Sacred Stone

38

“HE HAS TO be,” Truitt said. “When I was in Hickman’s office I saw something that registered in my mind as odd but I didn’t have time to investigate it before he returned to the penthouse. On a shelf near his desk there was a set of bronze baby shoes.”

“That’s odd,” Cabrillo said. “Hickman has no known offspring.”

“Yes,” Truitt said, “but wrapped around them was a set of dog tags.”

“Did you have a chance to read the tags?” Seng, a former marine, asked.

“Nope, but I bet someone from the Las Vegas police could. The thing is, why would he have another man’s dog tags?”

“Unless they were from someone close,” Meadows said, “and that person was dead.”

“I’ll call Overholt and ask him to have the Las Vegas police check,” Cabrillo said. “You men get some rest. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”

Meadows and Seng filed out but Truitt remained. “I slept on the Gulfstream, boss,” he said. “Why don’t you give me the addresses you have and I’ll do a little late-night recon.”

Cabrillo nodded and handed Truitt the information. “Meet back here at eight a.m., Dick,” he said. “The rest of our people will be arriving then.”

Truitt nodded, then walked down the hall to change clothes. In five minutes he was riding down the elevator.

HALPERT WAS PULLING an all-nighter. The Oregon surged toward London with only a minimum crew handling navigation. The operatives were asleep in their cabins and the ship was quiet. Halpert liked the solitude. Setting the computer to search the Department of Defense records, he walked down the hall to the galley and toasted a bagel while he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Smearing the bagel with cream cheese, he wrapped it up and slid it under his arm, then took the pot back with him to his office.

A single sheet of paper was sitting in his printer tray, and he picked it up and read it slowly. Christopher Hunt’s next of kin was his mother, Michelle Hunt, who was a resident of Beverly Hills, California.

Halpert entered her into the computer to see what he could find.

IT WAS FOUR A.M. London time when the Hawker 800XP carrying Hickman touched down at Heathrow. He was immediately met on the runway by a black Rolls-Royce limousine. The limousine set off through the deserted streets toward Maidenhead.

Hickman wanted to be at Maidenhead Mills when it opened. The rest of his team was due in from Calais soon and he had much to accomplish. He stared at the vial of plague he had bought from Vanderwald. A little of this and a little meteorite dust and voila.

THE INTERIOR OF the house was plush considering its location in London’s East End. Along the grittiest section of London proper, in the last few years the East End had become more upscale as high prices in Central London had forced the citizens farther away from the city center.

The three-story house on Kingsland Road, not far from the Geffrye Museum, had survived the bombings of World War II nearly unscathed. After years of life as a rooming house for the immigrants who had settled in the area in the late twentieth century, it had, for the last few years, been resurrected as a high-class whorehouse run by an old-line East End crime family named for its leader, Derek Goodlin.

The lower floor was a salon area with sitting rooms and a pub. The second floor was comprised of a casino with another bar along the wall, and the top floor contained the bedrooms, which were outfitted for a variety of tastes and fetishes.

As soon as Lababiti had pulled the Jaguar in front and climbed out with Amad, Derek Goodlin, who was operating the house this evening, had been alerted to his arrival. Goodlin, who was called “Bugs” behind his back because of his beady eyes and pockmarked skin, smiled, raced to the door and in his mind started counting his money.

Goodlin had dealt with the Arab before and he knew the house would make thousands before Lababiti called it a night.

“Chivas and Coke,” Goodlin ordered the bartender as he raced to greet his guest.

Swinging the door open, he smiled, showing thin, pointed teeth. “Mr. Lababiti,” he said with all the warmth of a snake encased in ice, “how good of you to join us this evening.”

Lababiti detested Goodlin. He was all that was wrong with the West. Goodlin sold sin and depravity—the fact that Lababiti was a frequent buyer made little difference.

“Evening, Derek,” Lababiti said quietly, taking the drink from the waiter who had raced over. “Still running your crooked game, I see.”

Goodlin smiled his evil smile. “I just supply what people want,” he said.

Lababiti nodded and motioned for Amad to follow him inside. Walking over to the ornate carved mahogany bar in the pub room, he slid into a chair alongside a round table with a lit candle on top. Goodlin followed behind like a lapdog.

“Will you be gaming this evening?” Goodlin asked once the pair was seated.

“Maybe later,” Lababiti said, “but for now, bring my friend here an Araq and then have Sally brought down.”

Goodlin signaled the waiter to find the bottle of the strong licorice-flavored Middle Eastern alcoholic drink, then looked down at Lababiti. “Sally Forth, or Sally Spanks?”

“Forth for him,” Lababiti said, pointing, “and Spanks for me.”

Goodlin raced off to alert the women. A few seconds later the waiter slid the bottle of Araq and a glass onto the table. Amad, who was due to die in a day, looked scared.

DEREK GOODLIN CLOSED the door behind Lababiti and his friend, then walked back to his office. He sat down and began counting a pile of bills while he sipped from a snifter of brandy. It had been a good night. The Arab and his silent friend had added five thousand pounds to the nightly take. That, along with a Japanese regular who had lost heavily at the roulette wheel, gave him a 30 percent increase over last night’s business.

He was wrapping a pile of pound notes with a rubber band to hide in the safe when there was a knock on his door. “Hold on,” he said as he placed the cash in the safe and then closed it and spun the dial.

