Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

35

THE DATE WASDecember 30, 2005. Bob Meadows and Eddie Seng were on the road to London. The traffic was thick and the roads were slick with rain. Seng adjusted the radio to receive a weather report, then listened as the announcer gave a detailed outlook. The dashboard of the Range Rover glowed in the dim light and the heater was blowing.

Seng clicked the radio off.

“Rain turning to sleet in the next hour,” he said. “How do people live here?”

“It’s dismal, that’s for sure,” Meadows said, staring out at the growing darkness, “but the people are surprisingly upbeat.”

Seng ignored the comment. “Friday-night traffic,” he said, “people must be going into London for the shows or something.”

“I’m surprised Mr. Hanley has not called back yet,” Meadows said.

After leaving the pub, Meadows had called in to report their findings.

“The Oregon’s probably in some rough seas right about now,” Seng said as he slid to a slow crawl behind a line of traffic that stretched for miles ahead.

IT WAS COLD on the North Sea, but not as rough as it could have been. The storm that was advancing from the north was laying down the seas and, other than a ten-degree decrease in temperature in the last hour, those on board the Oregonhad noticed little change.

Belowdecks in the Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was actually warm. The last few days he had been working on Al-Khalifa’s recovered satellite phone. The unit had been immersed in seawater when his body had been thrown overboard. Since the thermal vents had bloated the body quickly and it had floated to the surface with the phone still in the pocket, the insides had not had a chance to corrode much.

Nixon had taken the unit apart and cleaned it thoroughly. But when he reassembled the phone it still did not work. He’d decided to bake the chip boards in a small toaster oven to make sure that all trace of moisture was gone. Removing the parts from the oven carefully with medical forceps, he reassembled the unit then added the freshly charged battery.

The unit lit up and the message icon flashed.

Nixon smiled and reached for the intercom.

HANLEY AND STONE had been working on Seng and Meadows’s information. They had managed to hack into the British Motor Vehicles Registry and match a name and address with the motorcycle license plate. Then they ran the information on Nebile Lababiti through a different database and located bank information and his visitor visa information. Stone was cross-checking everything now.

“His rent checks don’t match the address he gave passport control,” Stone noted. “I ran the name of the building his rent checks are made out to through a mapping program and found the location. He told passport control he lives in the Belgravia section of London. The building he pays rent to is a few miles away, near the Strand.”

“I know the Strand,” Hanley said. “Last time I was in London I ate at a restaurant on the Strand named Simpson’s.”

“Any good?” Stone asked.

“It’s been in business since 1828,” Hanley said. “You don’t stay around that long if the food is bad. Roast beef, mutton, good desserts.”

“What’s the street like,” Stone asked, “the Strand itself?”

“Busy,” Hanley said, “hotels, restaurants, theaters. Not the perfect place for a covert operation.”

“Sounds like an excellent place for a terrorist to strike.”

Hanley nodded. “Find me the closest heliport.”

“I’m on it,” Stone said.

Then the intercom buzzed and Nixon asked Hanley to come down to the Magic Shop.

LABABITI HAD FINISHED two pints of ale and a double shot of peppermint schnapps. He stared at his gold wristwatch then smoked a cigarette. When that was finished he snubbed it out in the ashtray, tossed some pound notes on the bar and walked outside.

The Yemeni who would drive the bomb to the location was due to arrive on the bus from the airport in the next few minutes. Lababiti found the bus stop just up the street, then leaned against the building and smoked another cigarette while he waited.

London was alive with holiday cheer. The shop windows were decorated for the season and people crowded the streets. Most of the hotels were booked solid as people arrived in London for the New Year’s Eve celebration. There was an Elton John concert planned for Hyde Park. And at both Green and St. James’s Parks near Buckingham Palace, the trees had been adorned with thousands of colored lights. The streets near Hyde Park would be closed, and food courts, temporary pubs and outdoor restrooms would be placed on the streets for the massive party. Fireworks would be launched from barges anchored in the River Thames. And the sky would burn with celebration.

