Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

43

IT WAS PAST 1 A.M. on January 1, 2006, when Cabrillo finally called the Oregonto report.

“We recovered the weapon,” Cabrillo said.

“How’s MI5?” Hanley asked.

“Ecstatic,” Cabrillo answered, “there’s talk of making me a Knight of the British Empire.”

“You made the final grab?” Hanley asked incredulously.

“I’ll fill you in when we return to the ship. What else is happening?”

“While your team was working the bomb, Halpert dug up more information tying the meteorite to Halifax Hickman. We now believe that because his son was killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan, he’s planning to strike at the entire Islamic religion. He recently purchased a mill to the west of London that is filling an order for prayer rugs to be used during the hajj,” Hanley said.

“Refresh my memory,” Cabrillo asked, “the hajj is the pilgrimage to Mecca, right?”

“That’s correct,” Hanley said, “this year it falls on the tenth.”

“So we have plenty of time to shut down his operation.”

“That might have been the case,” Hanley said, “but a lot happened today while you were tied up in London.”

Hanley recounted what Overholt had explained about the tests on the meteorite fragments. Then he recapped all Halpert had discovered.

“Where are we at right now?” Cabrillo asked.

“I’ve dispatched Halpert and three others to the mill,” Hanley explained. “It’s in the town of Maidenhead.”

“And the bugs on the meteorite?” Cabrillo asked.

“They show that it is still in the general area at the moment.”

“So if Hickman does something to disturb the integrity of the orb, we could have a worse situation than from the nuke,” Cabrillo said.

“Stone checked with some sources and discovered there’s no machine in a standard textile mill that’s strong enough to crush or grind iridium,” Hanley said. “If that isHickman’s plan, he must have some way to achieve that goal at, or nearby, the mill.”

Cabrillo was silent for a second.

“Halpert is going to need some help,” Cabrillo said. “I’m leaving Seng and Meadows here—they’ve been coordinating with MI5 on the operation and they can handle the mop-up and cover-up of our involvement.”

Hanley was writing notes on a pad. “Got it,” he said. “What about the rest of you?”

“Call Adams and have the Robinson at the heliport across the river in half an hour,” Cabrillo ordered, “and tell Halpert we’re coming.”

“Consider it done,” Hanley said as the telephone went dead.

“THE CORPORATION STOPPED the bomb, Mr. President,” Overholt reported. “It’s in the hands of British intelligence.”

“Good job,” the president said heartily, “offer them my heartfelt congratulations.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” Overholt said, “but there is another problem you need to be aware of.”

“What’s that?” the president asked.

Overholt explained about the tests done with the meteorite samples.

“That’s not good,” the president said. “It could be easily argued the meteorite got in the wrong hands as a result of a CIA screwup.”

“I need you to do me a favor then,” Overholt said. “We need to take the mother of Hickman’s son secretly into custody—no warrants, no lawyers.”

“Suspend her rights under the Patriot Act?” the president asked.

“That’s it, sir,” Overholt said.

The president thought for a moment. As much as he wanted this over, snatching U.S. citizens from their homes or businesses without explanation always smacked of dictatorship to him. The president only used the power when the threat was great.

“Go ahead, then,” he said at last, “but make the snatch smoothly.”

“Trust me, sir,” Overholt said, “no one will know she’s gone.”

SIX MEN FROM the CIA’s Directorate of Operations surrounded Michelle Hunt’s Beverly Hills home later that same afternoon. As soon as she returned from the gallery after work they grabbed her as she pulled into her garage. By 7 P.M. that same evening she had been taken to Santa Monica Airport and loaded on a government jet bound for London. The plane was just crossing the Colorado River above Arizona when one of the CIA men started to explain the situation. When he finished she spoke.

“So what—I’m bait?” she asked sweetly.

“We’re not sure yet,” the CIA man admitted.

Michelle Hunt nodded her head and smiled. “You don’t know my son’s father,” she said. “To him, people are like properties to be used and disposed of as need be—threatening me will do you no good.”

“Do you have a better idea?” the CIA man asked.

Michelle Hunt thought about the question.

STEALING THREE TRUCKS on New Year’s Eve had been an easy operation. The trucking district outside London had been nearly deserted. A single freight yard that serviced the cargo carriers had been open, and it was manned by a crew of one. The remaining team from the Free Enterprisehad merely waltzed in, tied up the attendant and taken the keys they needed. No one would check on the man until morning.

By then the cargo would be moved and the trucks discarded.

