Sacred Stone

45

AT ROUGHLY THE same time the Global Air Cargo 747 was lifting off the runway at Heathrow, the truck carrying Hickman was stopping at another section of the airport.

“Meet up with the others, ditch the trucks, and disappear,” Hickman said to the driver who was dropping him in front of the private jet terminal. “I’ll reach you if I need you.”

“Good luck, sir,” the driver said as Hickman climbed out.

Hickman waved at the driver, then walked through the front door.

The driver steered the truck out of the parking lot, then reached for his radio. “The big man is clear,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

Twelve minutes later, the three trucks met up at an abandoned factory on the west side of London where they had stashed their getaway car. Climbing from the trucks, they quickly wiped down any surfaces they had touched with ungloved fingers then climbed into a nondescript British sedan.

Their plan was to drive through the city toward the English Channel, leave the rental car in a lot and board the ferry for Belgium. The plan would go off without a hitch.

“PREPARE THE OREGON to sail,” Cabrillo ordered Hanley as Jones steered into the executive air terminal at Heathrow. “Set a course for the Mediterranean and then through the Suez Canal into the Red Sea. I want the ship as close to Saudi Arabia as possible.”

Hanley sounded an alarm throughout the ship. Cabrillo could hear the whooping sound over the telephone link. “Gunderson and the others are in the air,” he said. “The cargo plane is headed toward Paris.”

“Jones and I are going to board the Challenger 604 in a few minutes,” Cabrillo said quickly. “Have the team at Maidenhead withdraw and board the amphibian. Then have Michaels fly out and meet the Oregon in the English Channel.”

“What about the mill?” Hanley asked.

“Tell Fleming what we found,” Cabrillo said, “and turn it over to him.”

“Sounds like we’re swapping playing fields,” Hanley noted.

“The action,” Cabrillo said, “has switched to Saudi Arabia.”

THE COPILOT OF Hickman’s Hawker 800XP was waiting in the terminal.

“The pilot has fueled, finished the preflight and received the necessary clearances,” the copilot said as he steered Hickman through the terminal and toward the runway. “We can leave now.”

The two men walked out to the Hawker and boarded. Three minutes later they were taxiing toward the north-south runway. Three more minutes and they were airborne. Once they were over the English Channel, the pilot opened the cabin door.

“Sir,” he said, “at the speed you want to fly, we’re going to burn up a ton of fuel.”

Hickman smiled. “Don’t spare the engines,” he said, “time is critical.”

“As you wish, sir,” the pilot said as he closed the door again.

Hickman felt the engines throttle up and the plane gain speed. The flight plan called for the Hawker to travel across France along the border with Belgium, then over Switzerland above Zurich. Continuing on across the Alps, they would race down the eastern coast of Italy, then Greece, Crete, and over Egypt. Crossing the Red Sea, they would be in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, by early morning.

AS SOON AS Hanley called, Truitt and the others started preparing to leave. After making sure they had carefully photographed everything, they strung tape across the doors and windows of the mill and left handwritten signs warning people not to enter.

Once that was done, they climbed back in the beaten-down truck and headed back to the river and the amphibious plane.

FROM THE EDGE of the trees a young red fox made tentative steps from his cover in the brush. Sniffing at the air, he started across the cargo loading area at the rear of the mill. Warm air was blowing out of the mill through the open cargo doors and he raised his snout and felt the heat. Carefully moving forward, he stopped near the open middle door.

Then, feeling no threat, the fox wandered inside.

Raised near people, he knew that their presence equaled food.

Smelling human scents, he started to forage for scraps of food. He stepped in a strange black substance on the floor that coated his paws. Then he continued on across the floor, the sticky black coating picking up traces of the virus.

Just then the overhead heaters clicked on and the noise scared him. He raced back to the cargo door. When nothing happened, he decided to lie on the floor and wait. Lifting his paw up to his mouth to clean it, he began to lick the blackness away.

Within minutes his body began to convulse. His eyes grew bloodshot and liquid ran from his snout. Twitching as if he were being electrocuted, he tried to rise on his legs and run away.

But his legs would not work, and white foam was running from his mouth.

The fox lay down to die.

THE SOUND OF the whooping horn was filtering throughout the Oregon.

The team members raced to their stations and the ship was a blur of activity. “Lines are away, Mr. Hanley,” Stone said.

“Take her away from the dock,” Hanley said over the intercom to the wheelhouse.

The Oregon started to move away from the dock and gradually gained speed.

“Have you plotted the course?” Hanley asked Stone.

“Just finishing it, sir,” Stone said, pointing to the large monitor on the wall.

A large map of Europe and Africa was displayed with a thick red line showing the route. Time intervals were displayed alongside the line.

“What’s the quickest we can reach the Red Sea?” Hanley asked.

“January fourth, at eleven a.m.,” Stone said.

“Coordinate the pickup with Michaels on the amphibian and get Adams back on board,” Hanley said, “then arrange the schedule of watches for the journey.”