Lababiti smiled with a secret only he knew. He would be supplying the most powerful fireworks, and when it was done the party, and all who attended, would cease to exist. The bus pulled up and Lababiti waited as it unloaded.

The Yemeni was nothing more than a child, and he appeared scared and confused by the unusual surroundings. Stepping timidly off the bus after most of the others at the stop had disembarked, he clutched a cheap suitcase in his hands. He was dressed in a tattered black wool overcoat that must have been bought used. The thin outline of a mustache that would never have time to fill in adorned his upper lip like the mark left from a glass of chocolate milk.

Lababiti stepped forward. “I’m Nebile.”

“Amad,” the boy said quietly.

Lababiti steered him down the street toward the apartment.

They had sent a child to do a man’s job. But Lababiti didn’t care—there was no way he would do it himself.

“Have you eaten?” Lababiti asked when they were away from the crowd.

“I had some figs,” Amad said.

“Let’s get your bags in my apartment and I’ll show you around.”

Amad simply nodded. He was visibly trembling, and speech would not come.

HANLEY LISTENED TO Al-Khalifa’s messages, then saved them.

“His voice prompt is short,” Hanley noted.

“It may be enough,” Nixon said.

“Get on it then,” Hanley said.

“You got it, boss.”

Leaving the Magic Shop, Hanley walked back to the elevator and took it up. He walked along the passageway and entered the control room. Stone pointed to a screen with a map of downtown London being displayed.

“We can put them right there,” he said, “Battersea Park.”

“How far is it from Belgravia and the Strand?” Hanley asked.

“The heliport is built on pilings on the Thames,” Stone said, “between the Chelsea Bridge to the east and the Albert Bridge to the west. If they cross over the Albert Bridge on the Queenstown Road, they’re in Belgravia. From there it’s only a short drive to the Strand.”

“Beautiful,” Hanley said.

MEADOWS REACHED FOR the telephone on the first ring.

“Go to Battersea Park,” Hanley said without preamble, “there’s a heliport there out in the Thames. Cabrillo will be arriving shortly in the Robinson.”

“Have you made arrangements for a hotel?”

“Not yet,” Hanley said, “but I’ll book several rooms at the Savoy.”

“So you located our man?” Meadows asked.

“We think so,” Hanley said. “He should be right across the street.”

“Perfect,” Meadows said, disconnecting.

NEXT HANLEY CALLED Cabrillo to report. After giving him the locator numbers for the heliport, he explained that Meadows and Seng would meet him there.

“George will need to hangar the helicopter at Heathrow,” Cabrillo said. “I’m sure they won’t let us leave it on the helipad.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Hanley said.

“Be sure to book him a hotel as well,” Cabrillo said, “he’s exhausted.”

“I’ll put him up right near Heathrow, close to the Robinson.”

“What else?” Cabrillo asked.

“Nixon got Al-Khalifa’s satellite telephone working.”

“Can he match the voice so we can call his contacts?” Cabrillo asked excitedly.

“We’ll know soon.”

36

ROGER LASSITER SATon a bench outside the restroom in the train station at Newcastle upon Tyne. He had been watching the door and the areas nearby for the last twenty minutes. Nothing seemed amiss. He waited until the man who had just entered had finished and left. Now the facility should be empty. Glancing around one last time, he stood up and walked inside.

Then he made his way down to the far stall and took the lid off the tank.

The locker key was inside, and he quickly removed it and slid it in his pocket. Then he walked from the facility and located the locker. After watching the area for another half hour and finding nothing out of place, he waited until a luggage porter walked past and hailed him.

“I have a rental car in the parking structure,” Lassiter said, smiling, with a twenty-pound note in his hand. “If I pull it up to the doors, will you bring out a package I have?”

“Where is it, sir?” the porter asked.

Lassiter handed him the key. “Over there,” he said, “in a luggage locker.”

The porter took the key. “What kind of rental car should I look for?”

“It’s a black Daimler sedan,” Lassiter said.

