Kurt explained to someone a version of what had happened, promised to pay for any damages, and insisted that the ultralight rental outfit would come for its plane tomorrow.
As the soccer game began again, he and Katarina made their way out to the street. Somewhere near the field there had to be a cab waiting or bus they could take. A microvan pulled up with some kind of sign on it.
“We need to go to the harbor,” Kurt said.
“I can take you,” the driver said.
Kurt opened the door. Katarina went to climb in but paused.
“That was really quite incredible,” she said, gazing into his eyes.
They’d almost been killed three times, her rental car had been sent off a cliff and turned into a burning hulk, and she was still almost blue from the cold, but her eyes sparkled as if he’d just shown her the time of her life. He had to admire that.
He reached out, pulled her to him, and kissed her on the lips. They kissed for a few seconds longer, her arms wrapping around him from the front this time, until the driver coughed lightly.
They parted.
“Was that to warm me up?” she asked.
He smiled. “Did it work?”
“Better than you know,” she said, turning and climbing into the taxi. He got in after her, and the little bubble van moved off toward the harbor.
“You know,” she said, “we’re only a mile or so from the house where the French team is staying.”
“Really,” he said, remembering what she’d told him earlier. “Do you have the address?”
“It’s right on the beach at Praia Formosa. The most luxurious rental in town.”
That sounded like the French way to him.
“Driver,” Kurt said. “Take us to Praia Formosa.”
29
THE AVENUES OF MANHATTAN bustled with traffic and energy on a warm summer night. The people were out in droves, crowds on foot, others in cars and cabs and even carriages taking romantic rides around Central Park. It was twenty minutes after dusk, and the city that never sleeps was just getting started.
Dirk Pitt rode in a taxi headed for a five-star restaurant. As he cruised down Park Avenue, the orange reflection of the streetlights traveled methodically up the polished yellow surface of the car’s hood. One after another, they passed, steady and slow like silent heartbeats. He imagined Paul Trout’s heartbeat, prayed it was remaining strong, and thought of Gamay, watching over him, trying to will her husband back to consciousness.
He had come to meet with Takagawa face-to-face, but, assuming he’d be denied entry at the reception desk, Dirk decided to seek out his old acquaintance somewhere other than the office. He’d procured information as to where Takagawa would be dining this night and decided to surprise him on neutral ground.
The restaurant was called Miyako, a place known for local celebrities and ballplayers who brought their supermodel dates in late at night. Miyako served traditional Japanese fare in an ultramodern, upscale environment. Twenty-dollar martinis and shots of sake flowed like water, while traditional delicacies, such as poisonous puffer fish, sea cucumber intestines, and
Haruto Takagawa was expected to be dining there with his son, Ren, several ranking members of Shokara Shipping’s executive staff, and at least two hedge fund managers looking to invest in Shokara’s latest venture.
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 dinner jacket, and a two-hundred-dollar button-down shirt open at the collar.
“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 stunned, but closer to anger than anything else.
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 tonnage.
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 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.”
