Devil's Gate

21

THE RESTAURANT WAS NAMED ESCARPA, which was a way of saying “cliff top” in Portuguese. The name fit, as the low, wide building made of mortar and native stone sat high up in the hills above Santa Maria, three-quarters of the way to the top of the Pico Alto. An eight-mile drive on a twisting mountain road had brought Kurt and Katarina to its doorstep.

On the way, they’d passed open fields, tremendous views, and even an outfit that rented hang gliders and ultralights to tourists. Only a dozen times during the ride had Katarina put the wheels of her small rented Focus onto the gravel during a turn. And if Kurt was honest, only three of those times seemed likely to end in certain death, as the guardrails, which had been intermittent the whole way up, were nowhere to be seen.

But having watched the young woman shift and break and mash the gas pedal at just the right moments, Kurt had decided she was an excellent driver. She’d obviously been trained, and so he figured she was just trying to test his nerve.

He chose not to react, lazily opening the sunroof and then commenting on how incredible the valley looked with nothing standing between them and a trip down into it.

“Enjoying the drive?” she’d asked.

“Immensely,” he’d said. “Just don’t hit any cows.”

Having gotten no reaction out of him only seemed to make her drive harder. And Kurt could barely contain his laughter.

Now at a table, watching the sun drop over the island and into the ocean, they had an opportunity to order. She deferred to him and he chose the island specialty: Bacalhau à Gomes de Sá, Portuguese salt cod with potato casserole, along with fresh, locally grown vegetables.

Kurt took a look at the wine list. Despite several excellent French and Spanish choices, he believed a local dish was best accompanied by a local wine. The Azores had produced wine since the sixteenth century, some of it known to be very good. From what he’d been told, most of the grapes were still picked by hand. He felt it a shame to let such work go to waste.

“We’ll take a bottle of the Terras de Lava,” he said, picking a white to go with the fish.

Across from him, Katarina nodded her approval. “I get to choose dessert,” she insisted, smiling like a trader who’d just gotten the best part of the deal.

He smiled back. “Sounds fair.”

Guessing he would be finishing that dessert before he learned her secret, he chose a different subject.

“So you’re here on behalf of your government,” he said.

She seemed a little prickly about that. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. As if you’re not here on behalf of your government.”

“Actually, I’m not,” he said. “Joe and I were here for a competition. We just stuck around at the request of the Portuguese and Spanish governments. To keep the peace between them.”

“Quite a distinction,” she said, taking a bite from one of the appetizers. “I believe the last time they got in an argument it took the Pope drawing a line across the world to settle it.”

Kurt had to laugh. “Unfortunately, we have no such powers.”

The wine came. He tasted it and nodded his approval.

“Why did they send you here?” he asked.

“I thought you’d be more discreet,” she said.

“Not my strong suit.”

“I work for the Science Directorate,” she explained. “Of course they’re interested in this discovery. A dozen wrecks believed to be dragged down to the depths by the powerful magnetism of this rock. Who wouldn’t be?”

That made sense, even if some of her other actions didn’t.

“No one’s suggesting they were dragged to the bottom by the magnetism,” he said. “Only that during and after their sinkings, the current and the magnetism combined to slowly draw them in.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know. But isn’t it more romantic to imagine this place like the sirens of Greek mythology?”

“More romantic,” he said. “But less accurate.”

The gleam of adventure shone from her eyes. “Are you sure? After all, this part of the ocean has claimed an inordinate number of ships and planes over the years.”

Before he could interject she began a list. “In 1880, the HMS Atalanta went down in these waters. The survivors reported waves of dizziness and sickness and seeing bizarre things. These sights were later called hallucinations and attributed to a shipboard epidemic of yellow fever. But as it was 1880, and the diagnosis was made well after the fact, no one really knows.

“In 1938, a freighter named the Anglo-Australian and its crew vanished within sight of the island chain. No wreckage was ever found. In 1948, an airliner known as the Star Tiger disappeared after taking off from here. There was no Mayday or distress call issued. No wreckage was ever found. In 1968, after having unexplained radio troubles, one of your submarines, the USS Scorpion, vanished not far from here. As I understand it, the wreckage suggested she exploded from within.”

Kurt knew some of the stories. The fact was the Star Tiger disappeared well to the west of the Azores, perhaps a thousand miles from here, and the Scorpion was believed to have suffered a catastrophic failure at depth. There were some in the Navy that insisted she’d been rammed or hit by a Russian torpedo in retaliation for the accidental ramming of a Russian sub in the Pacific. He decided not to relay that theory.

