Sacred Stone

Mount Forel was not far away, but in the snow and darkness it was still hidden.

Cabrillo needed to reach the mountain and retrieve her secret. But there was someone else with the same plan—and he didn’t follow the same rules for fair play as the Corporation. The two of them were bound to collide.

THE EMIR FELT the helicopter slow as Al-Khalifa lined the Kawasaki up over the fantail of the Akbar,and then carefully set her down on the landing pad. Once deckhands had chained down the skids and the rotor blade was secured, Al-Khalifa walked around, unlocked the door and dragged him into the main salon. The emir’s eyes were still taped but he could hear what sounded like a half dozen Arab voices. The air in the salon smelled of gunpowder, oil, and a strange, sweet almond odor.

Hustled down a set of steps to a lower deck, the emir was unceremoniously tossed on a bed and had his hands and feet bound together with thick tape. He lay on his back like a trussed chicken. The emir heard Al-Khalifa order a guard posted outside. Then he was left alone to ponder an unknown fate.

Other than the fact that the skin on his face had started sweating from the heat in the cabin, the man was not overly concerned. If Al-Khalifa was going to kill him he would have done it already. That, and he knew his friends at the Corporation would seek him out soon. If only he could scratch his nose under the plastic—then he’d feel better.

“ATTACH THE WEAPONS pod,” Al-Khalifa said as he walked back into the main salon. “I need to fly to the mountain as soon as possible.”

Four of the men walked outside and started the process. The installation went slow—wind, rain and snow were raking the Akbar’s deck, but the men were trained and unrelenting. Twenty-seven minutes later their leader walked back in, wiping snow off his gloves.

“The pod is installed,” he said to Al-Khalifa.

“Have the men come inside and gather around the table.”

The teams of terrorists slid into chairs at the long ornate table. The gathering was a confederacy of killers, a party of thugs. They stared up at Al-Khalifa and waited.

“Allah has blessed us again,” Al-Khalifa began. “As you witnessed, I captured the pro-Western emir that rules my country and have taken him prisoner. Soon I will ascend to the throne. On the second matter, a Western traitor has alerted me to the location of an orb of iridium we can use in conjunction with the bomb that is destined for London. If I can retrieve this iridium, it will magnify the destruction in London at least a hundredfold.”

“Praise be to Allah,” the group shouted spontaneously.

“Right now the Akbaris heading for the east coast of Greenland,” Al-Khalifa said grandly. “In a few hours, when we arrive, I’ll fly the helicopter over and recover the iridium. As soon as I return, we’ll set a course for England and the conclusion of the mission.”

“There is but one, and that one is Allah,” the group shouted.

“For those of you that have your duties finished, I want you to rest up,” Al-Khalifa said. “We will need everyone on their toes once we reach England. Soon those that oppose Allah will feel our wrath.”

“Allah is great,” the group shouted.

The meeting broke up and Al-Khalifa walked from the room and down to his cabin. He would grab a few hours’ sleep. He had no way of knowing that this sleep would be his last until the big one.

15

AT HOTEL KANGERLUSSUAQ,thirteen hundred miles away, Clay Hughes was finishing a breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast washed down with a pot of steaming coffee. Michael Neilsen approached his table.

“You ready to go?” Hughes asked, standing up.

“The weather has not improved much,” Neilsen said, “but I’m willing to try if you want. What’s your verdict?”

“We go,” Hughes said.

“If I were you,” Neilsen said, “I’d have the hotel pack some food for the trip—if we go down out there, it’ll be some time before help can arrive.”

“I’ll order a platter of sandwiches and a couple thermoses of coffee,” Hughes said. “Anything else you can think of we might need?”

“Just some luck,” Neilsen said, glancing outside.

“I’ll get the food and meet you at the helicopter.”

“I’ll be ready,” Neilsen said, walking away.

Fifteen minutes later the EC-130B4 lifted from the snow-packed runway and started flying east. A slight tinge of yellow infused the clouds as the scant sunlight tried to penetrate the gloom. Mostly it was dark and dreary, like an omen carried on an evil wind.

The hours passed as the Eurocopter flew high above the snowy terrain.

THE THIOKOL STOPPED and Cabrillo stared at the map. He estimated that he was within an hour of reaching the cave on Mount Forel. Once he had started away from the glacier, he noticed his satellite telephone was receiving signals again. He hit the speed dial and called the Oregon.

“We’ve been trying to reach you,” Hanley said as soon as he answered. “The emir was kidnapped last night.”

“Kidnapped,” Cabrillo said quickly. “I thought we were on top of that situation.”

“They grabbed our guy,” Hanley said, “and we have had no communication with either party since.”

“Do you have an idea where they’ve taken him?”

“We’re working on it.”

“You get our man back,” Cabrillo said.

“Will do.”

“I’m almost at the site,” Cabrillo said. “I’ll wrap this up and get out of here. Meanwhile, you locate me some faster mode of transportation home.”

“Yes, sir,” Hanley said.

Cabrillo disco

AT THE SAME time Cabrillo started up Mount Forel, an attendant at Reykjavik International Airport was sweeping snow from the bottom of a ramp leading up to a privately owned 737. Auxiliary power units were supplying the plane with heat and electricity from both sides. The inside of the jet was lit up like a billboard and it spilled out of the windows into the dim light outside.

Peering from the cockpit window, the pilot watched as a black limousine wheeled onto the runway and pulled up alongside the ramp. He watched as four people filed out from the rear. Two of them quickly climbed the steps as the other two sca

The attendant unhooked the APUs, then backed the ramp away and stood quietly while the pilot started the engines. After calling the tower for clearance, he taxied out to the runway and lined up for takeoff. With a refueling stop in Spain, they’d reach their destination fourteen hours from now.

As soon as the 737 left the runway, the attendant bent down and spoke into a microphone clipped onto his parka near the hood.

“They’re away,” was all he said.

“Acknowledged,” Hanley answered.

SINCE HIS CONVERSATION with Hanley, Cabrillo had been steering the Thiokol uphill for nearly an hour. He stopped, fastened his parka tight, and climbed out. Adjusting the lights so he could scan the mountain, he walked around to the front to knock ice from the grille. He was just about ready to climb back inside when he heard a thumping sound in the distance. Reaching into the cab, he twisted the key and shut the Thiokol’s engine off. Then he listened again.

The noise floated on the wind, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Finally, Cabrillo identified the sound, and he climbed back inside the snowcat and reached for the telephone.

“Max,” he said quickly, “I hear a helicopter approaching. Did you send someone out?”

“No, boss,” Hanley said. “We’re still working on that.”