“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 Atalantawent 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-Australianand its crew vanished within sight of the island chain. No wreckage was ever found. In 1948, an airliner known as the Star Tigerdisappeared 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 Tigerdisappeared well to the west of the Azores, perhaps a thousand miles from here, and the Scorpionwas 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.