Sacred Stone

by Clive Cussler

  "I couldn't get the airport in Inverness to make a delivery," Kasim said, "so I contacted a gas station in Loch Ness to bring fuel out to the site in five-gallon cans. He should be arriving there shortly. As soon as he does, I'm sure Adams will report."

  "Damn," Hanley said, "we need George up there to support our chairman."

  Linda Ross, the Oregon's security and surveillance expert, was sitting at the table with Kasim. "I linked up with the British authorities and told them what we know—that we have a white van heading south on the road from Loch Ness that we think is carrying the meteorite, and that Mr. Cabrillo is chasing in an old black MG. They're sending helicopters, but it will be an hour or so until they reach the area."

  "Can the Challenger fly high cover and report?" Hanley asked the room.

  For a second no one spoke. Stone punched commands into his keyboard then pointed at the monitor. "That's real time from the area," he said.

  The blanket of fog looked like a gray wool sheet. On the ground in northern Scotland, visibility was being measured in feet, not yards. Help from the air would not be coming anytime soon.

  HALIFAX HICKMAN WAS fuming. After berating his security team, he turned to the head of the detail. "You're fired," he said loudly.

  The man walked to the door and exited the penthouse.

  "You," he said to the fired man's second in command, "where's the thief that broke in here?"

  "Our men saw him land on the ground up the street from Dreamworld," the man said. "He was picked up by two people in an open-topped Jeep. Two of my men were giving chase when their vehicle suffered a massive electrical failure. They lost them at that point."

  "I want every person we have scouring this city to find that Jeep," Hickman said. "I want to know who has the balls to break into my apartment on top of my hotel."

  "We'll get on it right away, sir," the newly appointed head of security said quickly.

  "You damn well better," Hickman said, as he walked up the hallway to his office.

  The security men filed out of the penthouse. And this time they remembered to lock the door. Hickman dialed a number on the phone and spoke.

  IN HIS OFFICE on board the Oregon, Michael Halpert was cataloging the contents from Truitt's transmission. The files were a jumbled mess of corporate documents, bank and brokerage records, and property holdings. Either there were no personal files or they had not been transmitted before the link was disabled.

  Halpert set the computer to search for keywords then stared at the photographs Truitt had faxed from the Gulfstream. Rolling his chair over to another computer, he fed the pictures into a scanner, then linked onto the U.S. State Department computer and began searching passport photos. The database was huge and the search might take days. Leaving the computers to work, he left the office and walked up the hall to the dining room. Today's special was beef stroganoff—Halpert's favorite.

  "SIR," THE VOICE said loudly over the phone, "we are being hailed by a United States Navy guided-missile destroyer."

  "What do you mean?" Hickman said.

  "We've been ordered to heave to or be sunk," the captain of the Free Enterprise said.

  Hickman's plan was unraveling faster and faster.

  "Can't you outrun them?" he asked.

  "Noway."

  "Then engage them," Hickman ordered.

  "Sir," the captain said loudly, "that would be suicide."

  Hickman thought for a second before answering.

  "Then delay the surrender for as long as possible," he said at last.

  "Yes, sir," the captain said.

  Hickman disconnected and sat back. The team on the Free Enterprise had been given a false story from the start. To get the team to cooperate, he'd told them that his plan was to use the meteorite, combined with a nuclear device, for an attack on Syria. Then he told them he was going to blame the attack on Israel and create a full-scale war in the Middle East. By the time it was all over, he'd said, the United States would control the region and terrorism would be snuffed out.

  His true plan was much more personal. He was going to avenge the death of the only person he had ever really loved. And God help those that stood in his way.

  Reaching for the phone again, he dialed his hangar.

  "Get my plane ready for a trip to London."

  "AHOY," MEADOWS SAID to the man on the deck of the catamaran.

  "Ahoy," the man answered.

