Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

32

NEBILE LABABITI GLANCEDat the nuclear bomb sitting on the wood floor of the apartment just off the Strand with excitement tempered by apprehension. It was an inert object—mainly machined metal and a few copper wires—but it elicited a feeling of awe and danger. The bomb was more than just an object—it had a life. Like a painting or sculpture infused with the life force of its creator, the bomb was not simply a hunk of metal. It was the answer to his people’s prayers.

They would strike directly at the heart of the British.

The hated British that had stolen artifacts from the pyramids, oppressed the citizens of the Middle East, and fought alongside the Americans in battles they had no place mounting. Lababiti was smack-dab in the center of the lion’s den. Downtown London was all around him. The City, where the bankers that funded the oppression resided; the art galleries, museums, and theatre districts of downtown were nearby. Number 10 Downing Street, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace.

The palace. Home to the queen, the ancient symbol of all he despised. The pomp and circumstance, the righteousness and ceremony. Soon it would all burn with the fires from the sword of Islam—and when it was over, the world would never be the same. The heart would be cut from the beast. The hallowed ground seeping with history would become a barren wasteland where the human soul would find no purchase.

Lababiti lit a cigarette.

It wouldn’t be long now. Sometime today the young Yemeni warrior who had agreed to deliver the payload to the target would arrive in the city. Lababiti would wine and dine the boy. Supply whores and hashish and tasty treats. He could do no less for a man willing to commit to the cause with his life.

Once the boy was acclimated and knew the route, Lababiti would make a hasty retreat.

The key to leadership, he thought, was not to die for your country—it was to make the other man die for his. And Nebile Lababiti had no designs on becoming a martyr himself. By the time the bomb exploded, he’d be safely across the English Channel in Paris.

He only wondered why he had not heard from Al-Khalifa.

“I DON’T KNOW how we missed it,” Rodgers said.

“No matter,” Meadows said, “now you have a plate number on the truck. Track it down and the bomb will be close.”

“Can I have the tape?” Rodgers asked.

Meadows didn’t disclose that he’d had the author make two copies and that one of them was safely inside the borrowed Range Rover. “Sure,” he said.

“I think we can take it from here,” Rodgers said, reasserting his authority. “I’ll make sure and have my boss notify the head of American intelligence to praise you for your contribution.”

The constant struggle between people and agencies was exerting itself. Rodgers must have been briefed by his superiors that whatever might happen, MI5 needed to receive credit for recovering the bomb. Now that he had what he believed would allow them to recover the bomb, he was trying to push the Corporation into the background.

“I understand,” Seng said. “Do you mind if we keep the Rover for a few more days?”

“No, please, help yourself,” Rodgers said.

“And would it be all right if we questioned the owner of the pub,” Meadows asked, “just so we can complete our file and all?”

“We’ve already extensively grilled the man,” Rodgers said, considering the request for a long moment, “so I can’t see how it can hurt.”

Rodgers reached for his cell phone to call in the van’s plate number, then stared at the two Americans with expectation.

“Thank you,” Seng said, motioning to Meadows to walk toward the Range Rover, leaving Rodgers alone.

Rodgers gave a semi-salute and dialed the phone.

Meadows opened the door and climbed behind the wheel as Seng slid into the passenger seat.

“Why’d you give him the tape?” Seng said when the doors were closed.

Meadows pointed to the copy on the floor then started the Range Rover and spun it around in a U-turn.

“Let’s go visit the pub owner,” he said, “and see what else we can find out.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Seng asked a few minutes later as Meadows stopped in front of the bar.

“I don’t know,” Meadows said. “Does it have to do with the motorcycle that was also on the tape?”

“Why don’t I call it in,” Seng said, “while you go inside?”

Meadows climbed out of the Range Rover. “You’ve got a damn good memory,” he said.

Seng held up his palm, where the number was scrawled in ink.

Meadows closed the door and walked to the pub entrance.

THE TREES IN St. James’s and Green Parks near Buckingham Palace were devoid of leaves, and the dormant grass was dusted with a thick frost. Tourists watched the changing of the guards with puffs of steam coming from their mouths. A man on a scooter came down Piccadilly then turned on Grosvenor Place and drove slowly past the lake inside Buckingham Palace Gardens. Continuing on, he rounded the corner onto Buckingham Palace Road to where it met the Birdcage Walk. Pulling to the side of the road alongside the lake inside St. James’s Park, he recorded his travel times and the traffic conditions.

Then he slid the small notebook back into his jacket pocket and puttered away.