“Very good, sir,” the porter said, wheeling his cart toward the locker.

Lassiter walked out of the lobby and crossed the road to the parking structure. If he got in the car, started it, and was allowed to exit the garage, he was home free. If anyone was on to him, they’d make their move by then.

No one came. No one stopped him. No one knew.

After paying the parking fee, Lassiter drove around the loop to the front of the train station. The porter was waiting alongside the curb with the box on his cart. Lassiter pulled alongside, then popped the trunk release inside the glove box.

“Put it in the boot,” he said, as he rolled down the passenger window.

The porter lifted the box into the rear of the Daimler and closed the lid. Lassiter placed the sedan into gear and pulled away.

THE CIA’S LIAISON to MI5 sat inside an office at MI5’s headquarters in London.

“Your contractors gave us a tape that shows a license number for the van that we believe left with the nuclear device,” he said. “We have a team descending on the rental agency as we speak. As soon as we retrieve the information about the renter, we should be able to recover the bomb.”

“Excellent,” the CIA agent said evenly. “Now, what is the status of our missing meteorite?”

“That should be resolved shortly,” the MI5 agent said.

“Do you need our help?” the CIA agent asked.

“I think not,” the MI5 agent said. “We have the Royal Army and Marines on the job.”

The CIA agent rose from his chair. “Then I’ll just wait for you to contact me,” he said, “after you’ve made the recovery.”

“Once we have it, I’ll contact you immediately.”

As soon as the CIA man left his office, the MI5 agent reached for the telephone.

“How long until we intercept?” he asked.

“The train is five minutes away,” a voice said.

IN A WOODED area one mile north of the village of Stockton, the nearest train station to Middlesbrough, it looked as if a war was commencing. A pair of British army Challenger tanks sat on each side of the railroad tracks. Farther up the tracks to the north, approximately where the end of the train would be after it was stopped, two platoons of Royal Marines in camouflage hid in the woods, waiting to enter the train from the rear door. Farther to the left and right of the tracks, in cleared fields hidden behind the rows of trees that lined the tracks, were a single Harrier jet and an Agustawestland A-129 Mongoose helicopter with a weapons pod attached.

From the distance to the north the sound of the number twenty-seven train grew louder.

The British army colonel in charge of the operation waited until he could see the nose of the locomotive. Then he called the engineer over a radio and ordered him to stop. As soon as the engineer caught sight of the Challengers he slammed on the brakes and the train started sliding to a stop, with sparks flying from the wheels. The Harrier and Agustawestland, which had both been hovering, popped up over the trees and assumed a fire support role at the same time that the Royal Marines slid from the woods and boarded at all the doors.

A methodical search would be made, but they would find nothing.

AT THE SAME time, Roger Lassiter was driving south on the highway leading to London. Passing Stockton, he noticed the commotion in the distance and took the exit to the right toward Windermere. Once he reached the main north-south highway that passed through Lancaster, he would continue on through Birmingham and access southern England. Lassiter lit a cigar and stared out at the rain.

APPROACHING THE THAMES from the air, Adams studied the GPS for his exact location. Cabrillo was glancing out at a park across the river. A huge tent, lit by spotlights, was swarming with workers completing the installation.

“To your left, sir,” Adams said over the headset.

The square outline of the heliport pad was lit with flashing lights. Then a car nearby flashed its headlights. Adams lowered the collective and started down.

“Seng and Meadows are here,” Cabrillo said. “I’m going to have them take me to the hotel so we can regroup. Hanley is having someone meet you at the executive air terminal at Heathrow with your hotel key. What else will you need, George?”

“Nothing, sir,” Adams said. “I’ll refuel and head to the hotel. When you need me, just call.”

“Get some sleep,” Cabrillo ordered, “you’ve earned it.”

Adams was on his final approach and didn’t bother to answer. Dropping down over Battersea Park, he edged forward to the pad and then lightly touched down. Cabrillo opened the door and grabbed his telephone. Ducking down, he crab-walked away from the Robinson. Once he was clear he stood upright. He was nearing the Range Rover when Adams lifted off and flew across the Thames.