  The man was tall, a shade over six foot four inches in height, and slim. His face was framed by a trimmed goatee and a tangled mess of graying eyebrows, and his eyes were clear and twinkled as if possessing a secret no one else knew. The man, who appeared the wrong side of sixty years of age, still had his hands inside the torpedo-shaped object.

  "Permission to come aboard?"

  "Are you the sonar guy?" the man said, grinning.

  "No," Meadows said.

  "Come on aboard anyway," the man said with a trace of disappointment.

  Meadows climbed onto the deck and approached the man. He looked vaguely familiar. Then Meadows placed the face. "Hey," Meadows said, "you're that author, that—"

  "Retired author," the man said, smiling, "and yes, I'm him. Forget about that for a moment—now are you with electronics?"

  "My oven is still on daylight savings time," Meadows admitted.

  "Damn," the author said, "I blew the motherboard in this sonar and I need to get it fixed before the weather clears and we can go out again. The repairman was supposed to be here an hour ago. He must be lost or something."

  "How long have you guys been docked here?" Meadows asked.

  "Four days now," the author said. "Another couple more and I'll need to spring for new livers for my team—they've been sampling the local flavor. That is, except for one guy—he swore it off years ago and now he's hooked on coffee and pastries. The question is, where do I find these guys? These expeditions are like a floating insane asylum."

  "Oh, yeah," Meadows said, "you like to do underwater archaeology."

  "Don't say 'archaeology' on this vessel," the author joked. "Archaeologists are on the same plane as necrophilia on this boat. We're adventurers."

  "Sorry," Meadows said, smiling. "Hey, we're looking into a theft on these docks a couple of nights ago. Did you guys lose anything?"

  "You're an American," the author said. "Why would you be investigating a robbery in England?"

  "Would you believe national security?"

  "Oh, sure," the author said. "Where were you when I was still writing? I had to make everything up."

  "Seriously," Meadows said.

  The author considered this for a moment. Finally he answered. "No, we didn't lose anything. This boat has more cameras on it than a Cindy Crawford swimsuit shoot. Underwater, above water, down in the cabins on the instruments, hell, probably in the head for all I know. I rented it from a film crew."

  Meadows looked astonished. "Did you tell the Brits that?"

  "They didn't ask," the author said. "They seemed a lot more interested in explaining to me that I hadn't seen anything—which I hadn't."

  "So you didn't see anything?"

  "Not if it was late at night," the author said. "I'm over seventy years old—if it's past ten at night, there had better be a fire or a naked girl if you want to wake me."

  "But the cameras?" Meadows asked.

  "They run all the time," the author said. "We're making a television show about the search—tapes are cheap, good footage is precious."

  "Would you mind showing them to me?" Meadows asked.

  "Only," the author said, walking toward the door leading into the cabin, "if you say 'pretty please.'"

  Twenty minutes later, Meadows had what he had come for.

  Chapter 32

  NEBILE LABABITI GLANCED at the nuclear bomb sitting on the wood floor of the apartment just off the Strand with excitement tempered by apprehension. It was an inert object—mainly machined metal and a few copper wires—but it emitted a feeling of awe and danger. Th
e bomb was more than just an object—it had a life. Like a painting or sculpture infused with the life force of its creator, the bomb was not simply a hunk of metal. It was the answer to his people's prayers. They would strike directly at the heart of the British. The hated British that had stolen artifacts from the Pyramids, oppressed the citizens of the Middle East, and fought alongside the Americans in battles they had no place mounting- Lababiti was smack dab in the center of the lion's den. Downtown London was all around him. The City, where the bankers that funded the oppression resided; the art galleries, museums, and theatre districts of downtown were nearby. Number 10 Downing Street, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace. The palace. Home to the Queen, the ancient symbol of all he despised. The pomp and circumstance, the righteousness and ceremony. Soon it would all burn with the fires from the sword of Islam—and when it was over, the world would never be the same. The heart would be cut from the beast. The hallowed ground seeping with history would become a barren wasteland where the human soul would find no purchase.

