between appearing pro-Western, which most of the Arab world thinks the emir is of late, and placating the large body of religious fundamentalists in their own population. The line has been stretched almost to the breaking point more than once.”
Cabrillo was just finishing his last bite of potatoes when the room phone rang.
“The limo is downstairs,” Cabrillo said after he hung up. “Let’s go meet him and you can form your own opinion.”
Rising from the table, Jones followed Cabrillo out the door.
IN LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, Langston Overholt was reading a report from MI5 about the nuclear warhead the Corporation had disabled. Britain was now secure, but the meteorite had still not been recovered. Michelle Hunt had been transported to England, but, as yet, Overholt was not sure how they would use her.
Hanley had reported in an hour ago and updated Overholt on the situation, but a recent flap with the U.S. government over support to Israel had made the Saudis increasingly difficult to deal with. Overholt had called his counterpart at the Saudi secret police to report the theory about the poisoned prayer rugs but had yet to receive a reply.
He was beginning to think he might need to call the president to intercede.
The thing that puzzled Overholt most of all was that when the Corporation had searched Maidenhead Mill they found no trace of the meteorite or any residue that it might have been processed like they originally theorized.
Just then the telephone rang.
“I have the satellite data you ordered, sir,” an officer from the National Security Agency said. “I’ll send it over now.”
“Do that,” Overholt said, “but tell me over the telephone where the Hawker went.”
“Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, sir,” the man said. “Arrived early this morning and remains there. We have a shot of the plane on the runway and the aerial tracks—that’s what I’m sending.”
“Thanks,” Overholt said and hung up.
Sitting back in his chair, Overholt reached in his desk drawer and removed a tennis ball. He began to bounce it against the wall. After a few minutes he began to nod.
Then he reached over and dialed a number.
“Research,” a voice answered.
“I need a quick overview on the Islamic faith and in particular sacred sites in Mecca.” Overholt had remembered something about a meteorite and Islam from a history class taken years before.
“How detailed and how soon?” the voice asked.
“Brief and within the hour,” Overholt said, “and find me an Islamic scholar inside the Agency and send him to my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Overholt was waiting, he bounced the ball against the wall over and over. He was trying to think like a parent with the ghost of a dead son clawing at his brain. How far would he go to revenge the death? How could he strike at the heart of the beast itself?
THE EMIR’S PALACE, sitting on a hill overlooking the Persian Gulf, was opulent. Surrounded by a high stone wall that housed a courtyard with garages, a large parklike grass area, and several pools, the palace grounds seemed surprisingly friendly—not like the drab and dreary edifices situated throughout much of Britain and Europe.
As the limousine pulled through the gate and headed around the circular drive toward the front doors, several peacocks and a pair of flamingos scattered. Off to one side, a mechanic dressed in a khaki jumpsuit was soaping off a Lamborghini off-road vehicle, while two gardeners were harvesting nuts from a pistachio tree nearby.
The limousine stopped in front of the door, and a man dressed in a Western businessman’s suit walked out. “Mr. Cabrillo,” he said, “I’m Akmad al-Thani, special assistant to the emir. We’ve talked before on the telephone.”
“Mr. al-Thani,” Cabrillo said, taking the man’s extended hand and shaking it, “pleasure to finally meet you. This is my associate, Peter Jones.”
Jones shook al-Thani’s hand and smiled.
“If you men could come this way,” al-Thani said, walking toward the door, “the emir is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
Cabrillo followed al-Thani with Jones on their heels.
They entered a large foyer with marble floors and a pair of arching staircases on both sides leading to the upper floors. There were several marble statues tastefully arranged around a large polished mahogany table in the center, with a massive floral arrangement on the top. A pair of maids dressed in uniforms bustled about, and in one corner a butler in black coat and tails was motioning at a workman who was adjusting a spotlight that pointed to a painting that looked like a Renoir.
Al-Thani continued past the foyer through a hallway that led into a large room with an entire wall of glass looking out on the water. The room had to be over eight thousand square feet, with numerous seating areas clustered around tall potted plants. Several plasma televisions were placed around the room, and there was even a grand piano.
The emir was sitting at the piano, and he stopped playing when the men walked in.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, rising.
Walking over to Cabrillo, he extended his hand. “Juan,” he said, “always good to see you.”
“Your Excellency,” Cabrillo said, smiling and turning to Jones, “my associate, Peter Jones.”
Jones took the emir’s extended hand and shook it firmly. “Pleasure,” the emir said, motioning to nearby couches. “Let’s sit over here.”
