Clive Cussler - Devil's Gate

“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.”

“But the other day,” Pitt said, “I took my Duesenberg roadster out for a spin.”

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.”

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.

No answer.

The place was dark. Even the outside lights were off.

“You sure this is it?” Kurt asked.

“They had a party here last night,” she said. “Everyone came.” Kurt knocked again, banging harder, not at all concerned that he might be waking the neighbors. As he pounded the door something strange happened. The outside light, which was off, flickered on for an instant with each strike of his fist.

“What the…”

He stopped hammering the door and turned his attention to the light. Reaching into the sconce, his hands found the bulb. It was loose. He twisted it and it came on. Two more turns sealed it tightly.

“Doing some maintenance?” Katarina said.

Kurt held up a hand, and she went quiet. He crouched down and studied the doorjamb. Gouges and scrapes around the lock told him more bad news.

“What’s wrong?”

“Somebody forced the lock,” he said. “They unscrewed the bulb so no one would see them working it. Old thief’s trick.” Kurt tested the door. It was certainly locked now.

He headed for the side of the house. Katarina followed.

“Stay here,” he said.

“Not a chance,” she replied.

He didn’t have time to argue. He snuck past a hedge of tropical bougainvillea and moved toward the rear of the house. A sundeck beckoned. Kurt hopped up onto it and moved to a sliding glass door.

Nothing but darkness inside.

It took all of three seconds to pop the door up off its tracks and slide it open.

“Did you used to be a burglar?” Katarina whispered.

“Gifts from a misspent youth,” he whispered back. “Now, please stay here.” “What if someone starts to choke you again?” she asked “And I’m not there to save you?” Kurt guessed he wasn’t going to live that moment down. He snuck inside the house with Katarina right behind him. Right away he could tell something was wrong. The place was a shambles.

Katarina winced suddenly, made a slight noise, and dropped down to her hands and knees.

Kurt dropped down next to her. Aside from the two of them, nothing in the house was moving. “What’s wrong?” “Glass,” she said, pulling a sliver out of her foot.

“Give me two minutes,” Kurt said.

This time, she nodded and held her position.

Kurt moved quickly, exploring the rest of the villa, and then returned with a grim look on his face.

Back in the living room, he switched the lights on. The place looked as if it had been hit by a tornado; couches overturned, cabinets open, and items strewn about. A glass table lamp had been shattered, and shards of glass littered the floor.

“We need to call the police,” Kurt said. He looked for the phone, spotted a pair of flip-flops by the door, and handed them to Katarina.

“Put these on.”

As she slipped her feet into the sandals, Kurt located the phone and picked up the receiver.

No dial tone. He found the wall jack and realized the phone had been ripped out of it. The jack looked damaged. They’d have to find another one to plug it into. He headed for the kitchen.

“What happened here?” Katarina asked.

“The French habit of talking too much got the best of them,” Kurt said. He’d found another phone jack near the sink. He plugged the cord in, got a tone, and began dialing.

As he waited for someone to pick up, he noticed an open drawer. Silverware and other utensils had spilled onto the floor, including a vicious-looking carving knife. It looked like the French had fought back.

With his attention diverted, Kurt didn’t notice Katarina beginning to wander about. When he looked up, she was standing near the doorway to another room, reaching in as if to turn the light on.

“Don’t,” Kurt said.

Too late. The switch flicked, and the room lit up.

Katarina gasped and turned away. Kurt put the phone down and grabbed her, as she looked as if she might faint.

She glanced back in the room and then buried her face in his chest. “They’re dead,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want you to see that.” The entire French team had been murdered. Four bodies lay in the room, thrown disrespectfully against the wall like discarded junk. Bullet holes riddled one of the men, another looked as if he’d been strangled, based on the marks around his neck. The others were harder to see, and Kurt hadn’t gone that close. But even from the doorway Kurt recognized the man he’d plucked from the depths with too much weight on his belt.

In Kurt’s arms Katarina trembled, a hand over her mouth, her eyes closed tight. Kurt turned her away and led her to the living room. He righted the couch and sat her down.

“I have to call the police,” he said.

She nodded, unable to speak.

As Kurt moved back to the open kitchen he kept an eye on Katarina. It was true men had already died that night, but they’d been men intent on killing or harming both him and her. And they’d gone off a cliff hidden in a car, all but unseen. This was different.

These men were fellow scientists. Katarina had apparently shared drinks with them on at least one occasion.

“How could the police not know already?” she asked.

“It probably happened quickly,” Kurt said, hoping for the dead men’s sake it had. “The assailants probably had suppressors on their weapons and took these men by surprise.” “But why?” she asked. “Why would anyone—” “They had the core sample,” Kurt said. “From what I understand it could be extremely valuable, that’s why we’re here while the Spanish and Portuguese figure out who owns it and in what percentages. These guys were bold enough to take that sample illegally but stupid enough to talk about it.” “Too much wine,” she said. “Men like to brag when they’ve had too much wine.” The police finally answered and promised to send both investigators and the coroner. While he waited, Kurt searched in vain for the core sample. He found a long rectangular box filled with foam in a room with other equipment. It lay open and turned over. He guessed the sample had been inside.