Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“Missiles away,” Murphy said a split second later.

“Tracking,” Lincoln said.

TWO MISSILES LEFT the firing platform, two packages of four from each side of a small glass dome that housed a radar tracking unit. The time interval between the two packages was but milliseconds, and they streaked from the ship across Israel and directly toward the DC-3. Like arrows shot from a warrior’s bow they ran straight and true toward the target.

Adams was plucking Cabrillo off the Dome as the missiles streaked overhead. Quickly removing the rope and dropping it down to those on the ground, Adams pulled up on the collective and climbed above the mosque then edged the Robinson forward.

Hickman was almost sideways when for the briefest of seconds he saw two pinpoints of light coming from the distance. Before his mind could register what they were, they slammed into the fuselage of the DC-3.

Death came instantaneously as the shattered aircraft fell into the Dead Sea.

THE GLASS NOSE cone of the Robinson was facing the DC-3 far in the distance when the missiles found their mark.

“Secure the stone,” Cabrillo radioed to Hanley on the Oregon.“I’m going out to the crash site.”

52

“IT’S A MIXTUREof starches taken from rice powder along with the addition of a naturally occurring accelerant that makes it plump up,” Nixon said.

Seng was staring at the courtyard surrounding the Dome of the Rock. A Muslim CIA agent who was assigned to Israel was carefully removing Abraham’s Stone from the crust. The heavy object had penetrated the surface over a foot but was still cushioned by inches of the white blanket.

The CIA agent looked up at Seng and nodded that the stone was secure.

“How do we get this stuff off the courtyard?” Seng asked.

“I didn’t have much time to test that,” Nixon said, “but vinegar should do the trick.”

Seng nodded, then reached onto his belt and removed a folding knife. He reached down and cut a square into the white blanket. Prying with the knife, he pulled up the chunk and held it in his hand.

“It’s like a rice cake,” he said, tossing the feather-light square in the air and catching it again.

“If we have someone cut it up with shovels,” Nixon said, “then remove the biggest pieces, followed by wetting the area with vinegar and brushing it with brooms, I think all it will need then is a good hosing off.”

THE SOUND OF the Robinson grew louder. The helicopter passed over the mosque then landed on a nearby street. Seng was giving the Israelis instructions on the cleanup when Cabrillo walked through the arched gate and into the courtyard.

“The wreckage of the DC-3 landed in the Dead Sea,” Cabrillo said to Seng. “The largest piece we could see on the surface was about the size of a loaf of bread.”

“And Mr. Hickman?” Seng asked.

“Whatever remains exist,” Cabrillo said, “sleep with the fishes.”

Seng nodded and the men stood quietly for a moment.

“Sir,” Seng said a moment later, “the stone is secured and the cleanup of the mosque has been initiated. The teams are ready for extraction.”

Cabrillo nodded. “You’re cleared for extraction,” he said, turning to the CIA agent. “Bring the stone and come with me.”

Placing the carefully wrapped stone into a wheelbarrow used by the gardeners at the mosque, the CIA agent grabbed the handles and followed Cabrillo toward the gate.

AT THE SAME time Cabrillo was walking toward the Robinson, Hanley was conferring with Overholt over the telephone.

“We’ve secured the stone and are withdrawing from Israel,” Hanley said. “How are your contacts in Egypt?”

“Excellent,” Overholt said.

“And the Sudan?”

“Our man there is top-notch.”

“Here’s what we need,” Hanley said.

Overholt made notes as Hanley explained. “Okay,” he said when Hanley finished, “Al Ghardaqah, Aswan, and Ras Abu Shagara, Sudan. I’ll arrange the clearances and have one-hundred-octane fuel at each stop.”

HANLEY WAS JUST disconnecting as Halpert walked into the control room holding a file folder stuffed with papers. “I think I have Medina figured out,” he said. “I lifted the blueprints from the contractor’s computer base and studied them for the last hour.”

“Blueprints?” Hanley asked. “It was built hundreds of years ago.”