“This place is much like the Bermuda Triangle,” she said. “Can’t we let it be mystical for just a moment?”

“Sure,” he said. “But you should know, U.S. Coast Guard studies have found no significant difference in the rate of ships and planes disappearing in the Bermuda Triangle than anywhere else on the seas. The oceans of this world are dangerous places wherever you decide to go.”

Looking disappointed again, she took a sip of wine. “You know, they’re calling it the Devil’s Gate.”

“Who is?”

“The other scientists,” she said. “Maybe the press.”

That was the first he’d heard of it. “I haven’t seen any press, not since the first day,” he said. “And I’m not sure I understand the reference.”

“The wreckage down there,” she said. “It lies in a wedge-shaped slice, narrowing from the west to the east and pointing toward the tower. At the closest end is a narrow gap through which the current accelerates and then spills over into the deeper waters. At the far end, the presumed entry point, there’s a wider gap between two distinctive raised sections of rock that look something like pillars.”

“And that’s the gate,” he said.

She nodded. “‘Wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction,’” she said. “That’s from Matthew. Chapter seven, verse thirteen. The theory I’ve heard tossed around is that the ships and planes and other wreckage have been dragged through the wide and crooked gate and cannot get through the straight and narrow. A graveyard of the damned: the Devil’s Gate.”

Kurt had to admit it sounded far more exciting than North Central Atlantic Magnetic Anomaly, or whatever it had officially been named.

“The ships check in but they don’t check out,” he said.

“Exactly,” she said, smiling at him.

“None of which explains why you were diving on a wrecked aircraft at the entrance to that gate,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, not attempting to defend her actions or even offer a reason for them. “Nor does it explain why an aircraft made of aluminum — a nonferrous, nonmagnetic metal — would be drawn in by this decidedly magnetic anomaly.”

She had a point, one that hadn’t dawned on Kurt before. As her words sunk in, she took another sip of the wine.

“Very good wine,” she said. “Would you excuse me? I’m just going to freshen up.”

Freshen up? After trying on three different outfits, she’d spent half an hour in the bathroom of her hotel room fixing her hair and makeup. How much fresher could she get?

Kurt stood politely as she walked away. The truth was, she looked fantastic in a simple black cocktail dress and red high-heeled shoes. Especially in contrast to his somewhat disheveled state. He was still in the clothes he’d been wearing this morning, with a change into dive gear, a quick change back, and no shower in between.

He watched her leave, thought about what she’d just said, and took the opportunity to grab his phone and send a text to Joe.

He typed furiously.

I need anything you can find about this Katarina Luskaya. Why she’s here. Who she’s worked for in the past. And anything about that old plane she was diving on. I need it quick.

A text came back from Joe seconds later.

I must be a mind reader. Already on it. Here are a few links. FYI: the plane was listed as lost out of Santa Maria in 1951. There’s a Civil Aeronautics Board file and a crash report. There’s also a CIA stub on it, but I can’t get access to any of the data.

A CIA stub. Kurt guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He started looking over the links Joe had sent, dividing his attention between the entrance to the restrooms and the phone.

IN THE LADIES’ ROOM, Katarina lingered in front of the mirror, hovering over a marble sink. She wasn’t looking at her makeup or her hair or anything besides her own phone.

“Come on,” she urged as the download proceeded sluggishly.

Finally, the screen changed, and a bio of sorts on Kurt Austin appeared. It held more than she expected, more than she had time to read. She scanned the main points, texted a reply to Command saying she’d received it, and slid the phone back into her purse.

A quick check of her hair told her it was as good as it would get, and she turned and walked out.

KURT GLANCED TOWARD THE RESTROOMS, then back at his phone, then back toward the restrooms. He saw the door swing open, read one more line, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

He stood and pulled out her chair as she arrived.

“You look so much fresher,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you,” she replied. “Sometimes it’s hard to feel pretty enough.”

Kurt sensed some unintentional truth in what she’d said. He pinned it on a lifetime of competing in a sport that was judged as opposed to one where you scored or you didn’t. Too much subjectivity had a way of making people uncertain of themselves.

“You look stunning,” he said. “In fact, everyone here is wondering why you’re having dinner with a scruffy guy like me.”

She smiled, and Kurt detected a slight blush.

By now the sun had disappeared. They made small talk till the entrées came, and then, after another glass of wine, Kurt decided to reopen the earlier conversation.

“I have a question,” he said. “Why did you dive on that plane alone? You had two sets of tanks on board. Don’t you have a partner?”

