Sacred Stone of-2

by Clive Cussler

  “No,” Lababiti said, “a Guinness would be fine.”

  The barkeep considered this but made no move to fill a glass.

  Lababiti removed a fifty-pound note and slid it across the bar. “And buy the rest of these fine men a drink as well,” he said, sweeping his hand along the bar toward the ten other customers. “They look like they’ve earned it.”

  The barkeep looked down to the end of the bar, where the owner, a retired fisherman who was missing two fingers on his right hand, was clutching a pint of ale. The owner nodded his okay and the barkeep reached for a glass.

  Even if the Middle Eastern man was a swish on the prowl, this was a joint that couldn’t afford to turn down cash-paying customers. Once the stout was placed on the bar in front of him, Lababiti picked it up and took a swallow. Then he wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand and stared around. The bar was a sty. Mismatched chairs sat in front of battered and scarred wooden tables. A coal fire was burning in a smoke-stained fireplace down at the end of the room. The bar itself, where Lababiti was standing, had been etched and scratched by numerous knives over the years.

  The air smelled like sweat, fish guts, diesel fuel, urine and axle grease.

  Lababiti took another sip and glanced at his gold Piaget wristwatch.

  NOT FAR FROM the bar, on a rise overlooking the docks, a pair of Lababiti’s men stood watching the Larissa through night-vision binoculars. Most of the crew had already left the ship for a night in town; only one light was still visible in the stern stateroom.

  On the dock itself, another pair of Arabs were pushing a cart that appeared to be filled with trash along the pier. As they passed the Larissa, they slowed and swept a Geiger counter near the hull. The sound was turned off, but the gauge told them what they needed to know. They continued on toward the end of the dock slowly.

  BELOWDECKS, MILOS COUSTAS, captain of the Larissa, finished combing his hair. Then he rubbed some salve on his arm. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this—since he’d bought the salve, it had seemed to have little effect. He only hoped that the doctor he’d see tomorrow would come up with something more powerful.

  Finished with his grooming, Coustas walked out of his stateroom then up to the deck.

  He was due to meet his client at the bar just up the hill.

  LABABITI WAS JUST starting his second pint of Guinness when Coustas walked into the bar. Lababiti turned to see who had entered and instantly knew it was his man. Had Coustas worn a T-shirt imprinted with “Greek ship captain” he could not have been more visible. He was wearing a pair of baggy peasant pants, a loose white gauze shirt with ropes through the hood and the sloped cap it seemed all Greeks who lived near the water favored.

  Lababiti ordered Coustas ouzo from the barkeep then motioned him over.

  THEY WERE TERRORISTS, but they were not incompetents. As soon as the men with the night-vision binoculars confirmed Coustas had entered the bar, the pair of men pushing the cart headed back down the pier and stopped alongside the Larissa. Quickly they climbed aboard and began searching. Within minutes they had located the crate containing the nuclear bomb and they radioed the lookout team, who were sitting behind the wheel of a rental van. The van rolled down to the end of the pier at the same time the two terrorists aboard the Larissa were sliding the crate over the side. Lifting up a plastic cover with trash glued on top, they slid the heavy crate into the reinforced cart.

  With one pulling and one pushing, they headed down the pier.

  LABABITI AND COUSTAS had moved to a table near the back of the bar. The smell from the nearby lavatory wafted across them. Coustas was now on his second drink and he was becoming more animated.

  “Just what is this special cargo that you have paid so dearly to have delivered?” he asked Lababiti, smiling. “Since you are an Arab and the box is so heavy, I suspect you are smuggling gold.”

  Lababiti nodded, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

  “If that is the case,” Coustas said, “I would think a bonus might be in order.”

  AS SOON AS the crate with the bomb was loaded in the rear of the van, the two lookouts sped away. The other pair of men wheeled the cart down to the water and pushed it in. Then they ran to a motorcycle nearby and both climbed aboard. Clicking it into gear, they started up the hill leading to the bar.

  LABABITI DIDN’T HATE the Greeks as much as Westerners, but he didn’t like them much.