“But enlarged and modernized 1985 through 1992,” Halpert said. “At that time they bored underground tunnels to run water lines for an air-conditioning system. You told me to think like Hickman—if I was him, that’s where I’d place charges.”

Hanley stared at the diagrams for a moment. “Michael,” he said a second later, “I think you nailed it.”

“Remember that,” Halpert said, smiling, “at bonus time.”

Halpert walked out of the control room and Hanley reached for a telephone. While the number was ringing, he turned to Stone. “Pull up a satellite shot of Medina for me.”

Stone began to enter commands into the computer just as the phone was answered.

“YES, SIR,” KASIM said.

“What’s the progress?”

Kasim was standing just off to the side of a crowd of people at the Jeddah bus terminal.

“Both teams made it safely here,” Kasim said. “We stashed the motorcycles in a dry wash outside of Jeddah and made our way into the city. Skutter, who’s heading the Medina operation, and his team have already boarded a bus for the city. My team and I are waiting for ours now.”

“And Skutter has a satellite phone with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long until his bus arrives?” Hanley asked.

“Four to five hours,” Kasim said.

“I’ll wait until he arrives to call him, but we think we know where the charges were placed at the Prophet’s Mosque.”

The bus was just pulling up.

“My bus is here,” Kasim said. “What do you want us to do?”

“You’ll be met by a CIA contact in Mecca and taken to a safe house,” Hanley said. “I’ll call you there.”

“Got it.”

PETE JONES LOOKED over to the emir of Qatar. “Your Excellency,” he said, “how are your relations with the Bahrainis?”

“Great,” the emir said, “they are dear friends.”

“Can you have trucks waived through customs without any problems?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“Do you have a cargo ship available that can pick them up at the port in Bahrain?”

The emir stared over at his aide, al-Thani.

“I’ll arrange one here or in Bahrain immediately,” al-Thani said.

“We have about six hours before everything needs to be in place,” Jones said.

“It shall be done, Mr. Jones,” the emir said. “It shall be done.”

INSIDE THE FENCED cargo area alongside Riyadh Airport, U.S. Army Warrant Officer Patrick Colgan and his team were still awaiting instructions. They had spent three nights hiding under the containers, eating from their food supplies and drinking their bottled water. Now supplies were running low on both, and the containers around them that gave them cover were growing thinner and thinner.

Something needed to happen—and happen quickly.

JONES STUDIED THE file taken from Al-Sheik’s PDA, then reached for the telephone.

“Sir,” he said when the phone was answered, “have you received any changes to the shipping time for the cargo containers?”

“No changes,” Hanley said.

“Okay, then,” Jones said, “I’ve got the out.”

Hanley listened while Jones explained.

“I like it,” Hanley said, “simple and sweet.”

“I’m cleared?”

“Do it,” Hanley said.

THE AREA AROUND the three shipping containers where the men were hiding was gradually being cleared. There was still a scattering of containers to the left, but to the right was only bare sand and gravel.

Colgan’s telephone rang quietly, and he pushed the button to answer. “Colgan,” he said.

“This is Jones in Qatar.”

“What have you got for us, Mr. Jones? We are nearly out in the open here. We need to do something quick.”

“In ten minutes three trucks are due to arrive to pick up the containers,” Jones said. “The trucks all have GPS locators attached to the rear of the cabs. The locators are about the size of a pack of cigarettes and are secured by a magnet. Have three of your men act as lot workers helping the trucks hook up. Have the men remove the locators as the trucks back in, otherwise you’ll be tracked.”

“Okay,” Colgan said.

“Tell the three men with the locators to attach them to an uncontaminated container, then have them jump into another truck and catch a ride to Mecca. The people tracking the shipment should just think that the trucks are following close behind each other.”

“What should my men do when they reach Mecca?”

“Jump out of the trucks before they reach the unloading terminal and discard the locators in the first trash cans they see. Then they need to catch a bus down to Jeddah and make their way to the port area. Once there, they will find a shore launch marked Akbar II.Have them board the boat and they will be transported offshore.”

