the rear seat.”
Cabrillo nodded and reached back onto the seat next to Ackerman. He opened a padded cooler bag and removed a sandwich. “Do you have any coffee?”
“A pilot without coffee?” Adams said lightly. “That’s like a fisherman without worms. There’s a thermos on the floor back there. It’s my special Italian roast blend.”
Cabrillo retrieved the thermos and poured a cup. He took a couple sips then placed the cup on the floor by his feet and took a bite of the sandwich.
“So it was planned all along to have the fake emir kidnapped?” Adams asked.
“Nope,” Cabrillo said, “we figured we could grab Al-Khalifa before he made his move. The one bright spot is that we’re certain Al-Khalifa has no plans to kill the emir—he just wants him to abdicate the throne in favor of the Al-Khalifa clan. Our man should be as safe as a cow at a vegetarian’s conference as long as he’s not found out as a fake.”
Cabrillo ate another third of the sandwich.
“Sir,” Adams said, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Cabrillo said, taking the last bite of sandwich and reaching for the coffee.
“What the hell were you doing in Greenland, and who exactly is that guy that’s near death in the back of my helicopter?”
“AL-KHALIFA AND HIS men took off,” Murphy said. “I’m the only one left on board as far as I can tell.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hanley said. “Is the helicopter still on board?”
“I saw it sitting on the rear deck,” Murphy said.
“And you walked the entire yacht?”
“Yep. It’s as if they never existed.”
“Hold on,” Hanley said, turning to Stone.
“Thirty-eight minutes, sir,” Stone said to the unasked question.
“Murph,” Hanley said, “we’ll be there in a half hour. See what you can dig up before we arrive.”
“Will do,” Murphy said.
“We’ll be there soon,” Hanley said, “and then we can figure this all out.”
“I RECEIVED A call from our contact at the CIA,” Cabrillo said. “When we were in Reykjavik, Echelon intercepted an e-mail pertaining to a meteorite comprised of iridium. The CIA was concerned about it falling into the wrong hands, so they asked me to fly over and secure it. That gentleman,” he said, motioning to the rear, “is the man that discovered it.”
“He dug it out of the cave?”
“Not exactly,” Cabrillo said. “You didn’t have a chance to take the tour. There’s a large shrine that was built on a shaft above the one you were in—very elaborate. Someone long ago must have unearthed the meteorite and fancied it as a religious or spiritual artifact. The guy in back is an archaeologist who somehow found a clue and tracked down the site.”
Adams adjusted his flight controls then spoke into his headset. “
After receiving a reply from Stone in the control room, he continued. “The whole thing seems odd. Even if the meteorite has historical value, I don’t see rival archaeologists killing each other over a find. They probably dream about doing that, but I’ve never heard about an instance.”
“Right now,” Cabrillo said, “it looks like Al-Khalifa and the Hammadi Group intercepted the e-mail and recovered the meteorite for the iridium. They must want to construct a dirty bomb with the material.”
“If that’s the case,” Adams said, “then they must already have a working bomb of some sort to use as the catalyst. Otherwise they have a fuel and no fire.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Then after our team recovers the meteorite, we still need to locate the mother bomb.”
“Once we have Al-Khalifa,” Cabrillo said, “we’ll make him give up the location of the weapon. Then a crew can be sent to disable it and we’ll be through.”
Cabrillo didn’t know it yet, but Al-Khalifa was on the bottom of the ocean.
Right next to a series of geothermal vents.
19
THOMAS DWYER WAS a name that sounded serious and staid. Even Dwyer’s title, scientist of theoretical physics, made one imagine a pipe-smoking academic. An egghead, or a man who lived a carefully controlled existence. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Dwyer was the captain of his darts team at the neighborhood pub, raced rally cars on the weekends, and chased single women with a purpose his forty years of age had not diminished. Dwyer bore a passing resemblance to the actor Jeff Goldblum, dressed more like a movie producer than a scientist, and read nearly twenty newspapers and magazines a day. He was smart, imaginative and bold, and was as up-to-date on current events and trends as a fashion maven.
His job title, however, could bring back the notion of a more serious side. His business cards read Central Intelligence Agency, Thomas W. Dwyer (TD)—Senior Scientist Theoretical Applications. Dwyer was a spook- scientist.
At the moment, Dwyer was hanging upside down in a pair of gravity inversion boots that were attached to a
