Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

38

“HE HAS TObe,” Truitt said. “When I was in Hickman’s office I saw something that registered in my mind as odd but I didn’t have time to investigate it before he returned to the penthouse. On a shelf near his desk there was a set of bronze baby shoes.”

“That’s odd,” Cabrillo said. “Hickman has no known offspring.”

“Yes,” Truitt said, “but wrapped around them was a set of dog tags.”

“Did you have a chance to read the tags?” Seng, a former marine, asked.

“Nope, but I bet someone from the Las Vegas police could. The thing is, why would he have another man’s dog tags?”

“Unless they were from someone close,” Meadows said, “and that person was dead.”

“I’ll call Overholt and ask him to have the Las Vegas police check,” Cabrillo said. “You men get some rest. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”

Meadows and Seng filed out but Truitt remained. “I slept on the Gulfstream, boss,” he said. “Why don’t you give me the addresses you have and I’ll do a little late-night recon.”

Cabrillo nodded and handed Truitt the information. “Meet back here at eight a.m., Dick,” he said. “The rest of our people will be arriving then.”

Truitt nodded, then walked down the hall to change clothes. In five minutes he was riding down the elevator.

HALPERT WAS PULLING an all-nighter. The Oregonsurged toward London with only a minimum crew handling navigation. The operatives were asleep in their cabins and the ship was quiet. Halpert liked the solitude. Setting the computer to search the Department of Defense records, he walked down the hall to the galley and toasted a bagel while he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Smearing the bagel with cream cheese, he wrapped it up and slid it under his arm, then took the pot back with him to his office.

A single sheet of paper was sitting in his printer tray, and he picked it up and read it slowly. Christopher Hunt’s next of kin was his mother, Michelle Hunt, who was a resident of Beverly Hills, California.

Halpert entered her into the computer to see what he could find.

IT WAS FOUR A.M. London time when the Hawker 800XP carrying Hickman touched down at Heathrow. He was immediately met on the runway by a black Rolls-Royce limousine. The limousine set off through the deserted streets toward Maidenhead.

Hickman wanted to be at Maidenhead Mills when it opened. The rest of his team was due in from Calais soon and he had much to accomplish. He stared at the vial of plague he had bought from Vanderwald. A little of this and a little meteorite dust and voila.

THE INTERIOR OF the house was plush considering its location in London’s East End. Along the grittiest section of London proper, in the last few years the East End had become more upscale as high prices in Central London had forced the citizens farther away from the city center.

The three-story house on Kingsland Road, not far from the Geffrye Museum, had survived the bombings of World War II nearly unscathed. After years of life as a rooming house for the immigrants who had settled in the area in the late twentieth century, it had, for the last few years, been resurrected as a high-class whorehouse run by an old-line East End crime family named for its leader, Derek Goodlin.

The lower floor was a salon area with sitting rooms and a pub. The second floor was comprised of a casino with another bar along the wall, and the top floor contained the bedrooms, which were outfitted for a variety of tastes and fetishes.

As soon as Lababiti had pulled the Jaguar in front and climbed out with Amad, Derek Goodlin, who was operating the house this evening, had been alerted to his arrival. Goodlin, who was called “Bugs” behind his back because of his beady eyes and pockmarked skin, smiled, raced to the door and in his mind started counting his money.

Goodlin had dealt with the Arab before and he knew the house would make thousands before Lababiti called it a night.

“Chivas and Coke,” Goodlin ordered the bartender as he raced to greet his guest.

Swinging the door open, he smiled, showing thin, pointed teeth. “Mr. Lababiti,” he said with all the warmth of a snake encased in ice, “how good of you to join us this evening.”

Lababiti detested Goodlin. He was all that was wrong with the West. Goodlin sold sin and depravity—the fact that Lababiti was a frequent buyer made little difference.

“Evening, Derek,” Lababiti said quietly, taking the drink from the waiter who had raced over. “Still running your crooked game, I see.”

Goodlin smiled his evil smile. “I just supply what people want,” he said.