  He found them loud, brash and lacking in manners for the most part. Coustas had already had two drinks but he’d yet to offer to buy Lababiti one. Motioning to the barkeep for another round, Lababiti rose from his chair.

  “We’ll talk about bonuses when I return,” he said. “Right now I need to visit the facilities. The barkeep is making another round—why don’t you make yourself useful and pick it up from the bar?”

  “I still have some in my glass,” Coustas said, grinning.

  “You can finish it when you return,” Lababiti said, walking off.

  Stepping into the lavatory was like hiding out below an outhouse. It didn’t smell good and the light was bad. Luckily, Lababiti knew exactly where he had placed the tablet and he removed the foil-wrapped packet from his pocket and unwrapped it in the dim light.

  Then, clutching the tablet in his hand, he quickly walked back to the table.

  Coustas was still at the bar badgering the barkeep to pour a little more ouzo into his glass. He watched as the barkeep bent over and lifted the bottle to top off the drink while, at the same time, a thin, dark-skinned man poked his head into the bar, sneezed and left again. Lababiti was just about to sit down again when he witnessed the signal that the heist had gone smoothly.

  He crushed the tablet and sprinkled the contents into the last third of Coustas’s glass.

  Then he sat down as the Greek walked over carrying the drinks. The sound of a motorcycle outside racing away filtered through the walls. “The bartender wants more money,” Coustas said, sliding into his seat, “said he’s gone through what you left.”

  Lababiti nodded. “I need to go out to my car and get some more pounds. Just finish your drink and I’ll be right back.”

  “Then we can discuss bonuses?” Coustas asked, raising the partially filled glass to his lips and taking a sip.

  “Bonuses as well as the transfer of cargo,” Lababiti said, rising. “I assume you’ll take payment in gold?”

  Coustas nodded as Lababiti walked toward the door. He was high on ouzo and newfound wealth. Everything seemed perfect in his world—until he felt the pain in his chest.

  LABABITI MOTIONED TO the barkeep that he was walking outside for a second, using a single raised finger, then he exited the bar and walked up the street to his Jaguar sedan. The street was empty, littered with trash, and barely illuminated by the few operational streetlights.

  It was an avenue of broken dreams and misplaced hope.

  Lababiti never hesitated or faltered. He unlocked the door of the Jaguar with his key fob and then climbed inside and started the engine. Adjusting the volume on the CD player, he slid the sedan into gear and pulled smartly away.

  When the owner of the bar raced out onto the street to report to the smartly dressed foreigner that his friend had taken ill, all he caught was the sight of taillights as the Jaguar crested the hill and disappeared.

  BRITISH POLICE INSPECTORS usually don’t show up when people die in bars. It happens frequently and the causes are usually obvious. For Inspector Charles Harrelson to be summoned from bed required a call from the office of the coroner. And at first he was none too happy. After packing tobacco into his pipe, he lit the bowl and stared down at the body. Then he shook his head.

  “Macky,” he said to the coroner, “you woke me up for this?”

  The coroner, David Mackelson, had worked with Harrelson for nearly two decades. He knew the inspector was always a little testy when he was awakened from a deep sleep.

  “You want a cuppa, Charles?” Macky said quietly. “I can probably get t
he owner to make us one.”

  “Not if I’m going back to sleep,” Harrelson said, “which I think I will be, judging by the looks of this unfortunate soul.”

  “Oh,” Macky said, “I think you might need one.”

  Pulling back the sheet over Coustas’s body, Macky pointed to the red marks on his arms.

  “Know what that is?” he asked Harrelson.

  “No idea,” Harrelson said.

  “Those are radiation burns,” Macky said, removing a tin of snuff and snorting some into his nose. “Now, Charles, are you glad I woke you?”

  29

  ADAMS CAUGHT A glimpse of the Cessna, motioned to Cabrillo, and pointed at the moving map on the navigation system.

  “He’ll be crossing over land in the next few minutes,” Adams said through the headset.

  “Hopefully,” Cabrillo said, “the RAF will be there to greet him. Then we can wind this up and be done with it. How’s our fuel?”

