incident.

No matter, it made for a good visual. “Film the smoke,” he said to the cameraman. “Let them know we mean business.”

The cameraman turned and zoomed his lens, getting a closer shot of the rising cloud. His recording, and the video of Djemma aboard the tank, would play in endless loops on CNN, FOX, and the BBC.

In twenty-four hours people around the world would know all about him and a country most had never heard of. By then Djemma would have most of the foreign nationals rounded up and placed on flights back to their respective countries.

Their nations would bluster and bluff, and freeze Sierra Leone’s all-but-nonexistent foreign assets. They’d demand he explain himself, which he would gladly, again and again if necessary. In his mind the actions were legitimate; why should he not speak of them?

And then they’d come to him, demanding all kinds of things. The negotiations would begin. They would try very hard not to offer anything at first, lest they be seen to be giving in. But it would matter little as he would not budge.

They would grow angry and pound the desk and rant and rave and threaten things. And then it would get dicey, for with the nations of the world finally interested in him Djemma would not give in but instead he would demand more.

He knew the risks. But for the first time in two thousand years an African general was in possession of a weapon that could bring down an empire.

41

PAUL TROUT WAS SITTING UP in his hospital bed. His wife stood nearby. She’d been hugging and kissing him and squeezing his hand nonstop for an hour. It felt good despite all the other pains in his body.

His back ached. His head hurt and his thoughts came slowly, like he’d been overmedicated or had too many glasses of red wine. Still, he felt surprisingly good, considering what Gamay was telling him.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he said after hearing her explanation of the escape from the Grouper and the fact that he’d been in a coma for the past four days.