Lababiti nodded and motioned for Amad to follow him inside. Walking over to the ornate carved mahogany bar in the pub room, he slid into a chair alongside a round table with a lit candle on top. Goodlin followed behind like a lapdog.

“Will you be gaming this evening?” Goodlin asked once the pair was seated.

“Maybe later,” Lababiti said, “but for now, bring my friend here an Araq and then have Sally brought down.”

Goodlin signaled the waiter to find the bottle of the strong licorice-flavored Middle Eastern alcoholic drink, then looked down at Lababiti. “Sally Forth, or Sally Spanks?”

“Forth for him,” Lababiti said, pointing, “and Spanks for me.”

Goodlin raced off to alert the women. A few seconds later the waiter slid the bottle of Araq and a glass onto the table. Amad, who was due to die in a day, looked scared.

DEREK GOODLIN CLOSED the door behind Lababiti and his friend, then walked back to his office. He sat down and began counting a pile of bills while he sipped from a snifter of brandy. It had been a good night. The Arab and his silent friend had added five thousand pounds to the nightly take. That, along with a Japanese regular who had lost heavily at the roulette wheel, gave him a 30 percent increase over last night’s business.

He was wrapping a pile of pound notes with a rubber band to hide in the safe when there was a knock on his door. “Hold on,” he said as he placed the cash in the safe and then closed it and spun the dial.

“Okay,” he said once the safe was closed, “come in.”

“I’m here for my pay,” Sally Forth said, “my final pay.”

The socket around her left eye was purple and swollen.

“Lababiti?” Goodlin asked. “I thought you were supposed to be with the kid.”

“I was,” Sally said. “He got a little mean after…”

“After what?” Goodlin asked.

“After he couldn’t get it up,” Sally Forth answered.

Goodlin reached into his desk drawer for one of the envelopes he had prepared for the girls who had worked that night and handed it over. “Take a few days off,” he said, “and be back at work Wednesday.”

Nodding a weary nod, she left the office and walked down the hallway.

LABABITI WAS DRIVING the Jaguar west on Leadenhall Street. Amad was sitting in the passenger seat quietly.

“Did you have a good time?” Lababiti asked.

Amad grunted.

“Are you going to be ready tomorrow?”

“Allah is great,” Amad said quietly.

Lababiti turned and glanced over at the Yemeni, who was staring out the side window at the buildings they passed. He was beginning to have his doubts about Amad, but he kept them to himself. Tomorrow morning he’d give the Yemeni his last instructions.

Then he’d drive to the Chunnel and escape to France.

TRUITT WALKED DOWN the Strand to the side street where the records showed Lababiti rented an apartment. On the lower floor, a vacant shop abutted the lobby. The three floors above, where the apartments were located, were dark, the residents sleeping. Truitt jimmied the lock on the door to the lobby then walked over to examine the row of mailboxes. He was staring at the names when a Jaguar sedan pulled up in front of the building and two men climbed out. Truitt slid past the elevator to where a stairway led to the upper floors, then listened as the men entered the lobby and walked over to the elevator.

He waited while the elevator descended, opened and closed, and began to rise again, then walked out and stared up at the number on the panel above the doors. The elevator stopped on the third floor. Truitt returned to the stairs and climbed the three flights. Then, removing a small microphone from his pocket, he slid the earpiece into his ear and slowly walked down the hallway outside the apartments. At one apartment he heard the sound of a man snoring, at another a cat’s quiet meow. He was halfway down the hall before he heard voices.

“That folds out into a bed,” the voice said.

Truitt could not make out the reply. Noting the number, he visualized where the windows of the apartment would be from the street. Then he swept across the closed door with a small Geiger counter he had brought with him.

There was no sign of radiation.

He climbed quietly down the stairs, exited the lobby, then stared up at the window of Lababiti’s apartment. The shades were drawn. Truitt slipped under the rear of the Jaguar and attached a small magnetic disc to the fuel tank. Then he scanned the car with the Geiger counter and found it clean.

Noting the arrangements of the other buildings nearby, he walked back to the Strand.

