“I forgot about King,” Hanley said. “We need him in there as support.”
“Do you want me to include him in Truitt’s group?”
Hanley thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “Have Adams pick him up and put them both on standby. I want them close to the scene and ready to take to the air at a moment’s notice. Adams and King can provide air cover.”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Stone said.
“Excellent.”
“TRUITT CASED THE principal’s apartment building early this morning,” Cabrillo said.
Cabrillo, Seng and Meadows were eating breakfast in the chairman’s suite.
“Where is he now?” Meadows asked.
“He’s on his way to the port where the
“Then I guess he didn’t detect traces of the bomb,” Seng said, “or we’d have already moved by now.”
“Correct,” Cabrillo said.
“So we have to wait until they move?” Meadows asked.
“If the bomb is in London,” Cabrillo said, “and the principals realize someone is on to them, they could blow it at any time. They might not be at their primary target yet, but with a nuclear warhead—even a small one like this —the destruction would be horrific.”
“So we try to flush them out,” Seng asked, “then make the grab and defuse the weapon?”
“I’m sure that’s not what MI5 wants,” Cabrillo said, “but that’s what I will recommend.”
“When do you meet with them?” Meadows asked.
Cabrillo wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and stared at his wristwatch. “In five minutes,” he said, “in the lobby.”
“What would you like us to do?” Seng asked.
“Walk the area near the apartment and get the lay of the land.”
EDWARD GIBB WAS not happy. Being awakened on New Year’s Eve and ordered into work was not his idea of a pleasant holiday. An attorney had telephoned this morning and asked if he could meet the new owner of the mill and unlock the doors. Gibb had almost refused—he’d decided on retirement and was planning to tell the Human Resources Department as soon as they all returned to work—but the idea of meeting the mysterious buyer of Maidenhead Mills intrigued him.
After showering, dressing and eating a quick breakfast of tea and toast, he drove over to the mill. A limousine was idling near the front doors, the exhaust creating puffs of smoke in the chill air. Gibb approached and knocked on the rear window. The window slid down and a man smiled.
“Mr. Gibb?” he asked.
Gibb nodded.
“Halifax Hickman,” the man said, climbing out of the rear and standing on the asphalt near the doors. “Allow me to apologize for taking you away from your family on a holiday.”
The men shook hands.
“No problem, sir,” Gibb said, walking toward the door. “I can understand you might want to see what you spent your money on as soon as possible.”
“I was on my way to Europe,” Hickman lied, “and am limited in time.”
“I understand, sir,” Gibb said as he reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys and unlocked the door.
“Thank you,” Hickman said as Gibb opened the door and stood aside.
“Keep these,” Gibb said, handing Hickman the keys. “I have another set.”
Hickman slid them into his pocket. Gibb walked past the reception area and through the doors into the massive shop floor where the mills and fabric were stored. Reaching over to a breaker switch on the wall, he flipped it on. The interior of the massive room lit up. Gibb looked over at Hickman. The man was scanning the various machines.
“This is the final stage shaver and vacuum unit,” he said, pointing to a machine that looked like a large version of the broiler unit used at Burger King. “The material is fed in on the belt, it’s treated, and then it comes out here on these series of rollers.”
The metal frame that contained the rollers was waist high and went to an area for packing, then it stretched in a half circle to end near the loading dock. Bolts of cloths could be pushed along until they were boxed or wrapped, and then taken along to the trucks for shipment.
Hickman’s eyes were scanning the area nearby. “Are those the prayer rugs for Saudi Arabia?” he asked, staring at three large metal shipping containers near the milling machine and next to the door to the docks. “Can I see them?”
“Yes, sir,” Gibb said, unlocking each of the containers and swinging the doors open, “and they are overdue to be delivered.”
Hickman peeked inside. Each of the metal containers was as large as a semitrailer. They were designed to be loaded aboard a 747 cargo plane. The rugs were hanging from vises on the ceiling of the containers and stretched forward as far as the eye could see. Each container held thousands.
“Why aren’t they stacked?” Hickman asked.