“Akbar II,”Colgan repeated.

“Now the five of you that remain will have to overpower the drivers and take the trucks yourselves. Bind and gag the drivers and place them on the passenger side on the floor. Then simply drive through the gate, and when you reach the main road, go east instead of west. Your ultimate destination is Bahrain.”

“Okay,” Colgan said.

“Now,” Jones said, “since after the three leave for Mecca you still have five men, you’ll be crowded in two of the trucks—your driver and passenger, plus the bound-and-gagged one you’ve overpowered. Make sure your extra man ducks under the blanket when you pull from the gate so they don’t notice.”

“Won’t they stop and check us?” Colgan asked.

“We’ve had someone watching the gate today,” Jones said. “They check for the correct truck on the way in, then they just mark down the container number as it passes loaded through the gate.”

“But what happens when the cargo is missing and they find the locators?” Colgan asked. “Won’t they start looking for us then?”

“The trip from Riyadh to Mecca takes six hours,” Jones said. “It’s only four to Bahrain. Once they figure out the containers are missing, you’ll be on a cargo ship bound for Qatar.”

“And you’re sure we can make it through the border checkpoint into Bahrain?”

“It’s all been taken care of.”

“Sweet plan,” Colgan said.

“Good luck.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Colgan and the four other men bound for Bahrain made it safely out of the cargo terminal and started down the road. Seven minutes after that, a Coast Guard petty officer named Perkins, along with two others, attached the locators to three trucks in a six-truck convoy, then climbed inside the last truck.

The truck was filled with bottles of water, so at least they would not be thirsty on the six-hour haul to Mecca. If only the truck had had a pallet of M&M’s aboard, the ride would have been more enjoyable.

IT WAS ALMOST noon when Adams, Cabrillo and the CIA agent handling Abraham’s Stone landed at the first fuel stop at Al Ghardaqah, Egypt, at the mouth of Khalij as-Suways on the entrance to the Red Sea.

Overholt not only had the promised fuel, but food, water, coffee and a U.S. Army helicopter mechanic to check the R-44. The mechanic added half a can of oil to the piston engine and did a quick check of the craft, then pronounced the Robinson fit as a fiddle. The three men made a quick bathroom stop then took off again.

The next leg of the flight, some two hundred miles to Aswan, was made in less than two hours at a speed of 125 miles per hour. The helicopter was fueled and checked again and the trio set off.

Aswan to Ras Abu Shagara, the dangling peninsula of land that jutted into the Red Sea across from Jeddah in Saudi Arabia, was the longest leg of the flight. Some 350 miles in length, the flight would take nearly three hours.

The Robinson was thirty minutes out of Aswan high above the desert when Adams spoke. “Sirs,” he said, “it will be a couple of hours until the next stop. If you want to get some sleep it’s okay by me.”

The CIA agent in the rear seat nodded, crouched down and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

“You okay, George?” Cabrillo asked. “You’ve been flying a lot lately—how are you holding up?”

“I’m ten by ten, boss,” Adams said, smiling. “I’ll take us down to the Sudan, then across the Red Sea and drop you—once I’m back in Sudan I’ll get some shut-eye.”

Cabrillo nodded. Slowly, as the helicopter droned south, he fell into a sleep.

THE TIME WAS just after 4 P.M. when Hanley on the Oregonmade the satellite call to Skutter. With no clear direction yet on how to proceed, Skutter and his team had been milling around the bus terminal waiting for a contact.

“My name is Max Hanley, I’m Mr. Kasim’s superior.”

“What do you want us to do?” Skutter asked quickly.

Several people had approached his team already and only one of the men with him could speak even a smattering of Arabic. If they stayed here any longer they might be detected.

“To your left,” Hanley said, “is a beggar with an old tin plate who looks like he’s sleeping. Do you see him?”

“Yes,” Skutter said.

In between bouts of what looked like napping, the man had been staring at his team for the last twenty minutes.

“Go over to him and place a coin in his plate,” Hanley said.