The street was nearly deserted; only a few cabs passed and there was a single truck making a delivery to a McDonald’s restaurant that was open twenty-four hours. Truitt walked along the north side of the Strand, reading the playbills outside the theaters. He walked almost to Leicester Square before he turned around and crossed over to the south side.

There he passed a shop with classic British motorcycles for sale. He stopped and stared in the window at the bikes, lit by spotlights, on display. Ariels, BSAs, Triumphs, even a legendary Vincent. A candy store for the motorhead.

He walked back to the McDonald’s and ordered a Danish and coffee.

AT 5:30 A.M. LONDON time—9:30 in the evening in Las Vegas—Captain Jeff Porte of the Las Vegas Police Department was having a tough time convincing the head of security for Dreamworld to allow him to enter the penthouse.

“You’ll need a warrant,” the head of security said, “that’s the only way I can let you inside.”

Porte considered this. “We understand you’ve had a break-in,” he said, “so we’re investigating an active crime.”

“I still can’t let you in, Jeff,” the security chief said.

“Then I’m going to wake a judge and get a warrant,” Porte said, “and when I do, I’ll be back with television cameras. That should help your casino take—police and reporters throughout the lobby and common areas.”

The head of security considered this for a moment. “Let me make a phone call,” he said at last.

HICKMAN HAD ALMOST reached Maidenhead when his satellite telephone rang. After the head of security explained what was happening, Hickman spoke.

“Tell them they need a warrant,” he said, “and order our counsel to start working on quashing it now. Whatever you do, delay them going inside as long as possible.”

“Is there a problem, sir?” the security man asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Hickman said, disconnecting.

The net was closing around him and he could feel the strings drawing tight.

MICHAEL HALPERT WAS widening the search. Logging on to the FAA computer, he pulled up the flight records for Hickman’s jet. As soon as he saw the records, he knew he had their man. One of Hickman’s jets, a Hawker 800XP, had recently filed a flight plan for Greenland. The latest plan filed was for a Las Vegas–London jaunt that placed Hickman’s plane in London right now.

Printing them, Halpert began to search the British property records.

Nothing came up under Hickman’s name so he began to search using the long list of Hickman’s companies. Hours would pass before the search would bear fruit. While the computer was searching, Halpert tried to imagine why one of the richest men in the world would want to conspire with Arab terrorists to explode a nuclear bomb in London.

It was always love or money, Halpert thought.

There was no way Halpert could envision that Hickman could make money off a disaster like an atomic bomb blast. Halpert tried for an hour to find some financial motive but came up short.

It had to be love then, he thought.

And who does one love enough to kill for but family?

39

THE OREGON DOCKEDat Southend-on-Sea at the mouth of the Thames just past 6 A.M.

The operatives were all awake and showered. One by one they filed into the dining room for breakfast. They were due to meet in the conference room at seven. Hanley had grabbed a few hours’ rest and then had been back at work by 5 A.M., planning the logistics for the coming operation.

Just after 6:00 he telephoned Overholt and woke him.

“Our team is going into London soon,” he said. “We think we have the principals located, but so far we have yet to detect traces of radiation.”

“Are you coordinating with MI5?” Overholt asked.

“Mr. Cabrillo will contact them soon and turn over command of the operation. He just wants to make sure our team is in place as a backup.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Overholt said wearily. “What’s the status on the meteorite?”

“We’re doing things one at a time,” Hanley said. “As soon as the threat of the bomb is gone, we’ll switch our team over to that problem.”

“What’s the current location?”

“Just south of Oxford,” Hanley said, “headed south. If it comes within the outskirts of London, we’ll move on it. If not, we’ll deal with it when the bomb is recovered.”

“The Las Vegas police have been stymied,” Overholt said, “so I issued a national security directive that gives them authority to do whatever we need. They should be entering the penthouse soon. You know that if you’re wrong, and Hickman is not behind this, by the time the fallout settles I’ll be out of a job.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Overholt,” Hanley said, “we are always looking for qualified applicants to join our team.”

