The ruse had tricked Ackerman, just as it was designed to do.
Turning away from the rock slide, Ackerman carefully bypassed the hole in the floor, then stopped and dropped one end of the rope to the floor. Carefully playing out the line, he headed down the corridor carrying the flashlight above his head.
The walls were adorned with pictographs of men hunting, beasts slain and ships on journeys to faraway lands. It was obvious to Ackerman that many men for many years had toiled inside the cavern. The cave widened and the light caught openings where, well preserved by the cold, furs and hides lay upon sleeping pallets stacked one atop the other. They had been hacked from the rock and dirt as ancient bunk beds for miners. He followed a passage alongside the sleeping area that featured several short offshoots from the main cave toward an area darkened by cooking fires. Long, rough-hewn tables, brought into the cave in pieces and assembled on site, filled a dining hall with high ceilings. Sweeping the light, Ackerman could see whale-oil reservoirs with wicks built into the walls for light.
There was easily seating for a hundred men.
Ackerman sniffed the air and found it fresh. In fact, there was the slightest of breezes. He began to theorize that Eric the Red’s men must have figured out how to bore vent holes and create a flow-through system to rid the cave of bad air and odors. Farther past the dining hall was a small room with angled rock troughs against the walls. The troughs were filled with steaming water. Knowing these were crude toilets but figuring over a thousand years had passed, Ackerman dipped his finger into the water. The temperature was hot. They must have located a geothermal stream and diverted it, Ackerman thought. A few feet farther ahead, just past the crude toilets, a large pool sat elevated and spilled down into the troughs. The baths.
Past the baths, Ackerman headed down a narrow passage whose walls had been smoothed and adorned with geometric designs etched into the rock and dyed red and yellow and green. Ahead was an opening framed by carefully selected decorative stones.
Ackerman walked through the opening into a large chamber.
From what he could see the walls were round and smooth. The floor of the chamber was fitted with flat rocks to form an almost perfectly level floor. Geodes and crystals hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. Ackerman reached down and adjusted his flashlight. Then he stood up, raised the light over his head and gasped in awe.
Flowing up from the center of the room was a platform where a gray orb sat on display.
The geodes and crystals hanging from the ceiling scattered light from the flashlight into thousands of rainbows that spilled around the room like a spinning disco ball. Ackerman exhaled and the sound was magnified.
Stepping up to the chest-high platform, he stared at the orb.
“Meteorite,” he said aloud.
Then he removed the digital camera and began to document the scene.
After climbing back down the ladder, he retrieved a Geiger counter and a book on metal analysis and tried to determine the orb’s composition. He soon figured it out.
AN HOUR LATER, back down from the upper cave, Ackerman assembled the digital images and readings from the Geiger counter into an e-mail package. After spending another hour composing a glowing press release about himself and including that in the message, he sent the e-mail to his benefactor for approval.
Then he sat back to bask in his glory and await a reply.
AT THE ECHELON monitoring station outside London near Chatham, most of the world’s communications were recorded. A joint English–United States operation, Echelon had received a fair share of scrutiny from the press on both sides of the pond. Quite simply Echelon was nothing more or less than a massive eavesdropping apparatus that snagged worldwide communications and ran them through a computer for review. Certain words were flagged so that if they appeared, it triggered the message to be spit out for review by a human. Then the flagged message passed up a chain of command until it was forwarded to the proper intelligence service or ignored as unimportant.
Ackerman’s e-mail from Greenland passed up to a satellite before being relayed back to the United States. On its way back to earth, Echelon snagged the message and ran it through its computer. There was a word in the message that triggered a review.
In time the message would pass along the chain of command from England across the ocean on a secure line to the National Security Agency in Maryland, then on to the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.
But there was a traitor inside Echelon, so the review went to more than one location.
Inside the cave on Mount Forel, John Ackerman was living a fantasy life in his mind. He’d already pictured himself on the covers of most of the archaeology magazines; now he was formulating an acceptance speech for what, in his mind at least, was something akin to the Academy Awards of archaeology.
This find was huge, like the modern-day opening of a pyramid, like finding an untouched, perfectly preserved shipwreck. Magazine articles, books, television shows loomed. If Ackerman played his cards right, he could ride this find into a lifelong career. He could become the acknowledged grandmaster of archaeology, the man the media always called for comment. He could become a celebrity—and nowadays that was a career in and of itself. With just a little manipulation, the name John Ackerman would be synonymous with great discovery.
Then his computer chirped to report an incoming message.
The message was succinct.
Don’t tell anyone yet. We need more proof before the announcement. I’m sending a man up there to check it out. He will arrive in a day or two. Just continue documenting the find. Super work, John. But mum’s the word.
At first reading Ackerman was irritated by the message. Then he reflected and was able to convince himself that his benefactor was probably taking the time to build a media storm for the find. Maybe he was planning to give one of the major networks an exclusive and needed time to set up the interview. Maybe he was planning a simultaneous blitz of magazines, newspapers and television.
