The crimson rays of the sunset were still lingering on the western horizon when the first rumble of distant thunder signaled the approach of a lightning storm. The air was warm and the gentle offshore breeze felt good on Seagram’s face as he sat on the terrace of the Balboa Bay Club and sipped his after-dinner cognac.

It was eight o’clock, the hour when the fashionable residents of Newport Beach began their evening socializing. Seagram had taken a dip in the club pool and then eaten early. He sat there listening to the grumbling of the nearing storm. The air became thick and charged with electricity, but there was no sign of rain or wind. In the photographic flash of the lightning he could see pleasure boats cruising up the bay, showing red and green navigation lights, their white paint giving them the appearance of silent gliding ghosts. Lightning stabbed the night air again, a jagged fork splitting the clouded sky. He watched it strike somewhere behind the Balboa Island rooftops, and in almost the same instant, the roar of the thunder thrust against his eardrums like a cannon barrage.

Everyone else had nervously moved inside the dining room, and Seagram soon found the terrace deserted. He stayed, enjoying mother nature’s display of fireworks. He finished off the cognac and leaned back in his chair, watching for the next flash of lightning. It soon came and illuminated a figure standing beside his table. In that instant of light, he made out a tall man with black hair and rugged features staring down at him through cool, piercing eyes. Then the stranger blended into the darkness again.

As the thunder rumbled away, a seemingly disembodied voice asked, “Are you Gene Seagram?”

Seagram hesitated, waiting for his eyes to readjust themselves to the dark that followed the flash. “I am.”

“I believe you’ve been looking for me.”

“At the moment, you have the advantage.”

“My apologies. I’m Dirk Pitt.”

The skies lit up again and Seagram was relieved to see a smiling face. “It would seem, Mr. Pitt, that dramatic entrances are a habit with you. Did you also conjure up this electrical storm?”

Pitt’s answering laugh came to the accompaniment of a clap of thunder.

“I haven’t mastered that feat yet, but I am making progress at parting the Red Sea.”

Seagram gestured to an empty chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.”

“I’d offer you a drink, but my waiter apparently has a fear of lightning.”

“The worst of it is passing,” Pitt said, looking skyward. The voice was quiet and controlled.

“How did you find me?” Seagram asked.