Sacred Stone

“And the bugs on the meteorite?” Cabrillo asked.

“They show that it is still in the general area at the moment.”

“So if Hickman does something to disturb the integrity of the orb, we could have a worse situation than from the nuke,” Cabrillo said.

“Stone checked with some sources and discovered there’s no machine in a standard textile mill that’s strong enough to crush or grind iridium,” Hanley said. “If that is Hickman’s plan, he must have some way to achieve that goal at, or nearby, the mill.”

Cabrillo was silent for a second.

“Halpert is going to need some help,” Cabrillo said. “I’m leaving Seng and Meadows here—they’ve been coordinating with MI5 on the operation and they can handle the mop-up and cover-up of our involvement.”

Hanley was writing notes on a pad. “Got it,” he said. “What about the rest of you?”

“Call Adams and have the Robinson at the heliport across the river in half an hour,” Cabrillo ordered, “and tell Halpert we’re coming.”

“Consider it done,” Hanley said as the telephone went dead.

“THE CORPORATION STOPPED the bomb, Mr. President,” Overholt reported. “It’s in the hands of British intelligence.”

“Good job,” the president said heartily, “offer them my heartfelt congratulations.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” Overholt said, “but there is another problem you need to be aware of.”

“What’s that?” the president asked.

Overholt explained about the tests done with the meteorite samples.

“That’s not good,” the president said. “It could be easily argued the meteorite got in the wrong hands as a result of a CIA screwup.”

“I need you to do me a favor then,” Overholt said. “We need to take the mother of Hickman’s son secretly into custody—no warrants, no lawyers.”

“Suspend her rights under the Patriot Act?” the president asked.

“That’s it, sir,” Overholt said.

The president thought for a moment. As much as he wanted this over, snatching U.S. citizens from their homes or businesses without explanation always smacked of dictatorship to him. The president only used the power when the threat was great.

“Go ahead, then,” he said at last, “but make the snatch smoothly.”

“Trust me, sir,” Overholt said, “no one will know she’s gone.”

SIX MEN FROM the CIA’s Directorate of Operations surrounded Michelle Hunt’s Beverly Hills home later that same afternoon. As soon as she returned from the gallery after work they grabbed her as she pulled into her garage. By 7 P.M. that same evening she had been taken to Santa Monica Airport and loaded on a government jet bound for London. The plane was just crossing the Colorado River above Arizona when one of the CIA men started to explain the situation. When he finished she spoke.

“So what—I’m bait?” she asked sweetly.

“We’re not sure yet,” the CIA man admitted.

Michelle Hunt nodded her head and smiled. “You don’t know my son’s father,” she said. “To him, people are like properties to be used and disposed of as need be—threatening me will do you no good.”

“Do you have a better idea?” the CIA man asked.

Michelle Hunt thought about the question.

STEALING THREE TRUCKS on New Year’s Eve had been an easy operation. The trucking district outside London had been nearly deserted. A single freight yard that serviced the cargo carriers had been open, and it was manned by a crew of one. The remaining team from the Free Enterprise had merely waltzed in, tied up the attendant and taken the keys they needed. No one would check on the man until morning.

By then the cargo would be moved and the trucks discarded.

SCOTT THOMPSON, THE leader of the Free Enterprise crew, had showed a steely resolve up to now. He remained defiant until the orderly on the guided-missile frigate strapped him to a table and made sure his arms were secure.

“I demand to know what’s happening,” Thompson said as dots of sweat began breaking out on his forehead.

The orderly simply smiled. Then the door opened and Dr. Berg walked into the sick bay. He was clutching a valise. He walked over to the sink and began to wash his hands. Thompson strained to see the man but he was tightly bound and could barely move his neck. The sound of the running water was like a knife to Thompson’s heart.

THE THREE TRUCKS pulled into the parking lot of Maidenhead Mills and then drove around to the rear of the buildings, where the loading docks were located. Backing up to the bay doors, the men shut off the engines and climbed out.

Halpert and Hornsby were assigned to the rear of the building, with Barrett and Reyes watching the front. Other than a Rolls-Royce and a Daimler sedan in the parking lot near the front door, the mill appeared deserted. Halpert waited until the men went inside the mill and then whispered into his radio.

“We’re moving closer,” he said, “to see what we can see.”

“We’ll move on the front,” Reyes replied.

INSIDE THE MILL, Roger Lassiter was sitting in the front office, staring at Hickman. “Of course, because of the holiday I couldn’t verify the funds being transferred.”

“You knew that when you took the job,” Hickman said. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

The box containing the meteorite was sitting on the desk between the two men.