“Yes, sir,” Stone said.

Then Hanley reached for the telephone.

THE INSISTENCE THAT the cargo of prayer rugs be documented as coming from France would help one side and hurt the other. The Global Air Cargo 747 was quickly cleared to land. After less than an hour on the ground, the cargo was retagged and the plane was off the ground again.

GUNDERSON AND THE team on the Gulfstream would not be as lucky. They were boarded by French customs officials as soon as they landed. Hickman had retrieved a list of all the private planes that had been at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas at the time of the break-in of his penthouse. From there it had been a simple matter of searching flight plans to locate any that had traveled to England thereafter.

The Gulfstream had been the only one.

Hickman then made an anonymous call to Interpol claiming that the plane was carrying drugs. It would take two full days and multiple calls from Hanley and others before his people were released. The French could be difficult to deal with.

CABRILLO WAS LUCKIER. The Challenger 604 with him and Jones aboard left Heathrow within thirty minutes of Hickman’s departure. The pilot immediately set a course for Riyadh, the capital city, at her maximum speed of 548 miles per hour. They streaked through the sky at an altitude of 37,000 feet.

A half hour ahead and now over France, Hickman’s Hawker 800XP was at her maximum speed of 514 miles per hour. The Challenger carrying Cabrillo and Jones at a faster speed should have arrived first, but that would not be the case. Hickman had known his destination for some time—Cabrillo had become aware of it only recently.

On a good day, getting a visa to visit Saudi Arabia is difficult. The process is slow and arbitrary, and tourism is not only discouraged but outlawed. Several of Hickman’s companies did business with the kingdom, and he was a known entity. His application for visiting took mere hours to approve.

Cabrillo would not be so lucky.

EARLY THE MORNING of January 1, Saud Al-Sheik was awakened by the chirping of the computer in his home office, indicating an e-mail had arrived. The mill in England was reporting that the prayer rugs he had been waiting for had cleared customs and were documented in Paris. They were now en route to Riyadh via 747.

Once at the air cargo terminal in Riyadh, they needed to be trucked across Saudi Arabia to Mecca. There the containers would be opened, and the rugs would be sprayed with pesticide, then left to air out for a day or so before being placed in the stadium.

Al-Sheik stared at the clipboard on his desk. With the exact date the rugs would appear an unknown, he had scheduled all his trucks for other duties. The earliest he could truck the rugs was January 7. He’d arrange it so they were sprayed on the eighth, left to air out for a few hours, and then moved into place on the ninth.

That still gave him twenty-four hours before the official start of the hajj. Al-Sheik was cutting it close, but what choice did he have? He had a million details to cover and only so much time to do the impossible.

It would all come together, he thought as he rose to leave the office and climb back into bed—it always did somehow. Inshallah—God willing. Lying in bed, Al-Sheik’s brain bubbled with a thousand details. Deciding further sleep would not be forthcoming, he rose and walked into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

THE CHALLENGER 604 was over the Mediterranean when the pilot opened the cockpit door and shouted to the rear.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “Saudi is refusing us entrance until we have the proper documents. We have to decide what to do now.”

Cabrillo thought about it for a few moments. “Divert to Qatar,” he said. “I’ll call the emir’s representative in a couple of minutes. Don’t worry, he’ll honor our request.”

“Qatar it is,” the pilot said, closing the door again.

IT WAS SUNRISE when Hickman’s Hawker crossed over the Red Sea into Saudi Arabia and across the desert to Riyadh. Touching down smoothly, the pilot taxied over to the jet terminal and slowed.

“Keep her fueled and ready,” Hickman said.

As soon as the door opened he walked out, down the steps and onto Saudi soil carrying the boxed meteorite.

“So this is the country I will ruin,” he whispered as he looked around at the dry hills near the airport, “the heart of Islam.”

Spitting on the ground, he smiled an evil smile.

Then he walked to where a limousine was waiting to take him to the hotel.

HICKMAN WAS ALREADY checked in and sleeping before the Challenger raced up the Indian Ocean, turned and crossed atop the Strait of Hormuz into the Persian Gulf en route to Qatar. The emir had come through with flying colors. His representative had smoothed out entry into the country and a suite of hotel rooms was awaiting Cabrillo and his team. It was arranged that Cabrillo would meet with the emir himself at noon today. First Cabrillo would grab a few hours’ sleep. Then he’d explain the problem in person.

The pilot opened the door again and shouted back, “The tower has cleared us, sir.”

Cabrillo stared out the window at the azure waters of the gulf. Dhows, the strangely shaped boats that carried fishermen and cargo across the water, bobbed peacefully. In the distance to the north, Cabrillo could make out the long expanse of an oil tanker heading south. The wake trail from the tanker’s massive propellers trailed back for miles.

Cabrillo heard the engines on the Challenger start to slow.

Then they began to descend for landing.