CABRILLO POKED HIS head out the side window of the MG. An hour ago, when he had driven past Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland, he had been gaining on the van. Now as the MG labored up the Grampian Mountains the van was pulling ahead once again. Something needed to happen soon. Cabrillo expected to see Adams in the Robinson, the British army or air force, or even a police car any minute. He was sure the Oregonwas sending help—he was unarmed in an underpowered chase car.

Surely someone had figured out where he was by now.

ON BOARD THE Oregon,they were working on the problem with limited success.

The ship was still a hundred miles from Kinnaird Head, steaming south at full speed. In a few more hours she’d be off Aberdeen, a few more and she’d cross a point offshore Edinburgh.

“Okay,” Kasim shouted across the control room to Hanley, “Adams reports he has enough fuel loaded on board to make it to the airport in Inverness. Once there, he’ll top off the tanks and head south along the road.”

“How much range will he have then?” Hanley asked.

“Hold on,” Kasim said, repeating the question to Adams.

“Most of England,” Kasim said, “but he won’t be able to make London without refueling.”

“We should have this wrapped up before then,” Hanley said.

“Okay,” Kasim shouted, “Adams said he has the engine going.”

“Tell him to follow the road until he finds Cabrillo.”

Kasim repeated the orders.

“He said the fog is as thick as a winter coat,” Kasim said, “but he’ll fly right above the road.”

“Good,” Hanley said.

Linda Ross walked over to Hanley’s chair. “Boss,” she said, “Stone and I reworked the tracking frequencies on the bugs on the meteorite. We’re getting a more complete signal now.”

“Which monitor?”

Ross pointed to one on the far wall.

The meteorite was almost to Stirling. Soon the driver of the van would need to signal his intentions with a turn. East toward Glasgow, or west toward Edinburgh.

“Get me Overholt,” he said to Stone.

A few seconds later Overholt came on the line.

“I’LL HAVE THE British seal off the roads just outside Glasgow and Edinburgh,” Overholt said, “and search every truck.”

“We’re blessed there’s not that many roads they can pick from,” Hanley said. “They should be able to snag the truck.”

“Let’s hope,” Overholt said. “Now on another note, I got a call from the head of MI5 thanking Meadows and Seng for the work they are doing on the nuclear bomb problem. Apparently Meadows located a videotape that gave them a license-plate number they think will lead them to the bomb.”

“I’m glad,” Hanley said.

Overholt paused before speaking again. “Officially they also asked if your people could back off now—they want to handle it from here.”

“I’ll let Meadows and Seng know when they phone in,” Hanley told him.

“Well, Max,” Overholt said, “if I were you, I wouldn’t be in a rush to take their call.”

“I get your drift, Mr. Overholt,” Hanley said as he hung up.

“Overholt says the British want Meadows and Seng to back off and let them handle the stray nuke,” Hanley said to Stone.

“You should have told me,” Stone said. “They just telephoned in to have me run a British motorcycle plate.”

“Did you locate the owner?”

“Name and address,” Stone said.

“What else did they need?”

“I faxed several dossiers to Meadows’s laptop. The land line he used was a number listed in the directory as Pub ’n Grub on the Isle of Sheppey.”

MEADOWS HAD LEARNED long ago that threats only worked when someone had something to lose. The agents from MI5 and the local police had made it clear to the owner of the pub what might happen if he did not cooperate. They forgot to mention what might happen if he did. It’s easy to gather bees with honey. For information, money works better.

“Gold watch, huh,” Meadows was saying as Seng walked inside and nodded.

“Piaget custom,” the owner said.

Meadows slid five hundred-dollar bills across the bar as Seng walked over and sat down at the bar. “What do you want to drink?” Meadows asked Seng.

“Black and tan,” Seng said without hesitation.

The owner went off to draw the drink. Meadows bent down and whispered to Seng, “How much cash do you have?”

“Ten,” Seng said, meaning thousand.

Meadows nodded and slid the laptop around so both he and the owner could see the screen. “Now for five thousand American and our heartfelt thanks, I’m going to scroll through some pictures. If you recognize the man that was with the ship captain, you tell me and I’ll stop.”

The owner nodded and Meadows began going through the photographs of Al-Khalifa’s known accomplices. They had scrolled through over a dozen before the owner shouted to stop. The pub owner stared at the digital photograph intently.

“I think that’s him,” he said at last.

Meadows turned the laptop back around so the owner couldn’t see. Then he unlocked the file showing the pictured man’s personal habits.