“Okay,” he said once the safe was closed, “come in.”

“I’m here for my pay,” Sally Forth said, “my final pay.”

The socket around her left eye was purple and swollen.

“Lababiti?” Goodlin asked. “I thought you were supposed to be with the kid.”

“I was,” Sally said. “He got a little mean after…”

“After what?” Goodlin asked.

“After he couldn’t get it up,” Sally Forth answered.

Goodlin reached into his desk drawer for one of the envelopes he had prepared for the girls who had worked that night and handed it over. “Take a few days off,” he said, “and be back at work Wednesday.”

Nodding a weary nod, she left the office and walked down the hallway.

LABABITI WAS DRIVING the Jaguar west on Leadenhall Street. Amad was sitting in the passenger seat quietly.

“Did you have a good time?” Lababiti asked.

Amad grunted.

“Are you going to be ready tomorrow?”

“Allah is great,” Amad said quietly.

Lababiti turned and glanced over at the Yemeni, who was staring out the side window at the buildings they passed. He was beginning to have his doubts about Amad, but he kept them to himself. Tomorrow morning he’d give the Yemeni his last instructions.

Then he’d drive to the Chunnel and escape to France.

TRUITT WALKED DOWN the Strand to the side street where the records showed Lababiti rented an apartment. On the lower floor, a vacant shop abutted the lobby. The three floors above, where the apartments were located, were dark, the residents sleeping. Truitt jimmied the lock on the door to the lobby then walked over to examine the row of mailboxes. He was staring at the names when a Jaguar sedan pulled up in front of the building and two men climbed out. Truitt slid past the elevator to where a stairway led to the upper floors, then listened as the men entered the lobby and walked over to the elevator.

He waited while the elevator descended, opened and closed, and began to rise again, then walked out and stared up at the number on the panel above the doors. The elevator stopped on the third floor. Truitt returned to the stairs and climbed the three flights. Then, removing a small microphone from his pocket, he slid the earpiece into his ear and slowly walked down the hallway outside the apartments. At one apartment he heard the sound of a man snoring, at another a cat’s quiet meow. He was halfway down the hall before he heard voices.

“That folds out into a bed,” the voice said.

Truitt could not make out the reply. Noting the number, he visualized where the windows of the apartment would be from the street. Then he swept across the closed door with a small Geiger counter he had brought with him.

There was no sign of radiation.

He climbed quietly down the stairs, exited the lobby, then stared up at the window of Lababiti’s apartment. The shades were drawn. Truitt slipped under the rear of the Jaguar and attached a small magnetic disc to the fuel tank. Then he scanned the car with the Geiger counter and found it clean.

Noting the arrangements of the other buildings nearby, he walked back to the Strand.

The street was nearly deserted; only a few cabs passed and there was a single truck making a delivery to a McDonald’s restaurant that was open twenty-four hours. Truitt walked along the north side of the Strand, reading the playbills outside the theaters. He walked almost to Leicester Square before he turned around and crossed over to the south side.

There he passed a shop with classic British motorcycles for sale. He stopped and stared in the window at the bikes, lit by spotlights, on display. Ariels, BSAs, Triumphs, even a legendary Vincent. A candy store for the motorhead.

He walked back to the McDonald’s and ordered a Danish and coffee.

AT 5:30 A.M. LONDON time—9:30 in the evening in Las Vegas—Captain Jeff Porte of the Las Vegas Police Department was having a tough time convincing the head of security for Dreamworld to allow him to enter the penthouse.

“You’ll need a warrant,” the head of security said, “that’s the only way I can let you inside.”

Porte considered this. “We understand you’ve had a break-in,” he said, “so we’re investigating an active crime.”

“I still can’t let you in, Jeff,” the security chief said.

“Then I’m going to wake a judge and get a warrant,” Porte said, “and when I do, I’ll be back with television cameras. That should help your casino take—police and reporters throughout the lobby and common areas.”

The head of security considered this for a moment. “Let me make a phone call,” he said at last.

HICKMAN HAD ALMOST reached Maidenhead when his satellite telephone rang. After the head of security explained what was happening, Hickman spoke.

“Tell them they need a warrant,” he said, “and order our counsel to start working on quashing it now. Whatever you do, delay them going inside as long as possible.”

“Is there a problem, sir?” the security man asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Hickman said, disconnecting.

The net was closing around him and he could feel the strings drawing tight.

MICHAEL HALPERT WAS widening the search. Logging on to the FAA computer, he pulled up the flight records for Hickman’s jet. As soon as he saw the records, he knew he had their man. One of Hickman’s jets, a Hawker 800XP, had recently filed a flight plan for Greenland. The latest plan filed was for a Las Vegas–London jaunt that placed Hickman’s plane in London right now.

Printing them, Halpert began to search the British property records.

Nothing came up under Hickman’s name so he began to search using the long list of Hickman’s companies. Hours would pass before the search would bear fruit. While the computer was searching, Halpert tried to imagine why one of the richest men in the world would want to conspire with Arab terrorists to explode a nuclear bomb in London.

It was always love or money, Halpert thought.

There was no way Halpert could envision that Hickman could make money off a disaster like an atomic bomb blast. Halpert tried for an hour to find some financial motive but came up short.

It had to be love then, he thought.

And who does one love enough to kill for but family?