“You’re a regular barrel of laughs, Mr. Hanley,” Overholt said as he disconnected.

Hanley replaced the telephone in the cradle on his command chair and turned to Stone.

“How are the arrangements coming?”

“As usual, Mr. Truitt has been Johnny-on-the-spot,” Stone said. “He’s been working since early this morning. He’s purchased sets of British clothing and overcoats for the people we’re sending to London. He’s also arranged for a tour bus to pick them up here. Last I spoke with him, he was on the bus on his way here.”

“Good man,” Hanley said. “What about Nixon?”

“Nixon has the equipment ready and is completing the final checks as we speak.”

“Halpert?” Hanley asked.

“Still hard at work, last I checked. He claims he’s pursuing a different angle and should have the details in another few hours.”

“Go over the roster,” Hanley said.

“We have four in London already,” Stone said, reading from a printed sheet. “Cabrillo, Seng, Meadows and Truitt. The six to be transported are Huxley, Jones, Lincoln, Kasim, Murphy and Ross.”

“That gives us a force of ten inside London,” Hanley noted.

“Correct,” Stone said. “Air support at Heathrow is Adams in the Robinson and Gunderson and Pilston in the Gulfstream. Judy Michaels just flew in from her leave and is taking over the amphibian piloting.”

“Operations on the Oregon?” Hanley asked.

“The vessel will be crewed by Gannon, Barrett, Hornsby, Reinholt and Reyes.”

“Who does that leave?”

“You, me, Nixon in the Magic Shop, Crabtree here on logistics, and King,” Stone finished.

“I forgot about King,” Hanley said. “We need him in there as support.”

“Do you want me to include him in Truitt’s group?”

Hanley thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “Have Adams pick him up and put them both on standby. I want them close to the scene and ready to take to the air at a moment’s notice. Adams and King can provide air cover.”

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

“Excellent.”

“TRUITT CASED THE principal’s apartment building early this morning,” Cabrillo said.

Cabrillo, Seng and Meadows were eating breakfast in the chairman’s suite.

“Where is he now?” Meadows asked.

“He’s on his way to the port where the Oregonis docked to pick up the rest of the team.”

“Then I guess he didn’t detect traces of the bomb,” Seng said, “or we’d have already moved by now.”

“Correct,” Cabrillo said.

“So we have to wait until they move?” Meadows asked.

“If the bomb is in London,” Cabrillo said, “and the principals realize someone is on to them, they could blow it at any time. They might not be at their primary target yet, but with a nuclear warhead—even a small one like this—the destruction would be horrific.”

“So we try to flush them out,” Seng asked, “then make the grab and defuse the weapon?”

“I’m sure that’s not what MI5 wants,” Cabrillo said, “but that’s what I will recommend.”

“When do you meet with them?” Meadows asked.

Cabrillo wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and stared at his wristwatch. “In five minutes,” he said, “in the lobby.”

“What would you like us to do?” Seng asked.

“Walk the area near the apartment and get the lay of the land.”

EDWARD GIBB WAS not happy. Being awakened on New Year’s Eve and ordered into work was not his idea of a pleasant holiday. An attorney had telephoned this morning and asked if he could meet the new owner of the mill and unlock the doors. Gibb had almost refused—he’d decided on retirement and was planning to tell the Human Resources Department as soon as they all returned to work—but the idea of meeting the mysterious buyer of Maidenhead Mills intrigued him.

After showering, dressing and eating a quick breakfast of tea and toast, he drove over to the mill. A limousine was idling near the front doors, the exhaust creating puffs of smoke in the chill air. Gibb approached and knocked on the rear window. The window slid down and a man smiled.

“Mr. Gibb?” he asked.

Gibb nodded.

“Halifax Hickman,” the man said, climbing out of the rear and standing on the asphalt near the doors. “Allow me to apologize for taking you away from your family on a holiday.”

The men shook hands.

“No problem, sir,” Gibb said, walking toward the door. “I can understand you might want to see what you spent your money on as soon as possible.”

“I was on my way to Europe,” Hickman lied, “and am limited in time.”