SCOTT THOMPSON, THE leader of the Free Enterprisecrew, had showed a steely resolve up to now. He remained defiant until the orderly on the guided-missile frigate strapped him to a table and made sure his arms were secure.

“I demand to know what’s happening,” Thompson said as dots of sweat began breaking out on his forehead.

The orderly simply smiled. Then the door opened and Dr. Berg walked into the sick bay. He was clutching a valise. He walked over to the sink and began to wash his hands. Thompson strained to see the man but he was tightly bound and could barely move his neck. The sound of the running water was like a knife to Thompson’s heart.

THE THREE TRUCKS pulled into the parking lot of Maidenhead Mills and then drove around to the rear of the buildings, where the loading docks were located. Backing up to the bay doors, the men shut off the engines and climbed out.

Halpert and Hornsby were assigned to the rear of the building, with Barrett and Reyes watching the front. Other than a Rolls-Royce and a Daimler sedan in the parking lot near the front door, the mill appeared deserted. Halpert waited until the men went inside the mill and then whispered into his radio.

“We’re moving closer,” he said, “to see what we can see.”

“We’ll move on the front,” Reyes replied.

INSIDE THE MILL, Roger Lassiter was sitting in the front office, staring at Hickman. “Of course, because of the holiday I couldn’t verify the funds being transferred.”

“You knew that when you took the job,” Hickman said. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

The box containing the meteorite was sitting on the desk between the two men.

“I’m not much for trust,” Lassiter said, “but you must be.”

“I can assure you,” Hickman said, “you’ll be paid.”

“Where’s the meteorite headed?” Lassiter asked.

Hickman wondered if he should answer. “The Kaaba,” he said quickly.

“You’re rotten to the core,” Lassiter said, rising, “but then again, so am I.”

Lassiter walked from the office and out the front door. And as Lassiter climbed into the Daimler, Reyes secretly took photographs.

WALKING ONTO THE mill floor carrying the meteorite, Hickman saw two of the men from the trucks approaching from the back of the building. They met halfway across the expanse.

“Did you see the shipping containers?” Hickman asked.

“The three by the door?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” Hickman said, walking closer to the docks with the men now following. “After I prep them, I want you to load them on the trucks and take them to Heathrow.”

Hickman was almost at the rear door now.

“Here’s the coating you ordered,” one of the men said, holding it aloft.

“Perfect,” Hickman said, reaching the milling machine. “Hand it to me.”

One of the men lifted a sack off the floor, started shaking it, and handed it over.

44

CABRILLO AND HISteam were waiting in the borrowed Range Rover at the Battersea heliport when Fleming reached him by cellular telephone. Adams was just descending over the Thames and making his turn to land.

“Juan,” Fleming said, “we just learned something you’re going to find interesting—it pertains to your meteorite. Call it repayment for helping us with the bomb.”

The sound of the approaching helicopter grew louder. “What is it, sir?” Cabrillo shouted.

“This comes from our lead agent in Saudi Arabia,” Fleming said. “The actual spot that Muslims pray to five times a day in Mecca is named the Kaaba. It’s a special temple that houses an interesting artifact.”

“What’s the artifact?” Cabrillo asked.

“A black meteorite supposedly recovered by Abraham. The site is the very heart of the Islamic faith.”

Cabrillo sat in stunned silence.

“Thanks for alerting me,” Cabrillo said. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

“I thought you should know,” Fleming said. “Be sure to call MI5 if we can help. We owe you one.”

HALPERT REACHED INTO a backpack he’d brought from the Oregonand attached locators to all three trucks. Then he attached a microphone to the bottom of the wall near the overhead door. Motioning to Hornsby, the two men retreated back to the tree line.

Once he was again safely hidden, he whispered into the radio.

“Tom,” he said, “what’s your status?”

Reyes and Barrett had attached a similar microphone near the front glass doors. They had just returned to safety behind a wall around the edge of the parking lot.

“We’re wired,” he whispered back.

“Now we just wait and listen,” Halpert said.

HICKMAN’S TEAM WAS working in silence. After using the portable paint sprayer to make an airtight seal over the containers with a liquid plastic, one of the men drilled a pair of small holes directly through the metal sides of the containers. One hole was near the top, about chest high, the other farther down at about ankle height.

Next, the holes were threaded and small pipes installed.

Once that was done, Hickman spoke. “Masks,” was all he said.

