Sacred Stone

The constant struggle between people and agencies was exerting itself. Rodgers must have been briefed by his superiors that whatever might happen, MI5 needed to receive credit for recovering the bomb. Now that he had what he believed would allow them to recover the bomb, he was trying to push the Corporation into the background.

“I understand,” Seng said. “Do you mind if we keep the Rover for a few more days?”

“No, please, help yourself,” Rodgers said.

“And would it be all right if we questioned the owner of the pub,” Meadows asked, “just so we can complete our file and all?”

“We’ve already extensively grilled the man,” Rodgers said, considering the request for a long moment, “so I can’t see how it can hurt.”

Rodgers reached for his cell phone to call in the van’s plate number, then stared at the two Americans with expectation.

“Thank you,” Seng said, motioning to Meadows to walk toward the Range Rover, leaving Rodgers alone.

Rodgers gave a semi-salute and dialed the phone.

Meadows opened the door and climbed behind the wheel as Seng slid into the passenger seat.

“Why’d you give him the tape?” Seng said when the doors were closed.

Meadows pointed to the copy on the floor then started the Range Rover and spun it around in a U-turn.

“Let’s go visit the pub owner,” he said, “and see what else we can find out.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Seng asked a few minutes later as Meadows stopped in front of the bar.

“I don’t know,” Meadows said. “Does it have to do with the motorcycle that was also on the tape?”

“Why don’t I call it in,” Seng said, “while you go inside?”

Meadows climbed out of the Range Rover. “You’ve got a damn good memory,” he said.

Seng held up his palm, where the number was scrawled in ink.

Meadows closed the door and walked to the pub entrance.

THE TREES IN St. James’s and Green Parks near Buckingham Palace were devoid of leaves, and the dormant grass was dusted with a thick frost. Tourists watched the changing of the guards with puffs of steam coming from their mouths. A man on a scooter came down Piccadilly then turned on Grosvenor Place and drove slowly past the lake inside Buckingham Palace Gardens. Continuing on, he rounded the corner onto Buckingham Palace Road to where it met the Birdcage Walk. Pulling to the side of the road alongside the lake inside St. James’s Park, he recorded his travel times and the traffic conditions.

Then he slid the small notebook back into his jacket pocket and puttered away.

CABRILLO POKED HIS head out the side window of the MG. An hour ago, when he had driven past Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland, he had been gaining on the van. Now as the MG labored up the Grampian Mountains the van was pulling ahead once again. Something needed to happen soon. Cabrillo expected to see Adams in the Robinson, the British army or air force, or even a police car any minute. He was sure the Oregon was sending help—he was unarmed in an underpowered chase car.

Surely someone had figured out where he was by now.

ON BOARD THE Oregon, they were working on the problem with limited success.

The ship was still a hundred miles from Kinnaird Head, steaming south at full speed. In a few more hours she’d be off Aberdeen, a few more and she’d cross a point offshore Edinburgh.

“Okay,” Kasim shouted across the control room to Hanley, “Adams reports he has enough fuel loaded on board to make it to the airport in Inverness. Once there, he’ll top off the tanks and head south along the road.”

“How much range will he have then?” Hanley asked.

“Hold on,” Kasim said, repeating the question to Adams.

“Most of England,” Kasim said, “but he won’t be able to make London without refueling.”

“We should have this wrapped up before then,” Hanley said.

“Okay,” Kasim shouted, “Adams said he has the engine going.”

“Tell him to follow the road until he finds Cabrillo.”

Kasim repeated the orders.

“He said the fog is as thick as a winter coat,” Kasim said, “but he’ll fly right above the road.”

“Good,” Hanley said.

Linda Ross walked over to Hanley’s chair. “Boss,” she said, “Stone and I reworked the tracking frequencies on the bugs on the meteorite. We’re getting a more complete signal now.”

“Which monitor?”

Ross pointed to one on the far wall.

The meteorite was almost to Stirling. Soon the driver of the van would need to signal his intentions with a turn. East toward Glasgow, or west toward Edinburgh.

“Get me Overholt,” he said to Stone.

A few seconds later Overholt came on the line.

“I’LL HAVE THE British seal off the roads just outside Glasgow and Edinburgh,” Overholt said, “and search every truck.”

“We’re blessed there’s not that many roads they can pick from,” Hanley said. “They should be able to snag the truck.”

“Let’s hope,” Overholt said. “Now on another note, I got a call from the head of MI5 thanking Meadows and Seng for the work they are doing on the nuclear bomb problem. Apparently Meadows located a videotape that gave them a license-plate number they think will lead them to the bomb.”

“I’m glad,” Hanley said.