  Adams pointed to the gauge. The headwinds had taken their toll, and the needle was just above empty. “We are pretty far into the reserve, boss, but we have enough to reach land. After that there’s no telling, however.”

  “We’ll touch down and refuel,” Cabrillo said confidently, “as soon as Hanley informs us that the jets have made the intercept.”

  But at that moment Hanley was fighting through layers of red tape on two continents.

  “WHAT THE HELL do you mean there’s no planes?” he said to Overholt.

  “The quickest the British can scramble a jet is ten minutes from now,” Overholt said, “from Mindenhall, which is down south. They have nothing currently based in Scotland. To make matters worse, their assets in the south are stretched like we are—most of their fighter wings are deployed to help us in Iraq and Africa.”

  “Does the U.S. have a carrier in the area?” Hanley asked.

  “Nope,” Overholt said, “the only vessel we have in the sea close by is a guided-missile frigate that has been ordered to intercept the yacht steaming from the Faeroe Islands.”

  “Mr. Overholt,” Hanley said, “we have a problem. Your friend Juan is probably on fumes by now—if we don’t get him some help soon we’re going to lose the meteorite once again. We’re doing our job here, but we need some backup.”

  “I understand,” Overholt said, “let me see what I can do and I’ll call you back.”

  The telephone went dead and Hanley stared at the map on the monitor in the control room. The blip from the radar image of the Cessna was just crossing over the shoreline. He began to dial.

  “YES, SIR,” THE pilot of the Challenger 604 sitting in Aberdeen said. “We have been running the turbines every half hour to keep them warm. We can be off the ground as soon as we receive clearance.”

  “The target has just reached land at Cape Wrath,” Hanley said, “so fly east first, then turn north. It appears his present course is toward Glasgow.”

  “What do we do when we reach him?”

  “Just follow him,” Hanley said, “until the British jets arrive.”

  While Hanley and the pilot had been talking, the copilot had received clearance for takeoff. He motioned to the pilot.

  “We just got clearance,” the pilot told Hanley, “is there anything else?”

  “Keep an eye out for our chairman. He’s aboard the Robinson helicopter and he’s low on fuel.”

  “We’ll do it, sir,” the pilot said as he advanced the throttles and began to taxi toward the runway.

  A light mist wet the windshield of the Challenger as the pilot steered down the access road toward the main runway. From the looks of the clouds to the north, it was only going to get worse. Lining up on the runway, the pilot ran through his checks.

  Then he advanced the throttles to the stops and raced down the runway.

  JAMES BENNETT STARED at his fuel gauge with concern. He wouldn’t make Glasgow with the fuel onboard, so he adjusted his course slightly to port. Bennett’s plan was to stay over land in case he had to make an emergency landing, so he decided his new course would be south to Inverness then almost due east to Aberdeen. He’d be lucky if he reached the Scottish port. But Bennett was not a lucky man.

  Just then his telephone rang.

  “We have a problem,” the voice said. “We just intercepted a British communication stating they are scrambling a pair of fighter jets to intercept you. We have perhaps fifteen minutes until they reach you.”

  Bennett glanced at his watch. “That is a problem,” he said quickly. “I’ve had to change course because of fuel. I can no longer make Glasgow like we’d planned. The best I can do is maybe Aberdeen—and I can’t reach there before the jets arrive.”

  “Even if you had the chance to refuel in the Faeroes,” the voice said, “it now turns out that Glasgow would have been out because of the British fighters heading your way. What about the helicopter? Do you think he’s still following?”

  “I haven’t seen him since I left,” Bennett said. “My guess is they turned back.”

  “Good,” the voice said, “then my plan should work. Get out your chart.”

  Bennett opened the chart showing Scotland. “Got it,” he said.

  “Do you see Inverness?”

  Bennett glanced at the chart. “Yep.”

  “Right south of there, do you see the large lake?”

  “You’re kidding,” Bennett said.

  “Nope,” the voice said, “Loch Ness. Fly along the east side—we have a team on the ground in a truck. They are going to pop smoke so you can see them.”

