Sacred Stone

“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 MI5 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 handle 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.

“Did he smoke?” Meadows asked.

The owner thought back for a second. “Yes, he did.”

“Remember the brand?” Meadows asked, showing Seng the information, as if they were engaged in a board game and not a life-and-death situation.

“Oh, hell,” the owner said, thinking back.

Meadows pointed to the line that mentioned Lababiti had a gold Piaget watch.

“I got it,” the owner shouted. “Morelands, and he had a fancy silver lighter.”

Meadows folded the laptop closed and stood up.

“Pay the man,” he said to Seng.

Seng reached into his jacket pocket and removed a wad of bills, then broke the paper seal. Counting out fifty, he handed them to the owner. “Bob,” Seng shouted to Meadows, who was almost at the door, “verify for me.”

“You gave him five,” Meadows said, “duly noted.”

33

THE OREGON WASracing through the North Sea like a whale on speed. In the control room, Hanley, Stone, and Ross were staring intently at a monitor that showed the location of the meteorite. The signals had calmed down since the frequency adjustment. Other than the occasional distortions that occurred when the bugs passed near high-powered electrical lines, they were finally receiving a clear image.

“The amphibious plane just landed in the Firth of Forth,” Stone noted, glancing at another screen. “It’s too foggy for him to locate Mr. Cabrillo.”

“Have him stand by,” Hanley said.

Stone relayed the message over the radio.

Reaching for the secure telephone, Hanley called Overholt.

“The truck turned toward Edinburgh,” Hanley said.

“The British have cordoned off the i

“It’s about time,” Hanley said.

THE DRIVER OF the van disco

“Flexibility is the key to both sex and stealth,” the passenger said. “Where are we headed?”

The driver told him.

“Then you’d better take a left up here,” the passenger said, staring at the road map.

CABRILLO DROVE ALONG, tracking the truck with his remote detector. It had been nearly twenty minutes since he’d seen the truck, but once they reached the series of villages around Edinburgh he’d sped up and was closing the gap.

Taking his eyes off the metal box, he stared at the countryside.

The fog was thick as he drove along the road, which was lined with fences built from rocks and stones. The trees were barren of leaves and appeared as stark skeletons against a gray backdrop. A minute or so before, Cabrillo had caught a glimpse of the Firth of Forth, the inlet that cut into Scotland from the North Sea. The water was black and tossing; the span of the suspension bridge near the edge of the water was barely visible.

Pressing down on the gas pedal, he stared at the box again. The signal was growing closer by the second.

“I WAS ORDERED to drop you in front and take off,” the driver said. “Someone will meet you farther down the line.”

The driver slowed in front of the Inverkeithing Railroad Station, then came to a stop near a porter with a baggage cart.

“Anything else?” the passenger asked as he reached to open the door.

“Good luck,” the driver said.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, the passenger waved his hand at the porter. “Come here,” he said, “I have something to load aboard.”

The porter wheeled the cart over. “Do you have your ticket already?”

“No,” the passenger said.

“Where’s the baggage?” the porter asked.

The passenger opened the rear of the van and pointed at the box.

The porter reached down and hoisted the box. “This is heavy,” he said. “What’s inside?”

“Specialized oil-field testing equipment,” the passenger said, “so be careful.”

The porter placed the box on the cart and stood up.