“Does the Agency have a Muslim agent in Saudi Arabia?”
“We have half a dozen,” Overholt said.
“We need to know if the meteorite has been switched already,” Hanley said.
“Even our people can’t get inside the curtain,” Overholt said. “There are four guards that walk the perimeter continuously.”
“But they can get inside al-Haram mosque,” Hanley said. “Have him come as close to the curtain as he can with a Geiger counter and then have him bow down and pray. If the Greenland meteorite is inside the curtain already, he should pick up radioactivity.”
“Excellent,” Overholt said. “We’ll get on it right away and report back as soon as we know anything. What else?”
“We need overhead satellite shots of both mosques as detailed as possible along with any engineering diagrams, floor plans, layouts or whatever else you can locate.”
“I’ll have a package assembled as soon as possible, and I’ll have it sent by satellite transmission and followed up by a courier,” Overholt said.
“Good,” Hanley said. “The plan is for the Corporation to imagine we were Hickman and proceed as he would. Once we have the documents, we’re going to assemble our team and plan how we would go about destroying the mosques if that was our mission.”
“I’m staying in my office for the duration,” Overholt said. “If you hear anything—or need anything—call at any hour.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hanley said. “We’ll get this done for you.”
UPON LANDING IN Tel Aviv, Cabrillo rented a car and drove as close as he could get to the Dome of the Rock. He entered through the gate near the al-Aqsa Mosque then crossed over into the courtyard where the Dome of the Rock was centered. The entire complex was some thirty-five acres in size, with garden and fountains and various shrines. The courtyard was crowded with tourists and scholars.
Cabrillo walked into the Dome building and stared at the spotlighted rock.
It was easy to see this was once the top of the hill—the rough outcropping jutted up, surrounded by a viewing area—but it was the history, not any particular physical attribute of the rock, that made it such a sacred site. For all intents and purposes, the rock looked like thousands of others nearby.
Cabrillo left the Dome building and headed underground to the Musalla Marwan.
The Musalla Marwan lies under the paved courtyard in the southeast corner of the complex. A vast underground area also known as Solomon’s Stables, the subterranean space is domed and bisected by long walls with columns and arches. For the most part, the space is open floor and is now used as an overflow area for Friday prayers.
Here, in the cool underground, Cabrillo could feel the history seep into his bones.
Millions of souls had passed through here over the centuries, seeking a closer contact with their God. The area was quiet, with only the sound of water dripping from some faraway spring, and for a moment Cabrillo was hit with the gravity of Hickman’s plans. Somewhere right now was a man so bound in hatred and infused with revenge for his dead son that he wanted to rid the world of three such places. Cabrillo felt a chill. Millions of men had fought and died nearby and their spirits felt close.
Cabrillo turned to leave.
Whatever nefarious plan Hickman had in store would start here—and it was up to Cabrillo and the Corporation to stop him in his tracks. He climbed up the stone steps and reentered the courtyard area. A dry wind brushed across him. He walked for the gate.
AT AN AIRFIELD near Port Said, Egypt, Pieter Vanderwald taxied to a stop in an ancient Douglas DC-3. The plane had served a long and useful life hauling cargo throughout the African continent. The twin-engine DC-3 is a legendary aircraft; thousands were built over the years, starting in 1935, and hundreds are still in service. The military version of the plane, the C-47, was used extensively in World War II, Korea, and even Vietnam, where they were outfitted as gunships. Also known as the Dakota, the Skytrain, Skytrooper, and Doug, it was most often referred to as Gooney Bird.
The Gooney Bird Vanderwald was piloting had one foot in the aviation graveyard.
Destined for the scrap yard in South Africa and lacking an air worthiness certificate, Vanderwald had purchased her for a song. Quite frankly, he was surprised she had made the trip north, but she had. Now, if the old plane had but one more flight in her bones, she could die a noble death.
The DC-3 is a tail dragger. The cockpit sits high to the front with the cargo compartment stretching back in an angle toward the runway. Her length is sixty-four and a half feet, her wingspan ninety-five.
Powered by a pair of 1,000-horsepower radial engines, she has a range of fifteen hundred miles and a cruising speed of between 155 and 190 miles per hour. With flaps extended, she can slow to almost a crawl before landing.
In an age when planes are as sleek and smooth as a knife, the DC-3 is an anvil. Solid, unyielding, and always ready, the plane asks little and goes about her job with little fanfare. She is a pickup truck in a parking lot full of Corvettes.
Vanderwald shut off the engines and slid back the cockpit window.
“Chock the wheels, fill her up,” he shouted to the Egyptian attendant who had guided him to the spot on the runway. “And top off the oil. Someone will be here to pick her up soon for the next leg.”
Then Vanderwald walked down the slanted cockpit area, unfolded the stair, and stepped onto the runway. Two hours later, he was in Cairo waiting for a flight back to Johannesburg. As soon as the funds were wired to his account, his part would be over.
CABRILLO ANSWERED HIS phone just as he was reaching the rental car.
“The Hawker just crossed over the edge of the Mediterranean,” Hanley said. “It looks like she is bound for Rome.”
“Call Overholt and have the plane impounded when it lands in Rome,” Cabrillo ordered. “Maybe Hickman has decided to pull out.”