“We don’t have any coins,” Skutter whispered. “We were only issued bills.”

“Then use the smallest bill you have,” Hanley said. “He will hand you what looks like a religious pamphlet. Take the pamphlet, walk a safe distance away from the terminal to a side street, then find somewhere you can read it without being observed.”

“Then what?”

“Your instructions are inside.”

“Is that all?” Skutter asked.

“For now,” Hanley said, “and good luck.”

SKUTTER DISCONNECTED THEN whispered to one of his men. Then he walked over to the beggar, removed a bill from a stack in his pocket, bent over, and slipped it on the plate.

“Allah will reward you,” the beggar said in Arabic, handing him the pamphlet.

Skutter was bending back to an upright position when the briefest of winks flickered across the beggar’s left eye. Suddenly Skutter was feeling a renewed hope. Making his way away from the bus station followed by the other men, he found a deserted area and read the instructions. It was only a few blocks to his destination and he ate the entire pamphlet as he walked.

“DO NOT GO outside,” the CIA contact said to Kasim and his team at the safe house in Mecca, “do not do anything to draw attention to yourself. There is food, water, and soft drinks in the kitchen.”

“How do we reach you if we need to?” Kasim asked.

“You don’t,” the contact said. “You wait for your people to give you any further instructions. I was told to stock the house, meet you at the terminal and bring you here. That ends my involvement. I wish you luck and Godspeed.”

The CIA man made his way to the door and exited.

“THAT SEEMS ODD,” an army private in Kasim’s team offered.

“Everything is compartmentalized,” Kasim said. “Each piece of this operation will remain separate until it is time to bring it together. Now we all need to get some rest and take turns getting cleaned up. I want everyone to eat a good meal and try to relax. Soon we will be called, and when we are, it’ll be go time.”

The team nodded.

THE SUN WAS setting as Adams approached the Akbarfrom the Red Sea. Passing over the yacht once to alert the crew, he lined up over the stern and dropped slowly down. Al-Khalifa’s Kawasaki helicopter was still on the heliport, so he hovered a few feet above the yacht, just above a clear spot on the stern. The CIA agent dropped Abraham’s Stone safely packed in a box with padding to the deck, then leapt off.

“Overholt’s men are waiting for you back at Ras Abu Shagara,” Cabrillo said. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Adams said.

The CIA agent was carrying the box toward the rear door of the Akbar.Cabrillo stepped off and crab-walked out from under the rotor blade. Adams lifted off again.

AT JUST THAT moment Cabrillo’s phone rang.

“Threat one is eliminated,” Hanley said. “The cargo containers are on board a ship just now leaving Bahrain for Qatar.”

“No problems?”

“All went as planned,” Hanley said. “Three men will meet the Akbar’s shore boat in Jeddah. You’ll need to have them transported out to the yacht—their part in the operation is finished.”

Kent Joseph, part of a Florida team who had been contracted to handle the Akbarfor the Corporation, poked his head out of the door, and Cabrillo smiled and raised his finger for the captain to wait a minute.

“Skutter?”

“He has the diagrams and we’re sending him and the team in this evening,” Hanley said. “If that’s successful, it’ll be two down, one to go.”

“How are you coming on that plan?” Cabrillo asked.

“I’ll call you back soon.”

The telephone went dead and Cabrillo placed it in his pocket. Then he smiled and reached his hand out to Joseph.

“Juan Cabrillo,” he said, shaking. “I’m with the Corporation.”

“Is that like the Agency?” Joseph asked.

“Heck, no,” Cabrillo said, smiling. “I’m not a spy.”

Joseph nodded and motioned to the door.

“But he is,” Cabrillo said, waving toward the CIA agent.

53

IT WAS DARKwhen Coast Guard Petty Officer Perkins and the other two men inside the last truck in the convoy felt their vehicle begin to slow. Perkins peered out the crack between the cargo doors. There were scattered buildings along the road and the lights of a car following. He waited almost five minutes before the car, finding a clear spot in the road to pass the trucks, accelerated and sped past.