  Popping smoke was a military term for igniting smoke grenades to mark a position.

  “Then what?” Bennett asked.

  “Come in low and drop the cargo out the door,” the voice said. “They will retrieve it and bring it the rest of the way.”

  “What about me?” Bennett asked.

  “You let the fighter jets force you down at an airport,” the voice said. “Then once the Cessna is searched and found to be empty, they will think this was all just a mistake.”

  “Brilliant,” Bennett said.

  “That’s what I thought too,” the voice said before disconnecting.

  THE ROBINSON HELICOPTER carrying Cabrillo and Adams passed over the rocky shoreline. Adams made a thumbs-up sign to Cabrillo, then turned on the microphone.

  “Looks like we’ll live,” Adams said. “If we run out of fuel now, I can do an autorotation to the ground.”

  “I hope that if it comes to that, you’ve been practicing.”

  “I do a few every week,” Adams said, “just in case.”

  The cloud cover was thickening the farther inland they flew. Every now and then the men could catch a glimpse of the snow-covered hills of Scotland below. Thirty seconds earlier, Cabrillo had caught a quick glimpse of the flashing taillight of the Cessna above.

  “The jets should be out there now,” Cabrillo said as he reached for the satellite telephone and called Hanley.

  THE OREGON WAS steaming south from the Faeroe Islands at full speed. Soon a decision would have to be made about whether to steam west along Scotland and Ireland or east between the Shetland Islands and the Orkneys into the North Sea. Hanley was watching the projections flash across the monitors when his telephone rang.

  “What’s the status?” Cabrillo asked without preamble.

  “Overholt had trouble getting the British jets scrambled,” Hanley said. “Last word was they just left Mindenhall. If they travel at Mach one-plus, they should reach you in a half hour, give or take.”

  “We don’t have a half hour of fuel left,” Cabrillo said.

  “I’m sorry, Juan,” Hanley said. “I dispatched the Challenger from Aberdeen to take up the pursuit until the fighters arrive. They can track the Cessna and call me with the information. We’re going to get this guy—don’t worry about that.”

  “What about the yacht?”

  “It steamed from the port in the Faeroe Islands ten minutes ago,” Hanley reported. “A U.S. guid
ed-missile frigate is on a course to intercept her out in the Atlantic.”

  “Finally,” Cabrillo said, “some good news.”

  Hanley was staring at the monitor that showed the position of the Cessna and the Robinson. At the same time, he was listening to the copilot of the Challenger giving an update over the radio speaker in the control room. The Challenger was picking up the two aircraft on their radar scope and closing quickly.

  “The Cessna is just now flying over Inverness,” Hanley said. “The Challenger has him on their scope. How much fuel do you have left?”

  Cabrillo spoke over the headset to Adams. “Can we make Inverness before we run out of fuel?”

  “I think so,” Adams said, “we picked up a tailwind once we crossed onto land.”

  “Enough to make Inverness,” Cabrillo said to Hanley.

  Hanley was going to recommend that Cabrillo and Adams stop and refuel but he never had the chance. Right at that instant the copilot of the Challenger called in to report again. All of a sudden the Cessna was descending.

  “Juan,” Hanley said quickly, “the Challenger just reported the Cessna is starting a descent.”

  On the moving map aboard the Robinson, Inverness was only a few miles ahead.

  “Where is he trying to land?” Cabrillo asked.

  “It looks like Loch Ness, along the eastern side.”

  “I’ll call you back,” Cabrillo said to Hanley before disconnecting.

  The weather was turning worse and rain began running along the windshield of the Robinson in tiny streams. Adams turned up the fan on the defroster and stared at the fuel gauge apprehensively.

  “Do you believe in monsters?” Cabrillo asked Adams.

  “I believe in monster trucks,” Adams answered, “why do you ask?”

  Cabrillo pointed to the moving map. The cigar-shaped mark of Loch Ness was just coming into view. “According to Hanley, the Cessna is on a descent for a landing along the east side of Loch Ness.”