Soon Ackerman was awash with these thoughts and his ego started to run wild.
The larger the shower of publicity, the greater his future fame.
For Ackerman, ego tinged with self-aggrandizing would prove a deadly combination.
4
SOMETIMES IT IS better to be lucky than smart. High atop a hotel in a city known for risk takers, a middle-aged man named Halifax Hickman stared at the digital pictures on the computer and smiled. Reading a separate report he had printed out a few hours before, he did a few calculations on a pad of paper then stared at the images again. Unbelievable. The solution to his problem had arrived—and it had come with a tax write-off for the donation.
It was as if he had slid a quarter in a slot machine and hit a million-dollar jackpot.
Hickman started laughing—but it was not a laugh of happiness. The laugh was evil and came from a place without joy. Tinged in revenge and shaded by hatred, it rose from a recess deep in the man’s soul.
When the laugh had subsided, he reached for the telephone and dialed.
CLAY HUGHES LIVED in the mountains north of Missoula, Montana, in a cabin he’d built himself, on a plot of land 160 acres in size that he owned free and clear. A hot spring on his property provided heat for the cabin as well as for the series of greenhouses that supplied most of his food. Solar and wind energy provided electricity. Cellular and satellite telephone communications kept him in voice contact with the rest of the world. Hughes had a bank account in Missoula with a six-figure balance, an address at a pack-and-ship office to send and receive his mail, plus three passports, four social security numbers and driver’s licenses with different names and addresses.
Hughes liked his privacy—not uncommon among assassins who enjoy keeping low profiles.
“I have some work for you,” Hickman said.
“How much?” Hughes asked, cutting to the chase.
“Maybe five days, for fifty thousand dollars. And I supply the transportation.”
“I take it someone is going to have a bad day,” Hughes said. “What else?”
“I’ll need an object delivered somewhere when it’s done,” Hickman told him.
“Does it help the cause?” Hughes asked.
“Yes.”
“Then the delivery will be free,” Hughes said magnanimously.
“My jet will be there in an hour,” Hickman said. “Dress warm.”
“I want gold,” Hughes said.
“Gold it is,” Hickman said as he disconnected.
AN HOUR LATER a Raytheon Hawker 800XP touched down at the Missoula airport. Hughes shut off the engine of his restored 1972 International Scout. Reaching into the rear, he unzipped a bag and checked his firearms once again. Satisfied all was in order, he zipped the bag closed and lifted it out onto the ground. Then he closed the rear gate, bent down and armed the explosive device that he used as a burglar alarm.
If anyone messed with his vehicle while he was gone, the Scout would explode, hiding any evidence of his ownership as well as his personal papers. Hughes was nothing if not paranoid. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and made his way toward the jet.
Forty-seven minutes later the jet crossed into Canada on a north-northeast course.
5
THE DAY AFTER the e-mail from Greenland was intercepted, Langston Overholt IV was sitting in his office at CIA headquarters in Virginia, staring at a picture of the meteorite. He glanced at a report on iridium, then stared at his list of agents. As usual he was shorthanded. Reaching into a bowl on his desk, he removed a tennis ball and methodically began bouncing it against his wall and catching it when it returned. The repetition relaxed him.
Was this worth pulling agents off another assignment? It was always risk versus reward. Overholt was awaiting a report from the CIA scientists that might shed more light on the possible threat, but for right now it looked pretty straightforward. He needed someone to travel to Greenland and secure the meteorite. Once that was done, the risk was minimal. Since his agents were tied up, he decided to call an old friend.
“Two five two four.”
“This is Overholt. How’s Iceland?”
“If I eat another piece of herring,” Cabrillo said, “I could swim to Ireland.”
“Rumor has it you’re working for the commies,” Overholt said.
“I’m sure you know about it,” Cabrillo said. “Security breach in the Ukraine.”
“Yeah,” Overholt said, “we’re working it as well.”
Cabrillo and Overholt had been partners years before. A bad deal in Nicaragua had cost Cabrillo his job with the CIA, but he’d kept Overholt out of the mess. Overholt had never forgotten the favor and over the years he’d funneled Cabrillo and the Corporation as much work as oversight would allow.
“All this terrorism,” Cabrillo noted, “has been a boon for business.”
“Got time for a little side deal?”
“How many people will it require?” Cabrillo asked, thinking about the jobs they were already contracted for.
“Just one,” Overholt said.
“Full fees?”
“As always,” Overholt said, “my employer is not cheap.”
“Not cheap, just quick to fire.”
Cabrillo had never gotten over being hung out to dry, and with good reason. Congress had raked him over the coals, and his boss at the time had done nothing to cool the fire. He had about as much compassion for politicians and bureaucrats as he did for dental drills.
“I just need someone to run over to Greenland and pick something up,” Overholt told him. “Take a day or two.”
“You picked a prime time,” Cabrillo said. “It’s freezing cold and twenty-four-hour darkness this time of year.”
