Sacred Stone

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.

32

NEBILE LABABITI GLANCEDat 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 elicited a feeling of awe and danger. The 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 Cha

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 was sure the Oregonwas 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 Ki

“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.