Reaching into bags they’d brought along, the five men placed gas masks over their mouths and noses. Then one of the men attached an air pump to the pipe on the bottom of the container and started it up. Air started to be sucked from the interior of the container. Making two marks on the vial of poison to divide it into thirds, Hickman poured the liquid into a small stainless steel holding tank that screwed into the upper fitting. Carefully watching his wristwatch, he timed the introduction of the virus into the container, then removed the holding tank and screwed an airtight cap on the end.

Leaving the air pump running for another thirty seconds to create a slight vacuum, he removed the pump and capped the end off. While he moved down to the next container, one of the men sprayed the pair of end caps with the liquid plastic to make sure they were airtight. At the same time Hickman was spraying the poison into the containers, another member of the team sprayed the meteorite with a second layer of specialized coating on the floor of the mill. He rotated the orb to reach all the sides, and when he finished he lifted it and placed it in the box.

Hickman was just finishing with the containers. Taking the empty vial away from the area they were in, he found an empty spot on the floor. Sprinkling the vial with gasoline, he lit a match and tossed it on the floor. Flames burst out.

Back at the containers, the remaining four men removed small butane torches like those used by plumbers to sweat pipes together. They lit them, turned the flames on high and waved them through the air for a full five minutes.

“Okay,” Hickman said, “open the doors but keep the masks on.”

One of the men walked over to the overhead doors and pushed the electric lifts on all three bays. Then the drivers walked out, pulled the winch cables from the rear of the cabs of the trucks and started to winch the containers into place. Once they were secured, Hickman climbed into the passenger side of the lead truck and motioned for the driver to pull out.

HALPERT AND HORNSBY watched the exodus from their hiding spot. They snapped as many photographs as they could with their infrared cameras, but there was little else they could do. They watched as the trucks pulled from the docks one by one with the doors open to the weather.

The snow had turned to rain and the tires of the trucks splashed through the parking lot as they drove from the rear to the front of the building, then headed up the road leading away from the mill.

“Tom,” Halpert said quickly, “do not try to enter the building; the men that just left were wearing gas masks.”

“I understand,” Reyes said.

“I’m going to call the Oregon,” Halpert said, “and ask what to do.”

AS SOON AS he hung up after talking with Fleming, Cabrillo phoned Hanley to report what he had learned.

“I’ll have Stone start looking into it immediately,” Hanley said.

“Maybe Hickman is not planning to destroy the meteorite at all,” Cabrillo said, “but do something else entirely.”

Just at that instant Halpert radioed. “Hold on,” Hanley said to Halpert, “I’ll put you on a three-way with Mr. Cabrillo.”

Once they could all hear one another, Halpert explained what had happened.

“ARE YOU READING the locator signals from the trucks?” Cabrillo asked Hanley.

Hanley glanced over at the screen Stone was pointing at. Three moving dots were illuminated. “We have them,” he said, “but there’s another problem.”

“What’s that?” Cabrillo asked quickly.

“We lost the signal from the meteorite a few minutes ago.”

“Damn,” Cabrillo said loudly.

The line was silent for a moment as Cabrillo thought. “Here’s what we are going to do,” he said after the pause. “I’m sending Adams and Truitt back to the ship in the Robinson for chemical exposure suits—Michael, you and the others wait until they arrive.”

“Okay, boss,” Halpert said.

“Jonesy and I will stay here in the Range Rover,” Cabrillo continued. “As soon as the trucks have a definite direction selected, we’ll try to intercept them. Has the other team reached Heathrow yet?”

“They just met up with Gunderson and Pilston at the Gulfstream in the last five minutes,” Hanley said.

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Make sure Tiny keeps the plane warm—they may need to move at any second.”

“I understand,” Hanley said.

“Have Nixon prepare the suits,” Cabrillo said. “The helicopter will be there in ten minutes.”

“We’ll do it.”

“Now just keep this line open and keep telling me the direction of the trucks,” Cabrillo said.

“Okay,” Hanley said.

Sitting in the Range Rover, Cabrillo put his hand over the telephone. “Dick,” he said, “I need you to fly with Adams to the Oregonand pick up a crate of chemical exposure suits. We think Hickman has introduced some sort of chemical agent into the mill. After you pick up the suits, go directly to Maidenhead—Halpert and three others are waiting there.”

Truitt didn’t ask any questions; he simply opened the door of the Range Rover and raced through the darkness to where Adams had the Robinson idling on the heliport and climbed inside. After he explained the plan to Adams, the helicopter lifted off and started flying toward the Oregon.

