Sacred Stone

“Call your coroner and have him get in touch with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Ask them to send the toxicology profiles for Arabian Peninsula scorpion and snake venoms and see if they get a match.”

Rodgers nodded then made the call. While he was on the telephone, Seng studied the port area below. There were several old cargo ships, three or four pleasure crafts, and a single catamaran whose upper decks bristled with antennae and two davits. The rear deck of the catamaran was crowded with crates and electronic gear. A man was hunched over a table on the rear deck with his arms inside a torpedo-shaped device.

“Okay,” Rodgers said, “they’ll check.”

The men continued walking down the hill and reached the dock. They walked out on the planks then turned and headed down another dock that abutted the first at a right angle. Three men were visible on the Larissa’s deck. You could be sure more were below.

“We’ve searched every inch,” Rodgers said. “Nothing. The logs are falsified, but by interviewing the crew we learned that the cargo was picked up near Odesa in the Ukraine, and they steamed here without stopping.”

“Was the crew aware of what they were transporting?” Seng asked.

“No,” Rodgers said. “The rumor was that it was stolen artwork.”

“They were just the delivery men,” Seng said.

Meadows was staring back down the dock at the catamaran.

“Do you men want to go aboard?” Rodgers asked.

“Did anyone see the man leave the pub after he met with the captain?” Meadows asked.

“No,” Rodgers answered, “and that’s the problem. We don’t know who he was or where he went.”

“But the captain didn’t take the bomb with him to the pub,” Meadows wondered aloud, “so either someone on the crew made the switch, or it was stolen off this ship.”

“No one saw the bomb at the pub,” Rodgers said, “and the captain died there.”

“And you’ve grilled his crew?” Seng said.

“What I’m about to tell you is classified,” Rodgers said.

Seng and Meadows nodded.

“What we did to the crew is illegal by world convention—they told us everything they know,” Rodgers said quietly.

The British were not playing around—the Greeks had been tortured or doped or both.

“And no one in the crew made the switch?” Meadows said.

“No,” Rodgers said. “Whoever that man was at the pub, he had accomplices.”

“Eddie,” Meadows said, “why don’t you board the Larissa and check it out? I’m going to wander over there and talk to the guy on the catamaran.”

“We’ve already questioned him,” Rodgers said. “He’s a little odd, but harmless.”

“I’ll be right back,” Meadows said, walking down the dock.

Seng motioned to Rodgers and followed him on board the Larissa.

“SIR, WE NEED to call it,” Stone said, “Atlantic or North Sea?”

Hanley stared at the moving map on the monitor. He had no idea which way Cabrillo was headed, but the time to decide was upon them.

“Where’s the amphibious plane?”

“There,” Stone said, pointing to a blip on the map that showed the plane over Manchester and flying north.

“North Sea, then,” Hanley ordered. “London is the target. Order the amphibious plane to Glasgow to support Cabrillo.”

“Got it,” Stone said, reaching for the microphone.

“Hali,” Hanley said over his shoulder to Kasim, who was sitting at a table behind the control chair, “what’s the situation on the fuel for Adams?”

“I couldn’t get the airport in Inverness to make a delivery,” Kasim said, “so I contacted a gas station in Loch Ness to bring fuel out to the site in five-gallon cans. He should be arriving there shortly. As soon as he does, I’m sure Adams will report.”

“Damn,” Hanley said, “we need George up there to support our chairman.”

Linda Ross, the Oregon’s security and surveillance expert, was sitting at the table with Kasim. “I linked up with the British authorities and told them what we know—that we have a white van heading south on the road from Loch Ness that we think is carrying the meteorite, and that Mr. Cabrillo is chasing in an old black MG. They’re sending helicopters, but it will be an hour or so until they reach the area.”

“Can the Challenger fly high cover and report?” Hanley asked the room.

For a second no one spoke. Stone punched commands into his keyboard then pointed at the monitor. “That’s real time from the area,” he said.

The blanket of fog looked like a gray wool sheet. On the ground in northern Scotland, visibility was being measured in feet, not yards. Help from the air would not be coming anytime soon.

HALIFAX HICKMAN WAS fuming. After berating his security team, he turned to the head of the detail. “You’re fired,” he said loudly.