Sacred Stone Page 5

  North of the circle, depending on how far one went, the blackness was constant. The farther north, the longer that condition remained. At the exact spot of the Arctic Circle and to the south of it, December 22 marked a turning point. As winter progressed toward spring, the daylight grew longer by minutes each day. By the time summer came, the midnight sun would rise and in the area north of the Circle, the sun would not set for some time.

  It was a cycle that had repeated itself for countless eons.

  Outside, a howling wind raked hard pellets of frozen snow against the windows in the terminal. The weather looked as appealing as the interior of a meat locker. Cabrillo stared and felt a shiver. Though still indoors, he tugged at the zipper to his parka.

  Since Kulusuk was just south of the Arctic Circle, there would be a few minutes of light today. By contrast, Mount Forel was still in total darkness. The next few days and weeks would see the top of the mountain begin to catch the first rays of light. Then, as the months passed, the sunlight would begin to drip down the sides of the mountain like yellow paint poured atop a pyramid.

  But looking outside one would never guess the sun had been, or was, anywhere near.

  Right now, however, Cabrillo was less concerned with the darkness than he was with transportation. Walking off to the side of the terminal, he removed a satellite telephone and hit the speed dial.

  "WHAT HAVE YOU found out?" he asked when Hanley answered.

  Because of Overholt's urgency, Cabrillo had left the Oregon without a clear plan on how he was to travel to Mount Forel. Hanley had assured him that by the time he was on the ground there would be a plan in place.

  "There are some dogsled teams available for charter," Hanley noted, "but you'd need a guide as a musher—and I didn't figure you wanted a witness, so I ruled that out. The helicopters that service Kulusuk have regularly scheduled routes, from Tasiilaq and back, but they don't hire out and the current weather has them grounded."

  "Not walking weather," Cabrillo said, staring outside.

  "Or skiing," Hanley added, "though I know you pride yourself on your skiing ability."

  "So what is it?"

  "I had the computer pull vehicle registrations from the area—it didn't take long, as there are only four hundred or so people in Kulusuk. I discounted snowmobiles because you'd be exposed to the snow and cold, plus their tendency to break down. That leaves us with snowcats. They are slow and burn a lot of fuel, but they have heaters and plenty of room for storage of supplies. I think that's our best bet."

  "Sounds reasonable," Cabrillo said. "Where's the rental place located?"

  "There isn't one," Hanley said, "but I pulled up the names and ad-dresses of private owners from the Greenland registry and made a few calls. None of the people that own them have home telephone numbers, but I reached the pastor of the local church. He said there is one man that might agree to a rental—the rest are in use."

  "What's the address?" Cabrillo asked, removing a pencil and small pad of paper from his parka for notes.

  "The address is the sixth house past the church, red walls with yellow trim."

  "No street addresses this far north, huh?"

  "Everybody knows everyone else, I guess," Hanley said.

  "Sounds like the natives are friendly."

  "I'm not too sure about that," Hanley told him. "The pastor mentioned the owner drinks quite a bit during the winter. He also said almost everyone in town carries firearms to ward off bears."

  Cabrillo nodded. "So basically, I just need to convince an armed drunken native to rent me his snowcat and I'm on my way," Cabrillo said, patting the packets of one-hundred-dollar bills in his parka pocket. "Sounds simple enough."

  "Well, there's one more thing—he's not a native. He grew up in Arvada, Colorado, and was drafted into the army during the Vietnam War. From what I've been able to piece together from the databases, once he returned he spent a few years in and out of VA hospitals. Then he left the country with the idea of getting as far away from the U.S. as possible."

  Cabrillo stared out the window again. "It looks like he reached his goal."

  "I'm sorry, Juan," Hanley said. "In two more days, when the summit wraps up, we could reposition the Oregon and Adams could fly you Up in the helicopter. Right now, however, this is all we've got."

  "No sweat," Cabrillo said, staring at his notes. "Sixth house from the church."

  "Red walls," Hanley said, "and yellow-painted trim."