“Did he smoke?” Meadows asked.

The owner thought back for a second. “Yes, he did.”

“Remember the brand?” Meadows asked, showing Seng the information, as if they were engaged in a board game and not a life-and-death situation.

“Oh, hell,” the owner said, thinking back.

Meadows pointed to the line that mentioned Lababiti had a gold Piaget watch.

“I got it,” the owner shouted. “Morelands, and he had a fancy silver lighter.”

Meadows folded the laptop closed and stood up.

“Pay the man,” he said to Seng.

Seng reached into his jacket pocket and removed a wad of bills, then broke the paper seal. Counting out fifty, he handed them to the owner. “Bob,” Seng shouted to Meadows, who was almost at the door, “verify for me.”

“You gave him five,” Meadows said, “duly noted.”

33

THE OREGON WASracing through the North Sea like a whale on speed. In the control room, Hanley, Stone, and Ross were staring intently at a monitor that showed the location of the meteorite. The signals had calmed down since the frequency adjustment. Other than the occasional distortions that occurred when the bugs passed near high-powered electrical lines, they were finally receiving a clear image.

“The amphibious plane just landed in the Firth of Forth,” Stone noted, glancing at another screen. “It’s too foggy for him to locate Mr. Cabrillo.”

“Have him stand by,” Hanley said.

Stone relayed the message over the radio.

Reaching for the secure telephone, Hanley called Overholt.

“The truck turned toward Edinburgh,” Hanley said.

“The British have cordoned off the inner city as well as the highways leading south,” Overholt told him. “If they start toward London, we’ll have them.”

“It’s about time,” Hanley said.

THE DRIVER OF the van disconnected and turned to his partner. “There’s been a change in plans,” he said easily.

“Flexibility is the key to both sex and stealth,” the passenger said. “Where are we headed?”

The driver told him.

“Then you’d better take a left up here,” the passenger said, staring at the road map.

CABRILLO DROVE ALONG, tracking the truck with his remote detector. It had been nearly twenty minutes since he’d seen the truck, but once they reached the series of villages around Edinburgh he’d sped up and was closing the gap.

Taking his eyes off the metal box, he stared at the countryside.

The fog was thick as he drove along the road, which was lined with fences built from rocks and stones. The trees were barren of leaves and appeared as stark skeletons against a gray backdrop. A minute or so before, Cabrillo had caught a glimpse of the Firth of Forth, the inlet that cut into Scotland from the North Sea. The water was black and tossing; the span of the suspension bridge near the edge of the water was barely visible.

Pressing down on the gas pedal, he stared at the box again. The signal was growing closer by the second.

“I WAS ORDERED to drop you in front and take off,” the driver said. “Someone will meet you farther down the line.”

The driver slowed in front of the Inverkeithing Railroad Station, then came to a stop near a porter with a baggage cart.

“Anything else?” the passenger asked as he reached to open the door.

“Good luck,” the driver said.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, the passenger waved his hand at the porter. “Come here,” he said, “I have something to load aboard.”

The porter wheeled the cart over. “Do you have your ticket already?”

“No,” the passenger said.

“Where’s the baggage?” the porter asked.

The passenger opened the rear of the van and pointed at the box.

The porter reached down and hoisted the box. “This is heavy,” he said. “What’s inside?”

“Specialized oil-field testing equipment,” the passenger said, “so be careful.”

The porter placed the box on the cart and stood up.

“You’d better head inside and purchase your ticket,” the porter said. “The train leaves in less than five minutes. Where are you headed?”

“London,” the passenger said, walking to the door.

“I’ll meet you at the train,” the porter said.

AS THE METEORITE was being pushed through the station on the cart, the driver of the van was turning left out of Inverkeithing Station. He had traveled only a few miles in the direction of Edinburgh when the traffic began to slow. There was a tie-up ahead. Looking down the road, he tried to see the problem. It looked like a checkpoint.

He idled forward.

“GO NOW,” HANLEY said over the radio to the pilot of the amphibious plane.

The pilot finished duct-taping a note to his heavy coffee thermos, then advanced the throttles. The plane started bumping and jolting as it taxied across the choppy water.

With a lurch the plane lifted off.

The pilot flew as low as he dared. He stared at the ground for some sign of the strange-looking car Hanley had described. He was only feet above the power lines when he found the road he was looking for.

THE SIGNAL HAD stopped. The problem was that Cabrillo had no map of the area, so his only hope was driving in circles looking for the strongest reading.

