Sacred Stone

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 wristwatch.

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 they 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?”