The time was late, the guard was tired, and the mosque was closed.
There was little reason for him to believe the men were anything other than what they said they were—he waved them through without comment. Wheeling the cart in front of him, Hickman pushed it under an arched passageway that led to the interior of the shrine.
Once inside the passageway, Hickman slipped a small mask and filter over his mouth and nose, then wrapped his headdress over that so only his eyes showed. Motioning to the Hindus to spread out and place the charges around the perimeter, he headed directly toward the Kaaba.
Four tall men in ceremonial uniforms were walking guard on each corner. Every five minutes they walked from the corner outside the black shroud with exaggerated steps that raised their feet in the air like Beefeaters at Buckingham Palace. Each guard moved from the corner where he was standing to the next in a clockwise direction, then stopped and waited. They were just finishing a repositioning when Hickman wheeled close with the cart.
Reaching into the cart, he popped one of the aerosol cans to open, then pushed it near a guard. The guard remained motionless for a second, then dropped to his knees, onto his chest, and finally facedown on the marble floor. Hickman quickly slipped under the curtain with the cart and pushed it inside.
Then he ran over to Abraham’s Stone and pried it from the silver frame with a short iron rod he had hidden in the cart. Quickly switching it with the meteorite from Greenland, he placed Abraham’s Stone under the white canvas curtain around the janitor’s cart. He then hid explosive charges around the perimeter and slipped back under the shroud.
Vanderwald had explained that the knockout gas he had supplied only had effects for between three and four minutes. After that time anyone who had breathed the gas would start to come around. Hickman pushed the cart toward the arched passageway.
The Hindus worked quickly; the six assigned pillars closest to the passageway were already waiting in the tunnel. Two more arrived a few minutes later, then two more.
Hickman watched as the last pair hurried across the large expanse of marble.
Followed by the Hindus, Hickman pushed the cart past the guard at the entrance.
“What are you doing?” the guard asked.
“A thousand apologies,” Hickman said in Arabic, still pushing the cart toward the van, “they told us inside we are supposed to clean tomorrow night.”
HICKMAN AND THE others piled into the van and were just pulling away when the guard awoke. Shifting around until he was sitting on the marble, the guard glanced about to see if anyone had noticed. Apparently no one had. The guard on the other corner was facing away, as ceremony dictated. He rose to his feet and stared at his watch. One minute thirty seconds until the change. The guard decided to keep the fact he had passed out a secret. He knew if he told anyone they would replace him before the hajj.
The guard had dreamed his entire life of being a ceremonial guard. A slight case of heat stroke or food poisoning would not end his dream.
HICKMAN DIRECTED THE driver to the road that led to the town of Rabigh on the Red Sea.
Once there, the Hindus would hide out in a house he had rented. Tomorrow night they would drive to Medina. Hickman would not spend the night in Rabigh; a boat was waiting for him at the port. By first light he would be on board and steaming north.
OVERHOLT WAS SITTING in the Oval Office. He finished his briefing and sat back in his chair.
“This is one hell of a mess, Langston,” the president said.
Overholt nodded slowly.
“Our relationship with Saudi Arabia is at an all-time low,” the president continued. “Ever since Senator Grant passed the bill condemning the kingdom for being home to the September eleventh hijackers, and Congress passed the special tax on Saudi crude oil, our diplomats have hardly been able to even arrange meetings. The latest polls show a majority of the U.S. citizens think we should have attacked Saudi Arabia and not Iraq, and now you tell me that a crazy American billionaire is planning to strike at the country’s holiest sites.”
“I know it’s a powder keg, Mr. President.”
“Powder keg!” the president exploded. “It’s much worse than that. If Hickman has poisoned prayer rugs and switched Abraham’s Stone and something like you theorize happens to it, I see three major things that could happen. The first is a given—the Saudis cut off oil shipments to the U.S. That will plunge us into another recession and we’re barely out of the last one—that would be a shock that our economy just could not stand. Second, the fact that Hickman is an American will fan the flames with the terrorist elements. They will be swimming to the U.S. to wreak havoc. Let’s face it, the U.S.-Canadian and U.S.-Mexican borders are sieves. Short of us erecting walls, there’s not much we can do if someone is determined to enter our country. The third is possibly the worst. If the Greenland meteorite is shattered and releases a virus similar to the one that was in the Arizona sample, then the other two might be mute points. The oxygen could be sucked out of the atmosphere like water down a drain, then we’ll all be breathing dust.”
Overholt nodded slowly. “The first two are easily handled if what the CIA doctor learned from the captured combatant is true. That Hickman is planning to blame the entire affair on the Israelis.”
“Unfortunately, as much as I’ve tried to wean the Israelis from American aid, I’ve been mostly unsuccessful. The Arab world believes the United States and Israel are closely tied—and we are. If the blame goes to Israel, it would be overrun with Arab troops from any nation that has troops. And we know what would happen then.”
“The Israelis would go nuclear,” Overholt said.
“So what are we left with?” the president asked. “Give me the out.”
“The only way we can put this thing to bed is to eliminate the prayer rugs, capture Hickman and somehow replace the meteorites if he has already switched them, then search the holy sites for explosives.”
“All without the Saudi Arabian government knowing what we’re doing,” the president said. “That’s a tall order.”
“Mr. President,” Overholt said, “do you have a better idea?”
ON JANUARY 4, 2006, at 5 A.M. Qatar time, the telephone in Cabrillo’s hotel room rang and woke him.
“It’s me, Juan,” Overholt said. “I’ve finished meeting with the president and have your orders.”