“LAST CALL FOR the number twenty-seven train to London,” the loudspeaker blared, “all passengers should board now.”

“All I have is American money,” the passenger said. “Is twenty enough?”

“That’s fine, sir,” the porter said. “Let me place the package in your cabin.”

Walking onto the train, the porter located the cabin and opened the door. Then he set the box containing the meteorite on the floor. Once he had backed out, the passenger, still clutching his ticket, entered.

“WHAT’S THE SCHEDULE?” Hanley shouted to Stone.

“There’s a train leaving for London right about now,” Stone said, staring at his computer.

“Pull up the route,” Hanley ordered.

“I’m nearing Edinburgh,” Adams radioed in. “No sign of Mr. Cabrillo yet.”

“Watch for the seaplane,” Hanley radioed back.

“Roger,” Adams answered.

SHEA SPOKE OVER the headset to Adams. “My car better not be damaged.”

“Don’t worry,” Adams said, “if anything has happened, my people will make it right.”

“You’d better,” Shea said.

“Just keep an eye out for it on the ground.”

ON BOARD THE Oregon,Hanley reached for the radio and called the amphibian.

“I think I see him,” the pilot said.

“Add train to Londonon the note,” Hanley said, “and Adams is closing in,then buzz him so he can see you and make the drop.”

“Got it, boss,” the pilot said.

Scribbling the extra line on the note with a felt-tip pen, he angled down between the power lines and passed directly over Cabrillo in the MG at a height of ten feet.

“WHAT THE…” CABRILLO said as the rear of the amphibious plane appeared in his windshield.

The pilot wagged the wings then accelerated ahead and made a sweeping turn to make another pass. As soon as Cabrillo saw the side of the plane in the turn he recognized it as the Corporation’s and pulled to the side of the road.

Lowering the convertible top, Cabrillo craned his neck around and stared up at the sky. The amphibian was back down the road and coming in low and slow. Once it had almost reached him, Cabrillo saw a tube fly out of the window and bounce on the pavement.

The thermos cartwheeled along until it came to a stop ten feet in front of the MG.

Cabrillo jumped out and raced forward.

“SEAPLANE 8746,” EDINBURGH air control reported, “be alert for a helicopter in your immediate area.”

The pilot of the Corporation’s amphibian was pulling out of his steep climbing turn and took a second to answer.

“Tower, seaplane 8746, helicopter in area,” the pilot said, “please report make.”

“Seaplane 8746, make is a Robinson R-44.”

“Seaplane 8746, I have a visual.”

“THE BRITS HAVE the van surrounded,” Overholt said to Hanley.

“I think they switched the meteorite onto the train to London,” Hanley reported.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Overholt said in exasperation. “I’ll need to call the head of MI5 and report. What train?”

“We’re not positive yet, but the next train leaving is for London,” Hanley said.

“I’ll call you back,” Overholt said, slamming down the phone.

But a few seconds later another call reached Overholt—and this one was from the president.

THE PILOT OF the amphibian raised Adams on the radio. “Follow me and I’ll lead you right to him.”

“Fly on,” Adams said.

Angling around in a turn, the amphibian lined up over the road and started another pass. The Robinson came in on his tail.

“There,” Shea shouted as his MG came into view.

Adams glanced down. Cabrillo was in front of the old car, walking back.

Adams set the Robinson down in a field across the street, leaving the engine idling. Cabrillo raced over with a thermos and his satellite telephone tucked under his arms. Opening the passenger door, he placed the two items in the back. Shea was fumbling with the seat belt. Cabrillo unfastened it and helped him out.

“The keys are in your car,” he shouted over the noise from the engine and rotor blade, “we’ll be in contact soon to pay you for the rental.”

Then he slid into the passenger seat of the Robinson and closed the door. Shea ducked down and walked out from under the helicopter blade. Once he was clear he crossed the road and approached his treasured MG. He started inspecting the vehicle as Adams lifted off. Other than a nearly empty tank the car appeared fine.

Adams was 150 feet in the air before Cabrillo spoke.

“My phone is dead,” he said over the headset.

“So we gathered,” Adams said. “We think they moved the meteorite onto the train.”

“So this message is unnecessary,” Cabrillo said, ripping off the paper taped to the thermos.

“Is there any coffee in there?” Adams asked. “I could use a cup.”

“Me too,” Cabrillo said as he cracked the top and steam came out.

34

“I UNDERSTAND, MR.Prime Minister,” the president said. “I’ll have them notified immediately.”

He hung up the phone and buzzed his secretary. “Get me Langston Overholt over at the CIA.”