“Okay, guys,” Perkins said, “we need to jump out.”

Upon climbing inside, Perkins had rigged the door to open again so exiting was not a problem. The problem was the speed of the truck—it was still moving at over thirty miles an hour. He watched the side of the road out the rear.

“Men,” he said a minute later, “there is really no easy way to do this. Our best shot is to wait until we see sand along the left side of the truck, then you two grab the top of the door and I’ll push it open. The swing should get you near the side of the road—just drop off as soon as possible.”

“Won’t the driver notice?” one of the men asked.

“Maybe if he’s staring in the rearview mirror at that exact instant,” Perkins admitted, “but the door should swing back afterward, and if he doesn’tnotice it immediately, he should be farther down the road before he catches on that the door is open.”

“What about you?” the third man asked.

“All I can do,” Perkins said, “is run and jump as far as I can.”

The buildings were giving way to a less populated area just outside Mecca. Perkins stared through the gloom. “I don’t know, guys,” he said a second later. “I guess this is as good a spot as any.”

Perkins boosted them up so they could grab the top of the door frame. Then a second later he pushed it out. The door swung outward, the two men dropped to the ground and rolled end over end in the sand. Perkins backed up as far as he could in the crowded shipping container and ran from the right side of the container toward the left then leapt into the air. Perkins’s legs windmilled through the air as he flew.

The truck, door flapping, receded into the distance. They were alone, with only the lights of Mecca a few miles away lighting the desert sky.

Perkins tore some skin off his knee and realized that he had also wrenched it upon landing. He lay on the ground just off the road. The other two men, one bleeding from an elbow abrasion, the other with a red spot on his face where he had scraped it against the sand, helped Perkins to his feet.

Perkins’s knee gave out and he crumbled to the ground.

“Take the phone I was given,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing it to one of the men, “and push number one. Explain what happened to whoever answers.”

BACK ON THE Oregon,Hanley reached for the ringing telephone.

“Okay, hold on a second,” he said after the man explained.

“Get me GPS on this signal,” he shouted to Stone, who punched the commands into the computer.

“Got a lock,” Stone said a minute or so later.

“Is there a spot off to the side of the road where you’re not visible?” Hanley asked the man.

“We’re right alongside a wash,” the man said. “There’s a dune above.”

“Start climbing the dune and take cover,” Hanley said. “Leave the line open—I’ll get back to you in a second.”

Reaching for another phone, Hanley dialed the number of the CIA station chief for Saudi Arabia on the number Overholt had given him. “This is the contractors,” he said when the man answered. “Do you have any agents in Mecca right now?”

“Sure,” the station chief answered. “We have a Saudi national on the pad.”

“Does he have a car?”

“He drives a Pepsi delivery truck.”

“We need him to drive to these GPS coordinates,” Hanley said, “and pick up three men. Can you do that?”

“Hold on,” the station chief said as he dialed the Pepsi driver’s cell phone.

Hanley could hear him explaining in the background.

“He’s leaving now,” the station chief said, “he thinks it’s about twenty minutes away.”

“Tell him to honk when he reaches the area,” Hanley said. “Our men will come out of hiding then.”

“Where is he taking them?” the station chief asked.

“Jeddah.”

“I’ll call if there are any problems.”

“No problems,” Hanley said. “We don’t like any problems.”

Hanley hung up on the station chief, then grabbed the other phone and explained the plan.

HANLEY MAY NOT have liked problems but that was exactly what he was faced with.

The conference room was filled with Seng, Ross, Reyes, Lincoln, Meadows, Murphy, Crabtree, Gannon, Hornsby and Halpert. All ten of them seemed to be talking at once.

“We can’t do anything from the air,” Lincoln said, “they’ll see that coming.”

“No time to tunnel,” Ross said.

“The key,” Halpert said to Crabtree, “was how Hickman got it out in the first place.”

“I can arrange a pyrotechnic display to divert them,” Murphy said, smiling at Hornsby, “but we’re here on the Oregon,in the Mediterranean, and they’re there, in Saudi.”