“THEY HAVE TURNED onto the main motorway, the M4, that leads into London,” Hanley reported to Cabrillo.

“Mr. Jones,” Cabrillo said, “can you find us the quickest route to the M4?”

“With everyone in central London for the New Year celebrations,” Jones said, “I’d say quick might be a stretch.”

Sliding the Range Rover into gear, he backed up and then headed down the road leading out of Battersea Park. His plan was to cross the Battersea Bridge and take Old Brompton Road over to West Cromwell to the A4, which led to the M4. Even at this late hour the going would be slow.

HICKMAN AND THE trio of trucks had it easier. They drove through Maidenhead on the Castle Hill Road, which was also the A4, then turned onto A308, which led directly to the M4. Fourteen minutes after leaving Maidenhead Mill they were approaching exit number 4 to Heathrow Airport.

AT THE SAME instant the trucks were slowing to exit the M4, Truitt and Adams touched down on the rear deck of the Oregon.Nixon was waiting with a wooden crate containing the chemical suits and he raced out, opened the rear door, and stowed them across the rear seats while Adams kept the rotor turning. After closing the rear door, Nixon opened the front door and handed Truitt a printed sheet with directions to make sure the suits were airtight, then secured the front door and backed away.

Once clear, he gave Adams a thumbs-up sign and the Robinson lifted from the pad.

Within minutes the helicopter was back over London racing in the direction of Maidenhead. The distance was twenty-six miles and their arrival time was twelve minutes away.

THE PAIR OF pilots were still in the lounge at Global Air Cargo when the trucks pulled in front of the facility and slid to a stop. The 747 was sitting out front with the nose cone lifted in the air, awaiting loading. The rear ramp was also down to allow easy access. Hickman walked in a side door and found the pilots still watching the television.

“I’m Hal Hickman,” he said, “we brought the priority cargo.”

The head pilot rose and walked toward Hickman. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve worked for you for years—it’s great to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hickman said, smiling. “Now, like I said over the phone, I have a priority cargo that needs to be on its way immediately. Are you ready?”

“We don’t have any loaders,” he said. “They won’t arrive for another hour—holidays and all have thrown a wrench in the works.”

“No problem,” Hickman said. “My men and I will drive the containers on board and secure them into place. Have you received clearances yet?”

“I can call and have them in a few minutes,” the pilot said.

“Do that,” Hickman said. “We’ll get the cargo aboard.”

Hickman walked back through the door and the pilot turned to the copilot. “Call for weather and plot the course. I think London over France across the Mediterranean and into Riyadh. That’s if the weather cooperates—if not, divert us as necessary.”

ONCE OUT OF the hangar again, Hickman picked up the gas mask he had left on the ground and placed it over his mouth and nose. The drivers had been briefed on the loading procedures, and as soon as Hickman motioned to them to start, the first drove his truck carrying the container from the front to the back of the 747. Stopping with his truck going down the rear ramp, the man unhooked the cable holding the container to the flatbed then slightly tilted the bed so the container rolled backward on the steel rollers built into the bed. He was pulling away from the rear of the 747 as the next driver backed under the nose cone and placed his container’s end to the one already at the rear of the plane. Sliding the container off the truck, he pulled out again. Turning away from the third truck, which was backed up waiting to enter, he pulled ahead and stopped.

The third truck backed in and started to unload as Hickman entered the 747 with the first driver. As they had practiced, the two men began to secure the containers to the floor with long canvas straps. One would attach the strap and pulley into slots built into railings on the floor, then toss the strap over the container to the other man, who attached it to the railing in the floor then winched the strap tight. One by one they attached three straps to each container.

The last driver was unhooked and pulling out of the 747 as they reached the container.

One, two, three and they were done.

Hickman walked out of the 747, motioned for the trucks to line up a distance away from the plane, then walked back toward the hangar.

“HERE ARE THE documents,” he said, handing a clipboard of declarations over to the pilot. “The containers are in and fastened down. We’re taking off.”

“How bad do you want to push this through, sir?” the copilot asked. “We have some weather over the Mediterranean that looks bad. It would be a lot safer if we could wait until morning to start out.”

“I need it there yesterday,” Hickman said.

“Okay,” the copilot said, “it’ll be a bumpy ride.”

Hickman turned and walked away. The copilot watched him heading for the door. There was something odd about the man, but it was not a bizarre personal appearance, as some of the pulp magazines claimed the elusive billionaire fostered. In all respects Hickman appeared quite nomal—ordinary, in fact. It was that tonight Hickman had a slight red ring shaped like a triangle with rounded sides around the area of his mouth.