Then he sat back in his chair and waited for the call to be connected.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Overholt said when he came on the line.

“I just spoke to the prime minister,” the president said. “They were none too happy. It seems you and the Corporation have had them running all over their little isle on what the prime minister described as ‘goose chasing and near misses.’ The prime minister ordered the roads leading into two cities in Scotland closed, and now they’ve entered the van you told them contained the meteorite and found it empty. They want the Corporation to back off and let them handle the situation.”

“Sir,” Overholt said, “I believe that would be a grave mistake at this point. Cabrillo and his men have faced a tough situation. In the first place, they’ve stuck to the stolen meteorite like paste on paper. They have not recovered it yet, but they haven’t lost it either. In the second place, they have traced the movement to a London-bound train—Cabrillo is back in the air and preparing to intercept.”

“Turn your information over to MI5,” the president ordered, “and let them handle it.”

Overholt paused for a minute before speaking. “We still have the Ukrainian bomb loose. The Corporation has a team near London searching for it now—can they proceed with that?”

“The Ukrainians hired the Corporation for that job,” the president said, “not agencies of the United States government. I don’t see how it is within our power to order them off.”

“I asked MI5 to cooperate with them,” Overholt said. “In some ways, that gives the Corporation sanction.”

The president thought before answering. “The prime minister didn’t mention the stray nuke specifically,” he said slowly. “He was more concerned about the events in Scotland.”

“Yes, sir,” Overholt said.

“So tell them to continue the search,” the president said finally. “If they canrecover the bomb, the threat of a dirty bomb using the meteorite is nullified.”

“I think I understand what you’re saying, Mr. President.”

“Tread lightly,” the president said, “and have them move quietly.”

“You have my word, Mr. President,” Overholt said as the phone went dead.

ADAMS FLEW ABOVE and to the rear of the number twenty-seven train. He was edging forward to drop Cabrillo on the roof when Hanley reached the men on the radio.

“We’ve been ordered off,” Hanley said. “The British are planning to intercept the train in a remote area along the coast near Middlesbrough.”

“We’re right there, Max,” Cabrillo argued, “another five minutes or so and I’ll be inside the train and searching for the meteorite.”

“It came directly from the president, Juan,” Hanley said. “We defy a presidential order and I have a feeling there won’t be any more work coming our way from the Oval Office. I’m sorry, but from a company standpoint it’s just not worth it right now.”

Adams heard the conversation and started slowing the Robinson. He stayed close to the tracks in case Cabrillo wanted to go ahead. Looking over at Cabrillo, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Back away, George,” Cabrillo said over the headset.

Adams moved the cyclic to the right and the helicopter moved away from the railroad tracks and over some farmland. Pulling back, Adams started climbing to reach a safe altitude.

“All right,” Cabrillo said wearily, “you’re right. I guess we should get your location so Adams can fly us back to the ship.”

“We’re passing offshore of Edinburgh and traveling south at full speed,” Hanley said, “but if I were you, I’d have Adams drop you in London. I have Meadows and Seng on their way there and they’ve turned up some interesting leads pertaining to the missing nuclear bomb.”

“We’re still a go on that?” Cabrillo asked.

“Until we’re told otherwise,” Hanley said.

“So the Corporation recovers the bomb,” Cabrillo said slowly, “and we let the Brits handle our meteorite. Seems backward.”

“Backward is all we have right now,” Hanley said.

ON THE RAIN-SOAKED deck of the ferry boat sailing from Goteborg, Sweden, to Newcastle upon Tyne, Roger Lassiter was speaking into a satellite telephone. Lassiter had worked for the CIA before being terminated a number of years before, after it had been discovered that vast amounts of funds had gone missing from accounts in the Philippines. The money was intended to be used for payoffs to the locals for information on Muslim terrorist groups operating in the southern provinces. Lassiter had lost the money gambling in a Hong Kong casino.

Once he had been fired, the CIA uncovered a few more facts. Lassiter was not above using unauthorized torture, misappropriating U.S. resources for his profit, or outright deceit and deception. Lassiter had operated in areas with little Langley control—and he had abused his privileges to the limits and beyond. There was also talk of him being a double agent for China, but once he had been fired, nothing was done.

Lassiter now resided in Switzerland, but he hired out to the highest bidder.

In Sweden, he’d stolen blueprints from a marine manufacturer who’d designed a revolutionary drive system. The party that had hired him for the theft was Malaysian. The drop was to take place in London.