  Lababiti lit a cigarette.

  It wouldn't be long now. Sometime today the young Yemeni warrior who had agreed to deliver the payload to the target would arrive in the city. Lababiti would wine and dine the boy. Supply whores and hashish and tasty treats. He could do no less for a man willing to commit to the cause with his life.

  Once the boy was acclimated and knew the route, Lababiti would make a hasty retreat.

  The key to leadership, he thought, was not to die for your country—it was to make the other man die for his. And Nebile Lababiti had no designs on becoming a martyr himself. By the time the bomb exploded, he'd be safely across the English Channel in Paris.

  He only wondered why he had not heard from Al-Khalifa.

  "I DON'T KNOW how we missed it," Rodgers said.

  "No matter," Meadows said, "now you have a plate number on the truck. Track it down and the bomb will be close."

  "Can I have the tape?" Rodgers asked.

  Meadows didn't disclose that he'd had the author make two copies and that one of them was safely inside the borrowed Range Rover. "Sure," he said.

  "I think we can take it from here," Rodgers said, reasserting his authority. "I'll make sure and have my boss notify the head of American intelligence to praise you for your contribution."

  The constant struggle between people and agencies was exerting itself. Rodgers must have been briefed by his superiors that whatever might happen, MI5 needed to receive credit for recovering the bomb. Now that he had what he believed would allow them to recover the bomb, he was trying to push the Corporation into the background.

  "I understand," Seng said. "Do you mind if we keep the Rover for a few more days?"

  "No, please, help yourself," Rodgers said.

  "And would it be all right if we questioned the owner of the pub?" Meadows asked, "just so we can complete our file and all?"

  "We've already extensively grilled the man," Rodgers said, considering the request for a long moment, "so I can't see how it can hurt."

  Rodgers reached for his cell phone to call in the van's plate number, then stared at the two Americans with expectation.

  "Thank you," Seng said, motioning to Meadows to walk toward the Range Rover, leaving Rodgers alone.

  Rodgers gave a semi-salute and dialed the phone.

  Meadows opened the door and climbed behind the wheel as Seng slid into the passenger seat.

  "Why'd you give him the tape?" Seng said when the doors were closed.

  Meadows pointed to the copy on the floor then started the Range Rover and spun it around in a U-turn.

  "Let's go visit the pub owner," he said, "and see what else we can find out."

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Seng asked a few minutes later as Meadows stopped in front of the bar.

  "I don't know," Meadows said. "Does it have to do with the motorcycle that was also on the tape?"

  "Why don't I call it in," Seng said, "while you go inside?"

  Meadows climbed out of the Range Rover. "You've got a damn good memory," he said.

  Seng held up his palm, where the number was scrawled in ink.

  Meadows closed the door and walked to the pub entrance.

  THE TREES IN St. James's and Green Parks near Buckingham Palace were devoid of leaves, and the dormant grass was dusted with a thick frost. Tourists watched the changing of the guards with puffs of steam coming from their mouths. A man on a scooter came down Piccadilly then turned on Grosvenor Place and drove slowly past the lake inside Buckingham Palace Gardens. Continuing on, he rounded the corner onto Buckingham Palace Road to where it met the Birdcage Walk. Pulling to the side of the road alongside the lake inside St. James's Park, he recorded his travel times and the traffic conditions.

  Then he slid the small notebook back into his jacket pocket and puttered away.

  CABRILLO POKED HIS head out the side window of the MG. An hour ago, when he had driven past Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland, he had been gaining on the van. Now as the MG labored up the Grampian Mountains the van was pulling ahead once again. Something needed to happen soon. Cabrillo expected to see Adams in the Robinson, the British army or air force, or even a police car any minute. He wad sure the Oregon was sending help—he was unarmed in an underpowered chase car.

  Surely someone had figured out where he was by now.

  ON BOARD THE Oregon, they were working on the problem with limited success.