The copilot brushed it off; he had a lot to get done and a short time to do it.

“PULL UP A detailed map,” Hanley ordered Stone.

The locators on the containers had stopped moving a few minutes ago. Hanley wanted to know where. Stone punched commands into the computer and waited as the screens loaded. Slowly homing in on the area that showed the beeping lights, he gradually reduced the maps down to smaller scale.

“Heathrow air cargo annex,” Stone said.

Hanley reached for the file Halpert had left and flipped through the sheets of paper. He remembered Hickman had a freight company. There it was. Global Air Cargo. Finding the telephone number of the hangar at Heathrow, he handed it to Stone.

“Call and see what you can find out,” he said quickly. “I’ll call Cabrillo.”

“THAT’S IT,” THE pilot said, “we’re cleared.”

The copilot gathered up his weather reports and the log book and started to follow the pilot to the door. They had opened the door and were headed out when the telephone started to ring.

“Leave it,” the pilot said as the copilot started to turn back, “I’ve got a flat to pay for.”

“WE’RE MOVING THAT way, but slowly,” Cabrillo said.

“No answer,” Stone shouted across the control room of the Oregon.

“We’re trying to reach the hangar by telephone,” Hanley told Cabrillo, “but no one is answering.”

“Alert Gunderson in the Gulfstream to be ready to lift off,” Cabrillo said. “I’ll try to reach Fleming.”

Cabrillo hit the speed dial on his telephone just as the pilot secured the nose cone of the 747 and started the engines. Fleming came on the line and Cabrillo explained.

“And you think the cargo may be radioactive?” Fleming said after Cabrillo explained.

“Somehow poisoned,” Cabrillo said. “One of my teams witnessed the people in control wearing gas masks. We need you to shut down Heathrow.”

Fleming was silent for a second. “I think it better they left England,” he said.

ADAMS TOUCHED DOWN on the parking lot in front of Maidenhead Mills and shut the Robinson down. Once the rotor had stopped spinning and the rotor brake was locked, he climbed out, walked around to the other side and began to help Truitt unload the crate. Halpert and the others walked over. Prying the top off with a screwdriver from his tool pouch, Adams set it on the ground.

“Here’s your space suits, boys,” Adams said, smiling. “Looks like Kevin packed four.”

“We’ll dress,” Truitt said. “You tape our wrists and ankles.”

Adams nodded.

“Barrett,” Truitt said, “you sit this one out. The rest of you suit up.”

Eight minutes later, Truitt, Halpert, Hornsby and Reyes were ready. Walking around to the back of the building, they entered from the rear door. Truitt held a chemical detection device in his gloved hand. Almost immediately he got a positive reading.

“Spread out,” Truitt said, “and search everything.”

Hornsby raced for the front door, unlocked the deadbolts and walked out.

THE TRAFFIC HAD loosened as Cabrillo and Jones got farther from central London, and once they reached the M4, Jones accelerated to just over ninety miles an hour. Cabrillo hung up after talking to Fleming and dialed the Oregonagain.

“Fleming won’t shut down Heathrow,” Cabrillo said over the speaker phone as soon as Hanley answered. “What’s the closest exit to Global Air Cargo?”

Stone read off the exit number and Cabrillo repeated it to Jones.

“We’re right there, boss,” Jones said as he started to slow and pull off the M4.

“Follow the signs to Global Air Cargo,” Cabrillo said to Jones.

Jones stepped on the gas and raced down the side streets. In a few seconds he could see a large hangar with the name painted on the side in ten-foot-tall letters. A 747 was taxiing away from the building.

“Can you take us any closer?” Cabrillo asked.

Jones looked around but a chain-link fence secured the entire area. “No way, boss,” he said. “They have it secured.”

The 747 was turning to enter the taxiway.

“Drive up there to that spot between the buildings,” Cabrillo said.

Jones accelerated and then pulled to a stop. Cabrillo reached for a pair of binoculars in the side pouch and stared at the cargo plane. Then he read the tail numbers off to Hanley, who quickly wrote them down.

“Have Gunderson follow them in the Gulfstream,” Cabrillo said dejectedly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

“I’ll do it,” Hanley said.

Just then Hornsby radioed in and Stone took the call. After he explained what they had found, Stone wrote it down and handed it to Hanley, who read the notes.

“Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said, “I’m calling up the Challenger 604. I think you’re going to want to travel to Saudi Arabia at once.”