Sacred Stone Page 15

  The mall was a cornucopia of excessive consumption. Nearly seventy-five brand-name stores and boutiques were located along a cobblestone walkway. Along with the twenty or so designer clothing stores were shoe shops, a luggage store, jewelry shops, restaurants and a bookstore. Truitt still needed to kill some time, so he entered the bookstore and flipped through the newest Stephen Goodwin novel. Goodwin, a young author from Arizona, had spent the last few months at the top of the charts. Truitt could not carry a book right now, but he made a mental note to pick up the novel before he left Las Vegas. Leaving the bookstore, Truitt entered a barbecue restaurant and ordered a plate of ribs and an iced tea. Once he finished those, he decided it was time.

  HICKMAN'S PENTHOUSE HIGH atop Dreamworld featured decks on all four sides. Glass walls that slid back allowed entrance to the decks, which had a forest of carefully trimmed trees in pots. The pinnacle of the penthouse was pyramid shaped, with a copper roof still new and gleaming. Tiny pinlights lit the trees and pinnacle.

  Riding the elevator up to the next-to-highest floor, Truitt recalled the building plans. Exiting the elevator, he peered down the hallway and found it empty. Then he walked to the far end of the hall and found a white metal ladder bolted to the wall. Truitt climbed the ladder until it ended at a door locked with a padlock on a clasp. Taking a plastic sleeve from a pouch in his pocket, Truitt slid the thin shaft into the lock and twisted a small knob on the top.

  The knob released a catalyst that made the plastic sleeve harden inside the lock. A few seconds later, Truitt twisted the shaft and the lock sprung open. He removed the lock from the clasp, opened the door upward into the crawl space and climbed inside.

  The plans had called this area a service access walkway. Cables for power, plumbing and communications filled the space. Truitt closed the door again and turned on his flashlight. Slowly he crawled down the walkway toward where the plans showed another door that led up to the deck.

  When observing the deck from the other hotel, Truitt had noticed a sliding door cracked open. The open door was his best chance to enter the penthouse undetected. Reaching the door beneath the deck, Truitt used another of the plastic sleeves to open the lock, then carefully swung it up and peered out.

  There was no alarm, no indication he had been detected.

  Keeping low to avoid being seen, Truitt climbed out onto the deck, closed the door, and crept toward the still-open door. Prying it slowly back, he peered inside. No one was visible—and he carefully entered.

  Truitt was in the huge open living room of the penthouse. A half-round sunken conversation pit with padded benches encircled a rock fireplace. Off to one side, lit only by a light above the stove, was a commercial-style kitchen. To the other side was a massive wet bar with beer taps mounted into the wall. The room was lit by unseen lights into a sort of twilight. Bluegrass music played through invisible speakers.

  Truitt crept down the hall toward where the plans showed Hickman's office.

  Chapter 28

  THE LARISSA LIMPED into the Isle of Sheppey and tied up to the dock. The captain took his forged documents and walked up the hill toward the customs shack. A man stood at the door locking up for the night.

  "I just need to note arrival," the captain said, showing him a paper.

  The man unlocked the door again and entered the tiny shack. With­out bothering to turn on the lights, he walked over to a chest-high table and removed a stamp from a rotisserie on the top. Opening an ink pad, he wet the stamp and motioned for the sheet in the captain's hand. Once he had it, he placed it on the top of the table and stamped it.

  "Welcome to England," the customs official said, motioning for the captain to walk back outside.

  As the official started to lock the door again, the captain spoke. "Do you know where there is a doctor nearby?" he asked.

  "Two blocks up the hill," the customs official said, "and one block west. But he's closed now. You can visit him tomorrow—after you've come back here and made full declarations."

  The customs official walked off. The captain returned to the Larissa to wait.

  TO THE REGULARS at the waterfront bar on the Isle of Sheppey, Nebile Lababiti must have seemed like a gay man looking for a lover. And they didn't like the implications. Lababiti was dressed in an Italian sport coat, shiny woven silk pants and a silk shirt unbuttoned to show a neck encircled with gold chains. He smelled of hair pomade, cigarettes and too much cologne.

  "I'd like a pint," he told the barkeep, a short, muscled and tattooed man with a shaved head who wore a grimy T-shirt.

  "Sure you don't want a fruity drink, mate?" the barkeep asked quietly. "There's a place up the road that makes a mean banana daiquiri."

  Lababiti reached into his sport coat, removed a pack of cigarettes and lit one, then blew smoke in the barkeep's face. The man looked like an ex-carnival worker who had been fired for scaring the customers.

  "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 wrist-watch.

  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 th
ey 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 the 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?"

  Chapter 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?"