  The ship was still a hundred miles from Kinnaird Head, steaming south at full speed. In a few more hours she'd be off Aberdeen, a few more and she'd cross a point offshore Edinburgh.

  "Okay," Kasim shouted across the control room to Hanley, "Adams reports he has enough fuel loaded on board to make it to the airport in Inverness. Once there, he'll top off the tanks and head south along the road."

  "How much range will he have then?" Hanley asked.

  "Hold on," Kasim said, repeating the question to Adams.

  "Most of England," Kasim said, "but he won't be able to make London without refueling."

  "We should have this wrapped up before then," Hanley said.

  "Okay," Kasim shouted, "Adams said he has the engine going."

  "Tell him to follow the road until he finds Cabrillo."

  Kasim repeated the orders.

  "He said the fog is as thick as a winter coat," Kasim said, "but he'll fly right above the road."

  "Good," Hanley said.

  Linda Ross walked over to Hanley's chair. "Boss," she said, "Stone and I reworked the tracking frequencies on the bugs on the meteorite. We're getting a more complete signal now."

  "Which monitor?"

  Ross pointed to one on the far wall.

  The meteorite was almost to Stirling. Soon the driver of the van would need to signal his intentions with a turn. East toward Glasgow, or west toward Edinburgh.

  "Get me Overholt," he said to Stone.

  A few seconds later Overholt came on the line.

  "I'LL HAVE THE British seal off the roads just outside Glasgow and Edinburgh," Overholt said, "and search every truck."

  "We're blessed there's not that many roads they can pick from," Hanley said. "They should be able to snag the truck."

  "Let's hope," Overholt said. "Now on another note, I got a call from the head of MIS thanking Meadows and Seng for the work they are doing on the nuclear bomb problem. Apparently Meadows located a videotape that gave them a license-plate number they think will lead them to the bomb."

  "I'm glad," Hanley said.

  Overholt paused before speaking again. "Officially they also asked if your people could back off now—they want to handle it from here."

  "I'll let Meadows and Seng know when they phone in," Hanley told him.

  "Well, Max," Overholt said, "if I were you, I wouldn't be in a rush to take their call."

  "I get your drift, Mr. Overholt," Hanley said as he hung up.

  "Overholt says the British want Meadows and Seng to back off and let them hand
le the stray nuke," Hanley said to Stone.

  "You should have told me," Stone said. "They just telephoned in to have me run a British motorcycle plate."

  "Did you locate the owner?"

  "Name and address," Stone said.

  "What else did they need?"

  "I faxed several dossiers to Meadows's laptop. The land line he used was a number listed in the directory as Pub 'n Grub on the Isle of Sheppey."

  MEADOWS HAD LEARNED long ago that threats only worked when someone had something to lose. The agents from MI5 and the local police had made it clear to the owner of the pub what might happen if he did not cooperate. They forgot to mention what might happen if he did. It's easy to gather bees with honey. For information, money works better.

  "Gold watch, huh," Meadows was saying as Seng walked inside and nodded.

  "Piaget custom," the owner said.

  Meadows slid five hundred-dollar bills across the bar as Seng walked over and sat down at the bar. "What do you want to drink?" Meadows asked Seng.

  "Black and tan," Seng said without hesitation.

  The owner went off to draw the drink. Meadows bent down and whispered to Seng, "How much cash do you have?"

  "Ten," Seng said, meaning thousand.

  Meadows nodded and slid the laptop around so both he and the owner could see the screen. "Now for five thousand American and our heartfelt thanks, I'm going to scroll through some pictures. If you recognize the man that was with the ship captain, you tell me and I'll stop."

  The owner nodded and Meadows began going through the photographs of Al-Khalifa's known accomplices. They had scrolled through over a dozen before the owner shouted to stop. The pub owner stared at the digital photograph intently.

  "I think that's him," he said at last.

  Meadows turned the laptop back around so the owner couldn't see. Then he unlocked the file showing the pictured man's personal habits.