“I hear the Northern Lights are pretty,” Overholt offered.
“Why not have one of your CIA drones handle this?”
“As usual, none are available. I’d rather just pay your crew and wrap it up with a minimum of hassle.”
“We still have a few days’ worth of work here,” Cabrillo said, “before we’re free.”
“Juan,” Overholt said easily, “I’m pretty sure this is a one-man job. If you could just send one of your men over there and retrieve what we need, he’d be back before the end of the summit.”
Cabrillo thought about it for a minute. The rest of his team was handling security for the emir. For the last few days, Cabrillo had been staying aboard the Oregon and tending to corporate business. He was bored and felt like a racehorse in a stall.
“I’ll take the job,” Cabrillo said. “My people have this end controlled.”
“Whatever floats your boat,” Overholt said.
“I only need to fly over and pick something up, right?”
“That’s the drill.”
“What is it?”
“A meteorite,” Overholt said slowly.
“Why in the world does the CIA want a meteorite?” Cabrillo asked.
“Because we think it might be made of iridium, and iridium can be used to construct a ‘dirty bomb.’”
“What else?” Cabrillo asked, now becoming wary.
“You need to steal it from the archaeologist who found it,” Overholt said, “preferably without him knowing.”
Cabrillo paused for a second. “Have you looked in your den lately?”
“What den?” Overholt said, taking the bait.
“The den of vipers where you live,” Cabrillo said.
“So you’ll take the job?”
“Send me the details,” Cabrillo said. “I’ll leave in a few hours.”
“Don’t worry—this should be the easiest money the Corporation has made all year. Like a Christmas gift from an old friend.”
“Beware of friends bearing gifts,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.
AN HOUR LATER, Juan Cabrillo was finishing his last-minute arrangements.
Kevin Nixon wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it onto a bench in the Magic Shop. The Magic Shop was the department aboard the Oregon that handled mission fabrications, equipment storage, specialized electronics, disguises and costumes. Nixon was the shop overseer as well as creative inventor.
“Without accurate measurement,” Nixon noted, “that’s the best I can do.”
“Looks great, Kevin,” Cabrillo said, taking the object and placing it in a box that he sealed with tape.
“Take these and these,” Nixon said, handing packets to Cabrillo.
Cabrillo slid the packets into the backpack.
“Okay,” Nixon said, “you have cold-weather clothes, communications gear, survival food and whatever else I thought you might need. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Cabrillo said. “Now I need to head topside and talk to Hanley.”
Less than an hour later, after making sure Max Hanley, Cabrillo’s second in command, had the operation in Reykjavik progressing properly, Cabrillo caught a ride to the airport for his flight to Greenland. What seemed like a simple matter would grow increasingly complex.
By the time it was over, a nation would be threatened, and people would die.
6
PIETER VANDERWALD WAS a merchant of death. As the former head of South Africa’s EWP, or Experimental Weapons Program, under apartheid, Vanderwald had been overseer of such horrific experiments as human chemical sterilization through food additives, the spread of toxic airborne plagues and biological weapons in public areas, and the introduction of chemical weapons into the population in liquid form.
Nuclear, chemical, biological, auditory, electrical—if it could be used to kill, Vanderwald and his team built it, bought it or designed it themselves. Their classified trials showed that a combination of agents, judiciously applied, could be used to sicken or kill thousands of the black South African population within thirty-six hours. Further studies detailed that, within a week, 99 percent of the unprotected population from the Tropic of Capricorn south, or half the entire tip of Africa, would eventually perish.
For h
is work Vanderwald received an award and a cash bonus of two months’ salary.
Without long-range delivery systems such as ICBMs or SCUD, and with only a limited air force to call upon, Vanderwald and his team had perfected methods of introducing the death agents into the population, then had them spread by the victims themselves. The name of the game had been seeding the water supplies, allowing the wind to carry the plague, or using tank trucks or artillery shells for dispersal.
EWP had been masters at the game, but as soon as apartheid ended they were quickly and secretly disbanded, and Vanderwald and the other scientists were left to fend for themselves.
Many of them took their payoffs and retired, but a few like Vanderwald offered their specialized skills and knowledge on the open market, where an increasingly violent world was interested in their unique talents. Countries in the Middle East, Asia and South America had sought his counsel and expertise. Vanderwald had only one rule—he didn’t work for free.
“YOU GOT A piece of that one,” Vanderwald said easily.
A light breeze was blowing from the tee box toward the hole. The temperature was an even eighty degrees. The air was as dry as a bag of flour and as clear as a pane of glass.
“The breeze helped,” Halifax Hickman said as he walked back to the cart and slid his club into the bag, then walked to the front and climbed into the driver’s seat.
There were no caddies on the course, nor any other golfers. There was just a team of security men that drifted in and out of the trees and brush, a couple of ducks in the lake and a skinny, dusty red fox that had scampered across the fairway earlier. It was strangely quiet, with the air holding memories of the year nearly passed.
Sacred Stone of-2 Page 4