“I understand, sir,” Gibb said as he reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys and unlocked the door.

“Thank you,” Hickman said as Gibb opened the door and stood aside.

“Keep these,” Gibb said, handing Hickman the keys. “I have another set.”

Hickman slid them into his pocket. Gibb walked past the reception area and through the doors into the massive shop floor where the mills and fabric were stored. Reaching over to a breaker switch on the wall, he flipped it on. The interior of the massive room lit up. Gibb looked over at Hickman. The man was scanning the various machines.

“This is the final stage shaver and vacuum unit,” he said, pointing to a machine that looked like a large version of the broiler unit used at Burger King. “The material is fed in on the belt, it’s treated, and then it comes out here on these series of rollers.”

The metal frame that contained the rollers was waist high and went to an area for packing, then it stretched in a half circle to end near the loading dock. Bolts of cloths could be pushed along until they were boxed or wrapped, and then taken along to the trucks for shipment.

Hickman’s eyes were scanning the area nearby. “Are those the prayer rugs for Saudi Arabia?” he asked, staring at three large metal shipping containers near the milling machine and next to the door to the docks. “Can I see them?”

“Yes, sir,” Gibb said, unlocking each of the containers and swinging the doors open, “and they are overdue to be delivered.”

Hickman peeked inside. Each of the metal containers was as large as a semitrailer. They were designed to be loaded aboard a 747 cargo plane. The rugs were hanging from vises on the ceiling of the containers and stretched forward as far as the eye could see. Each container held thousands.

“Why aren’t they stacked?” Hickman asked.

“We have to spray them with insecticide and disinfectant before they are allowed into Saudi Arabia. They don’t want Mad Cow disease or some other airborne pathogen brought in—every country makes that mandatory now,” Gibb said.

“Leave them open,” Hickman said, “and give me the keys to the containers.”

Gibb nodded and handed Hickman the keys.

“When are the workers due back from holiday?” Hickman asked.

“Monday, January second,” Gibbs said, following Hickman, who was walking back through the machines toward the lobby area again.

“I’ve got some guys from the U.S. coming in to help. We’ll make those a top priority,” Hickman said as they neared the lobby and front offices. “Now, can you show me to an office where I might use a telephone?”

Gibb pointed to stairs that led to a glass-enclosed office overlooking the shop floor. “You’re welcome to use mine, sir. It’s unlocked.”

Hickman smiled and reached out for Gibb’s hand. “Mr. Gibb,” he said easily, “why don’t you get back to your family. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Gibb nodded and started for the door, then stopped. “Mr. Hickman,” he said slowly, “would you like to come over this evening and celebrate the New Year with us?”

Hickman was halfway to the stairs and turned back to look at Gibb. “That’s a kind offer,” he said, “but for me New Year is always a time for quiet reflection.”

“No family, sir?” Gibb asked.

“I had a son,” Hickman said quietly, “but he was murdered.”

With that, he turned and walked toward the stair.

Gibb turned and walked through the door. Hickman was nothing like the newspapers said. He was just a lonely old man, as ordinary as white rice. Gibb might reconsider his plans to retire—with Hickman as owner, big things might be afoot.

Hickman entered the office and reached for the telephone.

CABRILLO ENTERED THE lobby with Meadows and Seng in tow. A blond man dressed in a black suit and polished shoes approached immediately.

“Mr. Fleming has cordoned off a quiet area of the dining room so you can meet in private,” the man said, referring to the head of MI5. “It’s right this way.”

Seng and Meadows headed for the front door. Like magic, several men in the lobby reading newspapers rose and followed. They would not be alone for their reconnaissance.

Cabrillo followed the blond man into the dining room. Taking a hallway to the left, they entered a private room where a man was seated at a table with a pot of tea and a silver platter of pastries.

“Juan,” the man said, rising.

“John,” Cabrillo said, reaching out to shake hands.

“That will be all,” Fleming said to the blond-haired man, who walked back through the door and closed it behind him.