“Yes,” Lassiter said, “I remember talking to you. You weren’t sure you’d need my services.”

The Hawker 800XP was just reaching New Jersey, where it would be refueled for the trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Hickman was making plans as he went.

“Turns out I do,” Hickman said.

“What’s the job?” Lassiter said as he glared at a tourist who walked past on the deck. The man headed back inside.

“Pick up a package and take it to London for me.”

“That’s a long ways out of my way,” Lassiter lied.

“Not according to the man I had following you in Sweden,” Hickman said. “He mentioned you got on board the ferry bound for the east coast of Britain quite a few hours ago. Was that someone else?”

Lassiter didn’t bother to answer. When two liars are speaking, brevity is critical.

“Where’s the package?” he asked.

“You’ll need to pick it up at the train station,” Hickman said. “It’ll be in a locker.”

“You want me to fly it down,” Lassiter asked, “or drive?”

“Drive,” Hickman said.

“Then it’s something that won’t stand up under an X-ray,” Lassiter said. “That raises the risk.”

“Fifty thousand,” Hickman said, “on delivery.”

“Half now,” Lassiter said, “and half upon completion.”

“One third, two thirds,” Hickman said. “I want to be sure you deliver on time.”

Lassiter considered this for a moment. “When do I get my first third?”

“I can wire it right now,” Hickman said. “What account?”

Lassiter rattled off an account in the Channel Islands. “I can’t verify the funds are there until morning. Can I trust you?”

“By the time you’re near London tomorrow morning,” Hickman said, “you can call your bank. You’ll know you’ve been paid before the delivery.”

“And how will I receive the last two thirds?”

“I’ll hand it to you,” Hickman said, “in person.”

“Leaving the sun and sand for the foggy British Isles,” Lassiter said. “It must be big.”

“You worry about your end,” Hickman said. “I’ll worry about mine.”

“WE INTERCEPTED A British communication,” Hickman told the man on the train. “They are stopping the train at Middlesbrough.”

“So they are onto the switch?” the man asked.

“They caught your partner entering Edinburgh,” Hickman said. “He must have given you up.”

The man considered this for a moment. “I doubt that,” he said, “at least not this soon. Someone else must be following us.”

Hickman didn’t tell the man about the break-in at his office. The less the man knew the better. So far he had lost his team on the Free Enterpriseas well as one of his men inside Great Britain. Hickman was running out of assets he could use. And he’d need the man in Maidenhead.

“Whatever the case,” Hickman said, “I’ve taken care of the problem. You exit the train in Newcastle upon Tyne and place the package in a locker. Then proceed to the nearest restroom and place the locker key in the farthest toilet tank from the door. I have arranged for someone to pick up the package and take it the rest of the way.”

“What should I do then?” the man asked as he stared out the train window. The sign said Bedlington. He was thirty miles from his new stop.

“Make your way to this location in Maidenhead by rental car,” Hickman said, reading off an address, “and meet up with the rest of the team coming in from Calais.”

“Sounds great,” the man said.

“It will be,” Hickman agreed.

AT THE SAME time that Adams and Cabrillo were flying toward London, the Oregonwas passing through the fifty-five-degree latitude, offshore of Newcastle upon Tyne. In his office, Michael Halpert was staring at a stack of documents he’d printed from the files Truitt had sent. Halpert was underlining sentences with a yellow highlighter when one of the computers in his office beeped and the printer started.

Halpert waited until the document was finished, then removed it and read.

The pictures Truitt had stolen had been matched on a U.S. military database. The face belonged to one Christopher Hunt of Beverly Hills, California. Hunt had been a captain in the U.S. Army until he had been killed in Afghanistan. Why did Halifax Hickman have a photograph of a dead soldier in his office? What possible tie could it have to the theft of the meteorite?

Halpert decided to dig deeper before contacting Hanley.

NEBILE LABABITI STARED at the bomb, bathed in the light from a flashlight, with glee. It was sitting on the floor in a ground-floor office/showroom on the Strand that was located below Lababiti’s apartment. The office had been vacant for the last few months, and Lababiti had jimmied the lock last week then changed it so he had the only key. As long as no one wanted to show the office in the next few days, he was home free.

The showroom had an overhead garage door for deliveries. The space was perfect for loading the bomb into a vehicle for the run down to the park. Out of sight, but with a fast exit. It was all coming together, he thought.

Turning off the flashlight, he slipped out the door and walked across the street to a pub near the Savoy Hotel. Then he ordered a pint and dreamed of death and destruction.