Sacred Stone

37

“LEAVE IT IN front,” Seng ordered as they pulled in front of the Savoy and climbed out. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the valet. “And do not block it in.”

Cabrillo walked inside and headed to the check-in desk.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked.

“My name’s Cabrillo,” he said, “my company made a reservation.”

The clerk entered the name, then stared at the note the general manager had written. The note was succinct: Extremely valued repeat customer—unlimited credit verified—Bank of Vanuatu—four river-view suites tonight—additional rooms as needed.

The clerk reached for the keys, then snapped his finger and a porter trotted over. At the same time Meadows and Seng entered the lobby.

“I see you have no luggage, Mr. Cabrillo,” the clerk noted. “Will you need us to arrange shopping?”

“Yes,” Cabrillo said, reaching for a slip of paper and a pen. He began jotting down notes. “Call Harrods tomorrow morning. There is a Mr. Mark Andersen in men’s clothing—ask him to deliver these items. He already has my sizes.”

Meadows and Seng walked over to the desk carrying a pair of bags each. Cabrillo handed each of the men a key. “Do you need anything from Harrods?” he asked.

“No,” both men replied.

The porter reached for Seng’s and Meadows’s bags but Seng raised his hand and stopped him. “You’d better let us take care of those,” he said, slipping the man a twenty-pound note. “Just follow us up and take the cart back.”

The bags were loaded with weapons, communication devices and enough C-6 to level the hotel to rubble. The unknowing porter nodded, pushed the cart closer and waited to follow the men up to the suite.

“What are you men hungry for?” Cabrillo asked as Seng and Meadows placed the bags on the cart.

“I could do breakfast,” Meadows said.

“Send three full English breakfasts to my suite,” Cabrillo said, holding up his key to the clerk, “in forty-five minutes.”

“Let’s shower and clean up,” Cabrillo said to his men, “and meet in my suite at one-thirty.”

Then, followed by the porter, they pushed the baggage cart toward the elevator and rode up to their rooms. At the door to Cabrillo’s suite, he unlocked the door and stopped.

“Wait here, please,” he said. “I want these clothes taken down to the laundry and cleaned and pressed.”

He walked inside, undressed, slid into one of the robes in the closet and returned to the door with a pile of the clothing he had been wearing. Handing them to the porter in a plastic laundry bag along with a hundred-dollar bill, he smiled. “Get these back to me as soon as possible.”

“Will you need your shoes shined?” the porter inquired.

“No, thank you,” Cabrillo said, “they will be fine.”

As soon as the porter left, Cabrillo climbed into the shower and scrubbed himself clean. When finished, he dressed again in the robe and walked back to the front door and opened it. A basket of toiletries had been left, and he took this inside the bathroom and shaved, splashed his cheeks with expensive aftershave then brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Then he walked back into the suite and dialed the control room on the Oregon.

AT THE SAME time Cabrillo was finishing his grooming, it was just past 8 P.M. Washington time. Thomas “TD” Dwyer had spent the last few days working double shifts inside the infectious agents laboratory at Fort Detrick, Maryland, which was located in the mountains north of Washington, D.C., near Frederick. Dwyer was exhausted and almost ready to call it quits for the night. So far he had subjected the samples from Arizona to ultraviolet light, acids, combinations of gases, and radiation.

And nothing had happened.

“Ready to wrap it up for the night?” the army technician asked.

“Let me just cut off a sample for tomorrow,” Dwyer said, “then we can start again at eight a.m.”

“Do you want me to warm up the laser?” the technician asked.

Dwyer stared through the thick glass viewing window at the sample, which was clamped in a vise on a workbench inside the tightly sealed room. Dwyer had placed a diamond-tipped portable air-powered saw into the entry port earlier, then moved it over to the bench by reaching through the wall with his arms inside the thick Kevlar gloves. The saw was now sitting in the pincer arms of a robotic device that Dwyer could control with a joystick.

“I’m going to use the saw,” Dwyer said, “stand by.”

The technician slid into a chair behind a large control panel. The wall in front of him, including the area around the small windows that looked into the sealed area, was covered with gauges and dials.

“We’re negative,” the technician noted.

Dwyer carefully moved the joystick and started the saw spinning. Then he slowly lowered it down to the sample. The saw started smoking, then ground to a halt.

It would not be until noon tomorrow that it could be repaired.

TINY GUNDERSON THROTTLED the Gulfstream down and entered the pattern at Heathrow. He and Pilston had taken turns sleeping on the flight from Las Vegas. Truitt had napped in the rear and was now awake and drinking his second pot of coffee.

“Fill up?” he asked through the door of the cockpit.

“I’m okay,” Gunderson said. “How about you, Tracy?”

Pilston was talking to the tower on the radio but she motioned no with her hand.

“Hanley arranged a hotel near the airport for you two,” Truitt said. “I’m taking a cab into the city.”

Gunderson made his turn to final approach. “We’ll fuel up, then stand by at the hotel,” he said.

“Sounds like a plan,” Truitt said.

Something had been bothering Truitt for the entire flight and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He had been trying to remember the interior of Hickman’s office for hours but, try as he might, the picture was not clear. Sitting back in his seat, he buckled the seat belt and waited for the Gulfstream to set down.

Ten minutes later he was inside a cab heading through the deserted streets for the Savoy. The cab was driving past Paddington Station when it hit him.

OVERHOLT WAS PLANNING to sleep in his office on the couch. Win, place or show, something would be happening in the next forty-eight hours. It was almost ten at night when the president called again.

“Your boys screwed up,” the president said. “There was nothing on the train.”

“Impossible,” Overholt said. “I’ve worked with the Corporation for years—they don’t make mistakes. The meteorite was on the train—it must have been moved again.”

“Well,” the president said, “now it’s loose somewhere in England.”

“Cabrillo is in London right now,” Overholt said, “working on the missing nuke.”

“Langston,” the president said, “you’d better get control of this situation, and soon, or you’d better start figuring if you can make it on your retirement pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Overholt said as the phone went dead.

“WE HAVE THE meteorite headed south on the road just south of Birmingham,” a weary Hanley said to Overholt’s question. “We’ll be off shore of London tomorrow morning and then we can off-load our operatives and track it down.”

“We’d better,” Overholt replied. “My ass is in the wind here. What’s the status on the bomb recovery?”

“Cabrillo and his team plan to pinpoint the location tomorrow and then call MI5,” Hanley said.

“I’m sleeping here in my office tonight,” Overholt said. “Call me if anything changes.”

“You have my word,” Hanley said.

DICK TRUITT GOT his key from the desk, then tipped the doorman to place his bag in his room. He walked down the hall to Cabrillo’s suite and knocked on the door softly. Meadows answered.

“Easy money,” Meadows said when he saw who it was. He stood aside to allow Truitt to enter. Truitt walked into the suite. Half-eaten plates of food sat around a table along with open files and notes.

“Morning, boss,” he said to Cabrillo.

Then he walked over to the telephone and called room service for a club sandwich and a Coca-Cola. Returning to the table, he slid into a chair.

“Halpert learned the identity of the soldier in the photographs you swiped,” Cabrillo said, “but how he’s tied to Hickman we’ve yet to determine.”

“He’s his son,” Truitt said simply.

“Well, hell,” Seng blurted, “that explains a lot.”