Meadows climbed from the passenger seat and opened the rear door for Cabrillo.

“Where are we at?” Cabrillo said as he slid into the rear and closed the door.

“We forwarded what we have to Mr. Hanley,” Seng said. “He said you’d fill us in.”

Seng steered away from the heliport and out of the park. He stopped at the light and waited to turn onto Queenstown Road to cross the Albert Bridge.

Cabrillo began to explain as Seng drove them toward the Savoy.

THE OREGONWAS racing south. It was almost midnight on December 30 and the ship was scheduled to reach the docks near London at around 9 A.M. local time. The conference room was crowded. Hanley was writing notes on a dry-erase bulletin board. The board was becoming crowded.

“Here’s what we know,” he said. “We now believe that the theft of the meteorite and the missing Ukrainian nuclear bomb are not related. We believe that Al-Khalifa and his group got wind of the meteorite through an officer that was bribed at the Echelon listening post and then decided to combine it with their existing plan, which we believe is a terrorist strike in the heart of London.”

“Who was originally after the meteorite?” Murphy asked.

“The latest information, which was recovered by Mr. Truitt in Las Vegas, seems to point to Halifax Hickman.”

“The billionaire?” Ross asked.

“Correct,” Hanley said, “we just don’t know why yet. Hickman has interests in hotels, resorts, casinos, arms manufacturers, household products. Along with that he has a string of funeral homes, a hardware manufacturer that makes tools—nails and fasteners. He also has railroad and oil interests, and a satellite television operation.”

“An old-fashioned tycoon,” Pete Jones said. “Not like today, when the truly rich make their money from one source, like software or pizza chains.”

“Isn’t he a recluse?” Julia Huxley asked.

“Sort of like Howard Hughes,” Hanley answered.

“I’ll run a psych profile,” Huxley offered, “so we know what we might be dealing with.”

“Halpert’s digging through the computer files as we speak to see if we can determine motive.”

“What’s the status of the meteorite now?” Franklin Lincoln asked.

“As you all know, Juan and Adams witnessed it leaving the Faeroe Islands aboard a Cessna that they followed. Once the helicopter ran out of fuel, Juan chased the Cessna by car to a railroad station near Edinburgh. He was ready to intercept when the president, through Overholt, ordered him off to let the British authorities handle the problem. They were planning to stop the train an hour or so ago, but we’ve yet to hear the outcome.”

“So if they have recovered it,” Hali Kasim said, “our only involvement would be to return it to the United States.”

“Correct,” Hanley said, “and that’s why I want to concentrate on the nuclear device. We believe that it was shipped through the Black Sea to a port named the Isle of Sheppey on a Greek cargo ship. There, we believe operatives of Al-Khalifa’s terrorist organization grabbed the weapon without paying and drove away. Seng and Meadows were on the ground there and found a videotape that gave us leads to the possible current location.”

“It seems odd,” Jones said, “that after Al-Khalifa’s death, the others didn’t scrub the mission. Their leader is killed and they’re still planning to go ahead?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Hanley said. “We don’t think they know that Al-Khalifa is dead yet.”

“He obviously has not been in contact with them,” Ross noted.

“True,” Hanley said, “but apparently he’s done that before—at least according to the reports we’ve amassed over the years.”

“So one of us is going to become Al-Khalifa?” Murphy said.

Hanley motioned to Nixon, who nodded and reached for a tape recorder. “We recovered Al-Khalifa’s satellite telephone from his pocket. There was a short message on his voice mail. I matched that with an existing surveillance tape we had and printed his voice on the computer.”

Nixon turned the tape player on and Al-Khalifa’s voice floated into the air.

“We think we can call his contact with his telephone and arrange a meeting,” Hanley said, “then recover the bomb.”

“How much time do we have?” Kasim asked.

“We think they will strike tomorrow at the stroke of midnight,” Hanley said.