Fleming motioned to a chair and Cabrillo sat down. Fleming poured Cabrillo a cup of tea and waved his hands over the platter of pastries.

“I’ve eaten,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup of tea.

Fleming looked over into Cabrillo’s eyes and held them for a minute. “Well, Juan,” he said, “what the hell is going on?”

IN THE CONFERENCE room on the Oregonall the seats were filled. Hanley entered last and walked over to a podium and set a file on top.

“Here’s the situation right now,” Hanley began. “We believe we have the location of the bomb pinned down to the general area of the West End of London. Mr. Truitt has checked out the apartment building that the principal, Nebile Lababiti, has secretly rented, and he managed to observe Lababiti and another man coming home late last night. After they entered the apartment, Mr. Truitt swept the area outside the door with a Geiger counter but found no traces of radiation. You six will be going in as support for Mr. Cabrillo, who is already present along with Mr. Meadows and Mr. Seng. Mr. Truitt also placed a locator on Lababiti’s Jaguar, and as of right now, there has been no movement.”

“What do we think the timetable is?” Ross asked.

“We still think the plans call for a midnight New Year’s Eve attack,” Hanley said, “as a symbolic gesture.”

“Will we receive our actual assignments once we’re in London?” Murphy asked.

“Correct,” Hanley said. “Mr. Cabrillo will be coordinating with MI5. They and Mr. Cabrillo will assign your actual duties as they unfold.”

Hanley’s beeper vibrated, and he removed it from his belt and stared at the readout.

“Okay, people,” he said, “Mr. Truitt has arrived to take you into London. He’s in front right now. Be sure and take the crates of supplies that Nixon has prepared along with you, they are stacked alongside the gangplank. Any other questions?”

No one spoke.

“Good luck, then,” Hanley said.

The six filed out and down the hallway.

CABRILLO FINISHED BRIEFING Fleming then took a sip of tea.

“The prime minister will have a problem keeping the public in the dark about this,” Fleming admitted.

“You know that if the Hammadi Group realizes that their cover is blown, they could detonate at any time,” Cabrillo told him. “Our best chance is to try to make contact using our voice tape of Al-Khalifa, or simply to wait for them to move and follow them to the bomb, then defuse it.”

“We should cancel the concert,” Fleming said. “That reduces the number of people in the area at least.”

“I think that will clue in the Hammadi Group,” Cabrillo said.

“We need to at least remove the royal family and the prime minister to safe locations,” Fleming said.

“If you can do it undetected,” Cabrillo said, “by all means do.”

“Prince Charles is scheduled to announce Elton John before his performance, but he could plead sickness,” Fleming said.

“Use a decoy,” Cabrillo offered.

“If the plan is to hit the concert,” Fleming said, “and the weapon is not already in place, then they have to deliver it to the site.”

“If you have teams covertly check all the areas near the concert with Geiger counters and no radiation is found, then we have to assume they are planning to deliver the warhead to the site by vehicle.”

“So we eliminate the areas near the concert, and if we find nothing,” Fleming said slowly, “we just need to control the roads leading into the Mayfair and St. James areas.”

“Exactly,” Cabrillo said. “The traffic is already horrible in the area. You just station trucks on the side streets that can be moved into place to seal off the roads. I don’t think it will come to that. If we’re correct and Lababiti isin control of the bomb, we know it is not in his Jaguar but it must be close. I think our only hope is to keep surveillance on him as thick as flies on a carcass. Then grab him when the time is right.”

“If we’re wrong and he doesn’t lead us to the bomb,” Fleming said, “then our only hope to stop it is the ring around Mayfair and St. James.”

“If you place your trucks correctly, there isn’t a car in the world that can make it through those streets.”

“But then will we have time to defuse the bomb?” Fleming asked.

“The farther away from the concert we locate it, the more time we’ll have. Make sure all your men have diagrams so they know what wires to cut in order to stop the timer from running through its cycle.”

“Lord,” Fleming said, “if only we knew exactly where the bomb was.”

“If we did,” Cabrillo said, “this would be a hell of a lot easier.”