  "Well then, let me go meet a madman."

  He disconnected and walked through the door leading outside.

  CABRILLO LEFT HIS boxes of supplies at the airport and approached the cab driver who raised his eyebrows when Cabrillo gave the address but he said nothing. He seemed more concerned with the fee, which he quoted in Danish currency.

  "How much in U.S. dollars?" Cabrillo asked.

  "Twenty," the boy said without hesitation.

  "Done," Cabrillo said, handing the boy a bill. The boy climbed onto the snowmobile and reached for the starter button.

  "You know Garth Brooks?" the boy asked, assuming everyone in the United States must know everyone else, just like in his village.

  "No," Cabrillo said, "but I played golf with Willie Nelson once." "Cool. Is he any good?"

  "Wicked slice," Cabrillo said as the boy hit the starter and the engine roared to life.

  "Get on," the boy shouted.

  Once Cabrillo was seated, the boy raced away from the airport. The snowmobile's headlight barely cut through the darkness and blowing snow. Kulusuk was little more than a cluster of homes a mile or so from the airport. The sides of the houses were partially covered by snowdrifts. Trails of smoke and steam came from inside. Teams of dogs were clustered near houses, along with many snowmobiles; skis were propped up into the snow, tips aloft; snowshoes hung on nails near the doors. Life in Kulusuk looked hard and grim. North of town, the expanse of ice leading across to the mainland was barely visible as a dim outline. The surface of ice was black and slick as wind blew the snow and piled it into small drifts that ceaselessly formed and reformed. The hills across the frozen ice were only visible as an outline, a different color gray against a backdrop of nothingness. The scene looked about as inviting as a tour of a crematorium. Cabrillo felt the snowmobile slow then stop.

  He climbed from the back and stood on the semipacked snow.

  "Later," the teenager said with a quick wave of his hand.

  Then the boy turned the yoke hard to the left, spun around on the snow-packed street and raced away. Cabrillo was left alone in the cold and darkness. He stared at the half-buried house for a second. Then he started walking through the drifts toward the front door. He paused on the stoop before knocking.

  Chapter 10

  HICKMAN STARED AT the records from the Saudi Arabian Office of Procurement that his hackers had lifted from a database. The records had been translated from Arabic into English but the translation was far from perfect. Scanning the lists, he made notes alongside the columns. One entry stood out. It was for woven wool kneeling pads and the supplier was located in Maidenhead, England. Reaching for his intercom, he buzzed his secretary.

  "There's a Mr. Whalid that works for me at the Nevada hotel. I think he's an assistant food and beverage director."

  "Yes, sir," the secretary said.

  "Have him call me at once," Hickman said. "I have a question for him."

  A few minutes later his telephone rang.

  "This is Abdul Whalid," the voice said. "I was told to call you."

  "Yes," Hickman said. "Call this company in England for me"—he rattled off the telephone number—"pretend you're a Saudi Arabian official or something. They have a multimillion-dollar order for woven wool kneeling pads, and I want to know what exactly that means, woven wool kneeling pads."

  "Can I ask you why, sir?"

  "I own mills," Hickman lied. "I'd like to know what these items are, because if we can make them, I'd like to know why my guys didn't bid on the job."
>
  That made sense to Whalid. "Very good, sir. I'll call them and call you right back."

  "Excellent." Hickman returned to staring at the picture of the meteorite. Ten minutes later, Whalid phoned again.

  "Sir," Whalid said, "they are prayer rugs. The order is so large because the country is replacing the entire inventory used at Mecca. Apparently they do this every ten years or thereabouts."

  "Hmm, so we missed an opportunity that won't be around again for a while. That's not good."

  "I'm sorry, sir," Whalid said. "I don't know if you are aware that I ran a mill in my own country before the overthrow. I'd be very interested—"

  Hickman cut him off rudely. His mind was racing. "Send me a resume, Whalid," he said, "and I'll see it goes to the proper person."

  "I understand, sir," Whalid said meekly.

  Hickman hung up the telephone without as much as a good-bye.

