Devil's Gate

“What do you remember?” she asked.

He reached back, clawing at the darkness in his mind. Since he’d awoken, random thoughts had been popping into his head. Like a computer rebooting itself after an unexpected shutdown, it seemed as if his mind was reorganizing things. The smell of food from the commissary brought an odd thought to the forefront.

“I remember that one Thanksgiving in Santa Fe when you burned the turkey and then admitted that I was right about how to cook it.”

“What?” she said, laughing. “That’s what you remember?”

“Well…” he said. “To actually be right about something and have you admit it all in the same day was a pretty rare experience.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ve heard that people with head trauma sometimes come out of it with new skills they never had before. It hasn’t happened with you, my love. You were never a comedian and you’re still not.”

He laughed this time. His head felt as if it was clearing a bit more each second.

“I remember the sun shining off the sea,” he said. “And that we were getting ready to take the Grouper down. And I was thinking we shouldn’t both go.”

As it turned out they had worked together seamlessly and almost made it back to the surface. He didn’t remember it, but Gamay seemed to indicate that if he hadn’t been there she would have died.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

She filled him in on the rest of the details, finishing with her next duty. “I’m flying out to an antisubmarine frigate in the Atlantic this time tomorrow. We’ll be working on the sonar tapes.”

Paul stared at her. He understood the call of duty and he wasn’t about to interfere. But he could not shake the great sense of almost having lost her even if he couldn’t recall the details.

He threw the sheet back. “I’m going with you,” he said, swinging a leg over the edge.

She put a hand on him. “Paul.”

“I’m out of the woods,” he insisted. “The doctor said so. Besides, I’ve worked with sonar a lot more than you have. Specifically, the GEO sounder unit on the Matador.”

He could tell she was against it and worried. After what had happened, who wouldn’t be? But he wasn’t staying behind.

He forced his way out of bed and stood, a little unsteady. He was so tall, the hospital gown looked like a miniskirt on him.

“Don’t these come in long?” he said.

Gamay continued pouting.

“We’ll be on a warship,” he said. “Armor plating, missiles, guns, torpedoes. We couldn’t be safer.”

She shook her head and then exhaled sharply. “Fine,” she said. “I never could talk sense into you anyway.”

He laughed, pressed the buzzer for the nurse, and started looking for a robe or something to cover himself up with.

“One thing,” she said seriously.

He turned.

“I’m not going back in the water,” she said.

He cocked his head. “What?”

“I’m not going back in the water,” she said. “Not in a submersible, not in a dive suit, or any other way. I’m not ready for that.”

As long as he’d known her, Gamay had never been afraid of anything, but the fear was plain in her voice now.

“You don’t remember it,” she said. “In some ways I think you’re lucky on that count. But it was horrible.”

“We’ll stay on deck,” he said. “Or in our air-conditioned quarters. Hopefully, near the mess and the soft-serve ice-cream machine.”

He gri

42

Singapore, Malaysia, June 30

TWENTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER being freed from the NSA’s clutches, Kurt and Joe landed in Singapore. They’d boarded a flight at Dulles, gladly paid through the nose for first-class tickets, and literally flew to the other side of the world.

A trip to the hotel to unpack and a call to an old friend who’d helped him years back had left Kurt with nothing to do but get some sleep. As it turned out, he was too damn tired to make it off the couch and fell asleep right there.

His two-hour nap ended when the phone rang in the darkness.

Startled awake as if he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod, Kurt lunged for the phone. He grabbed it as he tumbled off the couch, picking up the receiver just in time to prevent it from going to the message system.

“The White Rajah,” a voice he didn’t recognize said.

“What?” Kurt asked.

“You are Kurt Austin?”

“Yes.”

“I was told to call you,” the voice said. “And to explain where you will find what you’re looking for. The White Rajah.”

“Wait,” Kurt said. “What is the—”

The phone line went dead, and a dial tone soon followed. Kurt placed the receiver back on the cradle and leaned against the front of the couch.

“Where am I?” he mumbled to himself.

He remembered flying, changing planes at LAX, and then part of the next flight. He remembered checking in at the hotel. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Singapore.”

He looked around. The room was utterly dark except for a clock radio between the beds opposite him. The clock read 7:17 p.m. It felt like three in the morning.

Kurt stood awkwardly and pounded on the door to the adjoining room.

“Get up,” he grumbled to Joe. “Time to go to work.”

The door opened seconds later. Joe stood there, clean-shaven, hair gelled, wearing an Armani shirt and white linen slacks.

Kurt stared at him dumbfounded. “Don’t you sleep?”

“The night calls me,” Joe said, smiling. “Who am I to refuse?”

“Yeah, well, somebody else called me,” Kurt said. “So while I shower, you find out what on earth the White Rajah is. I’m guessing it’s a hotel or a bar or a street.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

Kurt nodded. “Someone’s going to meet us there,” he said.

“Who?”

“That’s the thing,” Kurt said. “I don’t have any idea.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, looking refreshed and like a more conservative version of Joe, Kurt Austin marched into the friendly confines of the White Rajah, a restaurant and bar that had once been an old English gentlemen’s club in the Victorian era, when the English had a substantial influence on the island of Malaysia.

Kurt wandered through several large rooms with exquisitely carved mahogany paneling, hand-blown glass-block skylights, and overstuffed leather chairs and couches that looked as if Churchill himself might have once sat on them.

Instead of bridge tournaments between retired members of the British East India Company and captains of industry smoking pipes and thick cigars, he saw the young and wealthy of Singapore dining on oysters and knocking back expensive drinks.

An informal count registered the crowd to be mixed about fifty-fifty: half were Western expatriates and the rest local citizens or visiting Asian businessmen.

Circling back around to the front of the house, Kurt took a seat at the main bar, which appeared to be made from a thin sheet of alabaster lit from below. It looked almost like glowing amber.

“Can I get you something?” a bartender quickly asked.

Joe smiled. Kurt knew he’d been to Singapore before. “I’ll have a Tiger,” he said.

“Perfect choice,” the bartender said, then turned to Kurt. “And you, sir?”

Kurt was still looking around, sca

“Sir?”

“Coffee,” Kurt said. “Black.”

The man nodded and hustled off.

“Coffee,” Joe said, apparently surprised at Kurt’s choice of beverage. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Above them blue light flickered through the glass blocks of the skylight; either heat lightning in the distance or an approaching thunderstorm.