“New Year’s Eve,” Murphy said, “those grandstanding bastards. Any idea where?”

“There’s a celebration and concert in a park right near Buckingham Palace,” Hanley said. “Elton John will be performing.”

“Now I’m really pissed,” Murphy said. “I love that guy’s music.”

“All right, everyone,” Hanley said, “I want you to all make your way to your cabins and get some sleep. Most of you are going into London tomorrow to work the operation. We’re going to meet here in the conference room at seven a.m. for assignments, and as soon as we near London, you’ll be off-loaded and sent into the city. Are there any more questions?”

“Just one,” Huxley said. “Does anyone know how to defuse a nuclear bomb?”

37

“LEAVE IT INfront,” Seng ordered as they pulled in front of the Savoy and climbed out. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the valet. “And do not block it in.”

Cabrillo walked inside and headed to the check-in desk.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked.

“My name’s Cabrillo,” he said, “my company made a reservation.”

The clerk entered the name, then stared at the note the general manager had written. The note was succinct: Extremely valued repeat customer—unlimited credit verified—Bank of Vanuatu—four river-view suites tonight—additional rooms as needed.

The clerk reached for the keys, then snapped his finger and a porter trotted over. At the same time Meadows and Seng entered the lobby.

“I see you have no luggage, Mr. Cabrillo,” the clerk noted. “Will you need us to arrange shopping?”

“Yes,” Cabrillo said, reaching for a slip of paper and a pen. He began jotting down notes. “Call Harrods tomorrow morning. There is a Mr. Mark Andersen in men’s clothing—ask him to deliver these items. He already has my sizes.”

Meadows and Seng walked over to the desk carrying a pair of bags each. Cabrillo handed each of the men a key. “Do you need anything from Harrods?” he asked.

“No,” both men replied.

The porter reached for Seng’s and Meadows’s bags but Seng raised his hand and stopped him. “You’d better let us take care of those,” he said, slipping the man a twenty-pound note. “Just follow us up and take the cart back.”

The bags were loaded with weapons, communication devices and enough C-6 to level the hotel to rubble. The unknowing porter nodded, pushed the cart closer and waited to follow the men up to the suite.

“What are you men hungry for?” Cabrillo asked as Seng and Meadows placed the bags on the cart.

“I could do breakfast,” Meadows said.

“Send three full English breakfasts to my suite,” Cabrillo said, holding up his key to the clerk, “in forty-five minutes.”

“Let’s shower and clean up,” Cabrillo said to his men, “and meet in my suite at one-thirty.”

Then, followed by the porter, they pushed the baggage cart toward the elevator and rode up to their rooms. At the door to Cabrillo’s suite, he unlocked the door and stopped.

“Wait here, please,” he said. “I want these clothes taken down to the laundry and cleaned and pressed.”

He walked inside, undressed, slid into one of the robes in the closet and returned to the door with a pile of the clothing he had been wearing. Handing them to the porter in a plastic laundry bag along with a hundred-dollar bill, he smiled. “Get these back to me as soon as possible.”

“Will you need your shoes shined?” the porter inquired.

“No, thank you,” Cabrillo said, “they will be fine.”

As soon as the porter left, Cabrillo climbed into the shower and scrubbed himself clean. When finished, he dressed again in the robe and walked back to the front door and opened it. A basket of toiletries had been left, and he took this inside the bathroom and shaved, splashed his cheeks with expensive aftershave then brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Then he walked back into the suite and dialed the control room on the Oregon.

AT THE SAME time Cabrillo was finishing his grooming, it was just past 8 P.M. Washington time. Thomas “TD” Dwyer had spent the last few days working double shifts inside the infectious agents laboratory at Fort Detrick, Maryland, which was located in the mountains north of Washington, D.C., near Frederick. Dwyer was exhausted and almost ready to call it quits for the night. So far he had subjected the samples from Arizona to ultraviolet light, acids, combinations of gases, and radiation.

And nothing had happened.

“Ready to wrap it up for the night?” the army technician asked.