  PIETER VANDERWALD ANSWERED his cellular telephone as he was driving down the road just outside of Palm Springs, California.

  "It's me," the voice said.

  "This is not a secure line," Vanderwald said, "so speak in generalities and let's keep the call to less than three minutes."

  "The substance we spoke about," the man said, "can it be applied in an aerosol form?"

  "That's one way it could be used. It would then transfer by air or get distributed along a human chain by touch or coughing."

  "Would the substance then transfer from person to person if it was on their clothing?"

  Vanderwald stared at the digital clock on the radio of his rental car. Half the allotted time was gone. "Yes, it would transfer from clothing and skin, even through the air."

  "How long would it take for someone to die from exposure?"

  The digital clock on the dash flipped over a number. "Within a week—maybe less. I'll be at my land line tonight if you want to talk more."

  The line went dead and the man sat back in his chair. Then he smiled.

  "JUST OVER TWO million seems a steep price, considering last year's revenue," the lawyer said over the telephone. "Once they fill the contracts they have, their books are a little bare going ahead."

  "Just do the deal," Hickman said quietly. "I'll write off any losses against the gains on my Docklands property."

  "You're the boss," the lawyer said.

  "You got that right."

  "Where do you want the funds to come from?"

  Hickman scrolled through a screen on his computer. "Use the Paris account," he said, "but I want to close the transaction tomorrow and take possession of the company within seventy-two hours at the latest."

  "You think there'll be a shortage of British mills for sale in the next couple of days?" the lawyer said. "Or do you know something I don't?"

  "I know a lot you don't," Hickman said, "but if you keep talking you'll only have seventy-one hours to put this together. You just do what you're paid to do—I'll take care of planning."

  "I'm on it, sir," the lawyer said before disconnecting.

  Sitting back in his chair, Hickman relaxed for a moment. Then he picked up a magnifying glass on his desk and stared at the aerial photograph in front of him. Placing the magnifying glass down, he examined a map. Lastly he opened a file folder and flipped through the photographs inside.

  The photographs were of victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bombings at the end of World War II. And although the photographs were graphic and disturbing, the man smiled. Vengeance is mine, he thought.

  THAT EVENING HE called Vanderwald on his land line.

  "I found something better," Vanderwald said. "It's an airborne plague that affects the lungs. Very toxic, it should kill eighty percent of the population of the country."

  "How much?" Hickman asked.

  "The amount you need will be six hundred thousand dollars."

  "Have it delivered," Hickman said, "along with as much C-6 as you can find."

  "How big is the structure you're intending to demolish?" Vanderwald asked.

  "The size of the Pentagon."

  "That much will be a million two."

  "Cashier's check?" Hickman asked.

  "Gold," Vanderwald said.

  Chapter 11

  CABRILLO STARED AT the musk ox horns on the door, then reached over and lifted a fish-shaped iron door knocker and let it slam against the heavy planked door. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps from within, then it grew quiet. Suddenly a small hatch in the door the size of a loaf of bread opened and a face peered out. The man had shallow cheeks, a tobacco-stained gray beard, a mustache and bloodshot eyes. His teeth were stained and grimy.

  "Slide it through the hole."

  "Slide what through the hole?" Cabrillo asked.

  "The Jack," the man said, "the bottle of Jack."

  "I'm here to speak to you about renting your snowcat."

  "You're not from the trading post?" the man said with more than a hint of disappointment and despair.

  "No," Cabrillo said, "but if you let me in to talk, I'll go down and get you a bottle afterward."

  "You're talking Jack Daniel's," the man asked, "not the cheap stuff, right?"

  Cabrillo was cold and growing colder by the minute. "Yes, made in Lynchburg, Tennessee, black label—I know what you mean. Now open the door."

  The peephole closed and the man unlocked the door. Cabrillo walked into a living room decorated in squalor and disarray. Dust from last summer coated the tables and upper edges of the picture frames. The smell was a mixture of old fish and foot odor. A pair of lamps on two side tables cast pools of yellow light into the otherwise dark room.

