Sacred Stone

by Clive Cussler

  "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?" Meadows 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?"

  Chapter 37

  LEAVE IT IN front," 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 r
eaching 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 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."

  Chapter 38

  HE HAS TO be," 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 Oregon surged 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. Long 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 gre
et 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.