“Tear gas?” Reyes offered to the room.

“Cut the power?” Meadows mentioned.

Seng stood up. “Okay, people,” he said, “let’s get some order here.”

As the highest-ranking man, he was in charge of the brainstorming session.

Seng walked over to the coffeepot to pour another cup. He was talking as he walked. “We have less than an hour to come up with a cohesive plan the team on the ground can execute if we want to do this thing tonight—and we do.”

He finished pouring the coffee and walked back to the table. “Like Halpert said—how did Hickman get the meteorites switched in the first place?”

“He had to somehow disable the guards,” Meadows said. “There is no other way he could have pulled if off.”

“Then why wasn’t the theft discovered soon after,” Seng asked, “and reported?”

“He had an inside man,” Murphy said, “that’s the only way.”

“We checked out the guards,” Seng said. “If one of them was on to what was happening, he’d be out of Mecca by now. They’re all still on the job.”

The conference room was quiet for a moment as the team thought.

“You said you checked out the guards,” Linda Ross said, “so you have the schedules and such?”

“Sure,” Seng said.

“Then the only way I see this going down is to switch all four,” Ross said.

“That’s good,” Halpert said, “hit them at shift change—replace the oncoming guards with our team.”

“Then what?” Seng asked.

“Turn off the power to all of Mecca,” Reyes said, “and have them make the switch.”

“But then we have four guards that will be found at the next shift change,” Seng said.

“Boss,” Gannon said, “by then the teams from Qatar will be safely away and the Saudis can do what they will.”

The room was quiet for a second as Seng thought.

“It’s crude,” he said at last, “but doable.”

“Sometimes you need to split a coconut with a rock to get to the milk,” Gannon said.

“I’ll take it to Hanley,” Seng said, rising.

WHILE THE PLANNING session on the Oregonwas finishing, Skutter and his team found one of the hatches leading into the tunnel beneath the Prophet’s Mosque and slipped inside. They were only five minutes underground when the first of the explosive packages was located.

“Spread out up the tunnel,” Skutter said to the others, “and find out how many of these there are in here.”

Then he turned to the only man on his team with any training in demolition. “What do you think?”

The man smiled, reached in his pocket for wire cutters and pulled them out. Reaching down, he pulled up a wire and snipped it in two. Finding a few others, he cut those as well, and then started unwrapping the duct tape from the pipe.

“Crude but damned powerful is how I’d describe these,” the man said, laying the C-6 and the dynamite separately on the ground of the tunnel.

“That’s it?” Skutter said in exasperation.

“That’s it,” the man said. “One thing, however.”

“What’s that?”

“Be careful and don’t kick or drop the dynamite or anything,” the man said. “Depending on its age, it could be unstable.”

“Don’t worry,” Skutter said, “we’re leaving it here.”

Within two hours the charges would all be disabled and the tunnel would be checked then double-checked to make sure. Then Skutter could call and report.

WHILE THE DEMOLITION man was snipping the wires on the first explosive package, Hanley was phoning Cabrillo on the Akbar.

“That’s what we’ve got, boss,” he said after he finished filling Cabrillo in on the plan they had come up with. “It’s crude, I’ll admit.”

“Have you spoken to Kasim yet?” Cabrillo asked.

“I wanted you to clear it first.”

“I’m with it,” Cabrillo said. “Why don’t you fax me everything you have so I can brief the CIA man. Meanwhile, I’ll call Kasim and report what we came up with.”

“I’ll send it now.”

“YOU’LL NEED TO move fast,” Cabrillo explained to Kasim. “Shift change is at two a.m.”

“What about any explosives?” Kasim asked.

“The CIA man who’s delivering Abraham’s Stone will have a dozen chemical sniffers. Have the rest of the men in your team spread out and search while you do the switch.”

“Okay,” Kasim said.

“You have an hour and forty minutes for you and your team to make your way to the Great Mosque, observe the guards so you understand the procedures, then find the incoming guards, disable them and take their places. Can you do it?”