“That’s two questions,” she said, again smiling. “I came to Santa Maria with another representative of the government. But he is not part of the Science Directorate. The assignment is my own,” she added. “The tanks came with the boat.”

Kurt guessed that other representative would be a handler of sorts, to watch over her, to keep her both in line and out of trouble.

“Your turn,” he said, taking another bite of the fish.

“I think I might like this game,” she said, then fired away. “You seemed awfully angry when we came up,” she said. “What made you so mad? Was it my violation of your precious ‘exclusivity zone’ or the fact that I never registered in the first place?”

“Neither,” he said. “I don’t like to see people get hurt. You could have been killed down there in that wreck. Another five minutes and you would have been.”

“So Kurt Austin is a man who cares?”

“Absolutely,” he said, offering an intentionally warm smile.

“Is that why you’re in the salvage business?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Any fool can blow up a boat and send it to the bottom,” she said. “But it takes skill and dedication and far greater risks to bring one back up again. I can see you doing it for exactly those reasons: because it’s harder and because it’s better. And because you like saving things.”

Kurt had never thought of it quite that way, but there was some truth in what she’d said. The world was full of men destroying things and throwing them away. He took pride in restoring old things instead of tossing them out.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she added. “I’m guessing you dove down to salvage me.”

He hadn’t been sure she was in trouble when he’d gone in the water, but he’d been glad to pull her out alive instead of dead. He considered her motivation for taking such a risk in the first place.

“And you’re a competitor,” he said, taking his turn at amateur analysis.

“It has plusses and minuses,” she said.

“National competitions, world championships, the Olympics,” he said. “You’ve spent your whole life trying to prove to coaches and judges and the audience that you’re worthy of their scores, that you even belong in the arena in the first place. Despite a partially torn ligament, you nearly got the bronze in Torino.”

“I nearly won the gold,” she corrected him. “I fell on the last jump. I finished the program on one foot.”

“As I recall you couldn’t walk for a couple of months afterward,” he said, a fact he’d just read on Joe’s update. “But the point stands. A different skater would have backed down, saved her leg for another day.”

“Sometimes you don’t get another day,” she said.

“Is that what drove you on?”

She pursed her lips, studying him and twirling her fork in her angel-hair pasta. Finally, she spoke. “I wasn’t supposed to medal,” she said. “They almost gave my spot to another skater. Most likely, I would never get another shot.”

“You had something to prove,” he replied.

She nodded.

“And this whole thing — an assignment outside your laboratory — I’m guessing this is new to you,” he said. “You must have people back home to impress, maybe you feel you have something to prove to them. Or you might not get another shot.”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “We all want our bosses to be impressed. But there are places on this earth where you don’t take chances. The inside of a wrecked aircraft a hundred forty feet below the surface is one of them.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to show someone they were wrong about you?”

Kurt paused, and then spoke a half-truth. “I try not to worry about what other people think about me.”

“So you have no one to prove anything to?” she asked.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied.

“So there is someone,” she said. “Tell me who. Is it a woman? Is there a Mrs. Austin, or future Mrs. Austin, waiting for you back home?”

Kurt shook his head. “I wouldn’t be here if there was.”

“So who is it?”

Kurt chuckled. The conversation had certainly turned. “Tell me the secret you’re holding, and I’ll give you the answer.”

She looked disappointed again. “I suppose dinner ends as soon as I give you that?”

Kurt didn’t want it to end, but then again… “Depends on the secret,” he said.

She picked up her fork as if she could stall him just a little longer and then she put it down dejectedly.

“Yesterday you rescued a French diver,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “The guy had a hundred pounds of weight on his belt. Where you were reckless, he was just an idiot.”

“Maybe not,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“It was a setup,” she said. “While you and your partner were pulling him out of the water, another member of the French team was drilling a four-foot core sample out of the side of that rock. They’ve been bragging about it already.”

Kurt felt an instant burst of anger. He exhaled sharply and then grabbed his napkin and threw it on the table.

“You were right,” he said. “Time to go.”

“Damn,” she said.

He stood, left a handful of bills on the table, and took her by the hand. They headed for the exit.

“But what about your secret?” she said.

“Later,” he said.

With Katarina in tow, Kurt pushed the door open and stepped through. Something moved in the shadows. An object swung toward him from the right. He tensed himself in the instant he had, and then a bat or a club or a pipe of some kind slammed him in the gut.

Despite his strength, the blow jarred Kurt and knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over and crumpled to his knees.