“Let me just cut off a sample for tomorrow,” Dwyer said, “then we can start again at eight a.m.”

“Do you want me to warm up the laser?” the technician asked.

Dwyer stared through the thick glass viewing window at the sample, which was clamped in a vise on a workbench inside the tightly sealed room. Dwyer had placed a diamond-tipped portable air-powered saw into the entry port earlier, then moved it over to the bench by reaching through the wall with his arms inside the thick Kevlar gloves. The saw was now sitting in the pincer arms of a robotic device that Dwyer could control with a joystick.

“I’m going to use the saw,” Dwyer said, “stand by.”

The technician slid into a chair behind a large control panel. The wall in front of him, including the area around the small windows that looked into the sealed area, was covered with gauges and dials.

“We’re negative,” the technician noted.

Dwyer carefully moved the joystick and started the saw spinning. Then he slowly lowered it down to the sample. The saw started smoking, then ground to a halt.

It would not be until noon tomorrow that it could be repaired.

TINY GUNDERSON THROTTLED the Gulfstream down and entered the pattern at Heathrow. He and Pilston had taken turns sleeping on the flight from Las Vegas. Truitt had napped in the rear and was now awake and drinking his second pot of coffee.

“Fill up?” he asked through the door of the cockpit.

“I’m okay,” Gunderson said. “How about you, Tracy?”

Pilston was talking to the tower on the radio but she motioned no with her hand.

“Hanley arranged a hotel near the airport for you two,” Truitt said. “I’m taking a cab into the city.”

Gunderson made his turn to final approach. “We’ll fuel up, then stand by at the hotel,” he said.

“Sounds like a plan,” Truitt said.

Something had been bothering Truitt for the entire flight and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He had been trying to remember the interior of Hickman’s office for hours but, try as he might, the picture was not clear. Sitting back in his seat, he buckled the seat belt and waited for the Gulfstream to set down.

Ten minutes later he was inside a cab heading through the deserted streets for the Savoy. The cab was driving past Paddington Station when it hit him.

OVERHOLT WAS PLANNING to sleep in his office on the couch. Win, place or show, something would be happening in the next forty-eight hours. It was almost ten at night when the president called again.

“Your boys screwed up,” the president said. “There was nothing on the train.”

“Impossible,” Overholt said. “I’ve worked with the Corporation for years—they don’t make mistakes. The meteorite was on the train—it must have been moved again.”

“Well,” the president said, “now it’s loose somewhere in England.”

“Cabrillo is in London right now,” Overholt said, “working on the missing nuke.”

“Langston,” the president said, “you’d better get control of this situation, and soon, or you’d better start figuring if you can make it on your retirement pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Overholt said as the phone went dead.

“WE HAVE THE meteorite headed south on the road just south of Birmingham,” a weary Hanley said to Overholt’s question. “We’ll be off shore of London tomorrow morning and then we can off-load our operatives and track it down.”

“We’d better,” Overholt replied. “My ass is in the wind here. What’s the status on the bomb recovery?”

“Cabrillo and his team plan to pinpoint the location tomorrow and then call MI5,” Hanley said.

“I’m sleeping here in my office tonight,” Overholt said. “Call me if anything changes.”

“You have my word,” Hanley said.

DICK TRUITT GOT his key from the desk, then tipped the doorman to place his bag in his room. He walked down the hall to Cabrillo’s suite and knocked on the door softly. Meadows answered.

“Easy money,” Meadows said when he saw who it was. He stood aside to allow Truitt to enter. Truitt walked into the suite. Half-eaten plates of food sat around a table along with open files and notes.

“Morning, boss,” he said to Cabrillo.

Then he walked over to the telephone and called room service for a club sandwich and a Coca-Cola. Returning to the table, he slid into a chair.

“Halpert learned the identity of the soldier in the photographs you swiped,” Cabrillo said, “but how he’s tied to Hickman we’ve yet to determine.”

“He’s his son,” Truitt said simply.

“Well, hell,” Seng blurted, “that explains a lot.”