Sacred Stone

“Damn,” the author said, “I blew the motherboard in this sonar and I need to get it fixed before the weather clears and we can go out again. The repairman was supposed to be here an hour ago. He must be lost or something.”

“How long have you guys been docked here?” Meadows asked.

“Four days now,” the author said. “Another couple more and I’ll need to spring for new livers for my team—they’ve been sampling the local flavor. That is, except for one guy—he swore it off years ago and now he’s hooked on coffee and pastries. The question is, where do I find these guys? These expeditions are like a floating insane asylum.”

“Oh, yeah,” Meadows said, “you like to do underwater archaeology.”

“Don’t say ‘archaeology’ on this vessel,” the author joked. “Archaeologists are on the same plane as necrophilia on this boat. We’re adventurers.”

“Sorry,” Meadows said, smiling. “Hey, we’re looking into a theft on these docks a couple of nights ago. Did you guys lose anything?”

“You’re an American,” the author said. “Why would you be investigating a robbery in England?”

“Would you believe national security?”

“Oh, sure,” the author said. “Where were you when I was still writing? I had to make everything up.”

“Seriously,” Meadows said.

The author considered this for a moment. Finally he answered. “No, we didn’t lose anything. This boat has more cameras on it than a Cindy Crawford swimsuit shoot. Underwater, above water, down in the cabins on the instruments, hell, probably in the head for all I know. I rented it from a film crew.”

Meadows looked astonished. “Did you tell the Brits that?”

“They didn’t ask,” the author said. “They seemed a lot more interested in explaining to me that I hadn’t seen anything—which I hadn’t.”

“So you didn’t see anything?”

“Not if it was late at night,” the author said. “I’m over seventy years old—if it’s past ten at night, there had better be a fire or a naked girl if you want to wake me.”

“But the cameras?” Meadows asked.

“They run all the time,” the author said. “We’re making a television show about the search—tapes are cheap, good footage is precious.”

“Would you mind showing them to me?” Meadows asked.

“Only,” the author said, walking toward the door leading into the cabin, “if you say ‘pretty please.’”

Twenty minutes later, Meadows had what he had come for.

32

NEBILE LABABITI GLANCED at the nuclear bomb sitting on the wood floor of the apartment just off the Strand with excitement tempered by apprehension. It was an inert object—mainly machined metal and a few copper wires—but it elicited a feeling of awe and danger. The bomb was more than just an object—it had a life. Like a painting or sculpture infused with the life force of its creator, the bomb was not simply a hunk of metal. It was the answer to his people’s prayers.

They would strike directly at the heart of the British.

The hated British that had stolen artifacts from the pyramids, oppressed the citizens of the Middle East, and fought alongside the Americans in battles they had no place mounting. Lababiti was smack-dab in the center of the lion’s den. Downtown London was all around him. The City, where the bankers that funded the oppression resided; the art galleries, museums, and theatre districts of downtown were nearby. Number 10 Downing Street, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace.

The palace. Home to the queen, the ancient symbol of all he despised. The pomp and circumstance, the righteousness and ceremony. Soon it would all burn with the fires from the sword of Islam—and when it was over, the world would never be the same. The heart would be cut from the beast. The hallowed ground seeping with history would become a barren wasteland where the human soul would find no purchase.

Lababiti lit a cigarette.

It wouldn’t be long now. Sometime today the young Yemeni warrior who had agreed to deliver the payload to the target would arrive in the city. Lababiti would wine and dine the boy. Supply whores and hashish and tasty treats. He could do no less for a man willing to commit to the cause with his life.

Once the boy was acclimated and knew the route, Lababiti would make a hasty retreat.

The key to leadership, he thought, was not to die for your country—it was to make the other man die for his. And Nebile Lababiti had no designs on becoming a martyr himself. By the time the bomb exploded, he’d be safely across the English Channel in Paris.

He only wondered why he had not heard from Al-Khalifa.

“I DON’T KNOW how we missed it,” Rodgers said.

“No matter,” Meadows said, “now you have a plate number on the truck. Track it down and the bomb will be close.”

“Can I have the tape?” Rodgers asked.

Meadows didn’t disclose that he’d had the author make two copies and that one of them was safely inside the borrowed Range Rover. “Sure,” he said.

“I think we can take it from here,” Rodgers said, reasserting his authority. “I’ll make sure and have my boss notify the head of American intelligence to praise you for your contribution.”