  "Pardon the mess," the man said. "My cleaning lady quit a few years ago."

  Cabrillo remained near the door—he had no desire to enter farther into the room.

  "Like I said, I'm interested in renting your snowcat."

  The man sat down in a battered recliner. A liter bottle of whiskey sat on the table at his side. It was almost empty, with barely an inch left in the bottom. Then, as if on cue, the man poured the last of the bottle into a chipped coffee mug and took a drink.

  "Where are you planning on going?" the man asked.

  Before Cabrillo could answer, the man had a coughing fit. Cabrillo waited for the end.

  "Mount Forel."

  "You with those archaeologists?"

  "Yes," Cabrillo lied.

  "You an American?"

  "Yep."

  The man nodded. "Pardon my manners. I'm Woody Campbell. Everyone in town calls me Woodman."

  Cabrillo walked over and extended his gloved hand to Campbell. "Juan Cabrillo."

  They shook hands, then Campbell motioned to a chair nearby. Cabrillo sat down and Campbell stared at him without speaking. The silence sat in the room like a brick on a potato chip. Finally, Campbell spoke.

  "You don't look like an academic to me," he said at last.

  "What's an archaeologist supposed to look like?"

  "Not like someone who has been in battle," Campbell said, "like someone who has had to take another man's life."

  "You're drunk," Cabrillo said.

  "Maintenance drinking," Campbell said, "but I don't hear you denying anything."

  Cabrillo said nothing.

  "Army?" Campbell said, staying on the topic.

  "CIA, but it was a while ago."

  "I knew you weren't an archaeologist."

  "The CIA has archaeologists," Cabrillo noted.

  At that moment there was a knock at the door. Cabrillo motioned for Campbell to remain seated and walked over to the door. An Inuit dressed in a one-piece snowsuit stood with a sack in his hand.

  "That the whiskey?" Cabrillo asked.

  The man nodded. Cabrillo reached in his pocket and retrieved a money clip. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the man, who handed over the bottle.

  "I don't have change," the Inuit said.

  "Is that enough to pay for this and another to be delivered," Cabrillo asked, "and some extra for
your trouble?"

  "Yes," the Inuit said, "but the owner will only allow me to deliver Woodman one bottle per day."

  "Bring the other tomorrow and keep the change," Cabrillo said.

  The Inuit nodded and Cabrillo closed the door. Carrying the sack with the whiskey inside, he walked over to Campbell and handed it to him. Campbell took the bottle out of the sack, wadded up the paper and tossed it toward a trash can and missed, then cracked the seal and filled his cup.

  "Appreciate it," he said.

  "You shouldn't," Cabrillo told him. "You should give it up."

  "I can't," Campbell said, eyeing the bottle. "I've tried."

  "Bullshit. I've worked with guys with a worse problem than yours—they're straight today."

  Campbell sat quietly. "Well, Mr. CIA," he said at last, "you figure a way to dry me out and the snowcat is yours. I haven't used it in months—I can't leave the house."

  "You served in the army," Cabrillo said.

  "Who the hell are you?" Campbell said. "No one in Greenland knows that."

  "I run a specialized company that does intelligence and security work—a private corporation. We can find out anything."

  "No shit?"

  "No shit," Cabrillo said. "What was your job in the service? I didn't bother to ask my people that."

  "Green Berets, then the Phoenix Project."

  "So you worked for the Company, too?"

  "Indirectly," Campbell admitted, "but they turned their back on me. They trained me, brained me, and cast me away. I came home with nothing but a heroin problem I managed to kick on my own and a host of bad memories."

  "I hear you," Cabrillo said. "Now where is the snowcat?"

  "Out back," Campbell said, pointing to a door leading out the rear of the house.

  "I'm going to check it out," Cabrillo said, starting for the door. "You sit here and figure out if you really want to quit. If you do, and the snowcat checks out, then I have an idea we can discuss. If not, then we can discuss me paying you enough money to keep you in Jack until your liver fails. Fair enough?"