“It would seem we have no choice.”

“This is all riding on you, Hali,” Cabrillo said.

“I won’t let you or my religion down,” Kasim said.

“I’ll finish briefing the CIA agent and send him on his way,” Cabrillo said. “There’s a car and driver waiting to take him to Mecca as we speak. He’ll enter the Great Mosque at ten minutes after two if he doesn’t hear gunfire.”

“We’ll be there,” Kasim said.

The telephone went dead, and Kasim turned to his team. “Listen up,” he said, “we have our orders.”

CABRILLO TOOK THE sheets from the fax and quickly briefed the CIA agent. Once that was done, he boarded the shore boat with the agent for the ride across the water to the port of Jeddah. It was a pleasant night, seventy-five degrees with almost no breeze. The moon was waning and cast a pale glow on the water as the boat skimmed across the placid sea.

The lights of the Akbarfaded and the ones of Jeddah loomed larger.

AS SOON AS the Pepsi truck pulled up by the dune and honked, Perkins and the other two men in hiding peered over the dune, waited until there was no traffic coming down the road, then made their way to the road. Perkins’s knee was heavily swollen and one of the men supported him as the other approached the truck.

“You here for us?” the man asked the driver.

“Hurry up and get in,” the driver said, reaching across the cab and opening the passenger door.

Once the three men were situated, the driver spun around in a U-turn, then headed toward the lights of Mecca. Skirting the main part of the city on an expressway, he was two miles down the road to Jeddah before he spoke.

“You guys like the Eagles?” he asked as he slid a CD into the player.

The first cut on Hotel Californiabegan to play as they drove through the night.

AS SOON AS the shore boat reached land, the CIA agent climbed off and raced to a waiting Chevrolet Suburban. A minute later the Suburban spun off, throwing gravel from the rear tires as he raced away.

“What now brown cow?” one of the Florida mechanics who was piloting the shore boat asked.

“Now we back off and wait for a Pepsi truck,” Cabrillo said.

The mechanic put the drive in reverse and started backing away. “So you men are Pepsi smugglers?” he asked.

“Is there a radio aboard?” Cabrillo asked.

The mechanic turned a dial on the dash. “What’s your poison?”

“Find the news,” Cabrillo said.

Cabrillo and the mechanic sat in the moonlight, bobbing in the bay.

A CHEVROLET SUBURBAN blew past the Pepsi truck headed in the opposite direction just as the driver exited off the main road onto the one to Jeddah’s port. The driver steered down the road he was instructed to take, then pulled to a stop with the nose of the truck facing the sea. He flashed the lights three times, then waited.

A SHORT DISTANCE out in the water, the tiny red lights from the bow of a boat answered.

“Okay, men,” the driver said, “I’m done here. There’s a boat coming in to get you.”

The first man climbed out of the cab and helped Perkins to the ground. Once the two men had stepped away from the cab, the last man climbed down.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said, closing the door.

“I’ll send you the bill,” the driver shouted through the open window as he started his engine and backed out.

The three men made their way out to the edge of the water just as the Akbar’s shore boat edged itself on land. Cabrillo slipped over the side and helped the three men aboard, then climbed back inside.

“Home, James,” he said to the mechanic.

“How’d you know my name was James?” the mechanic asked, backing away from shore.

As soon as Perkins and his men were safely on board, Cabrillo ordered Joseph to begin steaming north up the coastline at high speed.

ON THE OREGON,Hanley was monitoring the various operations. It was just after 1 A.M. when the truck that had been dispatched to pick up Skutter and his men reported that they had left Medina and were racing toward Jeddah.

The distance was a little less than a hundred miles.

Barring any surprises, part two was almost completed.

Hanley reached for the phone and called Cabrillo.

“Jones met up with the group with the prayer rugs and all is well,” he said. “They have been doused with antiviral agents, given clean clothes, and are now sleeping. Team two in Medina has completed their mission and is on their way toward you now. They should be arriving in a few hours.”