Sacred Stone

“How much time do we have?” Kasim asked.

“We think they will strike tomorrow at the stroke of midnight,” Hanley said.

“New Year’s Eve,” Murphy said, “those grandstanding bastards. Any idea where?”

“There’s a celebration and concert in a park right near Buckingham Palace,” Hanley said. “Elton John will be performing.”

“Now I’m really pissed,” Murphy said. “I love that guy’s music.”

“All right, everyone,” Hanley said, “I want you to all make your way to your cabins and get some sleep. Most of you are going into London tomorrow to work the operation. We’re going to meet here in the conference room at seven a.m. for assignments, and as soon as we near London, you’ll be off-loaded and sent into the city. Are there any more questions?”

“Just one,” Huxley said. “Does anyone know how to defuse a nuclear bomb?”

37

“LEAVE IT IN front,” Seng ordered as they pulled in front of the Savoy and climbed out. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the valet. “And do not block it in.”

Cabrillo walked inside and headed to the check-in desk.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked.

“My name’s Cabrillo,” he said, “my company made a reservation.”

The clerk entered the name, then stared at the note the general manager had written. The note was succinct: Extremely valued repeat customer—unlimited credit verified—Bank of Vanuatu—four river-view suites tonight—additional rooms as needed.

The clerk reached for the keys, then snapped his finger and a porter trotted over. At the same time Meadows and Seng entered the lobby.

“I see you have no luggage, Mr. Cabrillo,” the clerk noted. “Will you need us to arrange shopping?”

“Yes,” Cabrillo said, reaching for a slip of paper and a pen. He began jotting down notes. “Call Harrods tomorrow morning. There is a Mr. Mark Andersen in men’s clothing—ask him to deliver these items. He already has my sizes.”

Meadows and Seng walked over to the desk carrying a pair of bags each. Cabrillo handed each of the men a key. “Do you need anything from Harrods?” he asked.

“No,” both men replied.

The porter reached for Seng’s and Meadows’s bags but Seng raised his hand and stopped him. “You’d better let us take care of those,” he said, slipping the man a twenty-pound note. “Just follow us up and take the cart back.”

The bags were loaded with weapons, communication devices and enough C-6 to level the hotel to rubble. The unknowing porter nodded, pushed the cart closer and waited to follow the men up to the suite.

“What are you men hungry for?” Cabrillo asked as Seng and Meadows placed the bags on the cart.

“I could do breakfast,” Meadows said.

“Send three full English breakfasts to my suite,” Cabrillo said, holding up his key to the clerk, “in forty-five minutes.”

“Let’s shower and clean up,” Cabrillo said to his men, “and meet in my suite at one-thirty.”

Then, followed by the porter, they pushed the baggage cart toward the elevator and rode up to their rooms. At the door to Cabrillo’s suite, he unlocked the door and stopped.

“Wait here, please,” he said. “I want these clothes taken down to the laundry and cleaned and pressed.”

He walked inside, undressed, slid into one of the robes in the closet and returned to the door with a pile of the clothing he had been wearing. Handing them to the porter in a plastic laundry bag along with a hundred-dollar bill, he smiled. “Get these back to me as soon as possible.”

“Will you need your shoes shined?” the porter inquired.

“No, thank you,” Cabrillo said, “they will be fine.”

As soon as the porter left, Cabrillo climbed into the shower and scrubbed himself clean. When finished, he dressed again in the robe and walked back to the front door and opened it. A basket of toiletries had been left, and he took this inside the bathroom and shaved, splashed his cheeks with expensive aftershave then brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Then he walked back into the suite and dialed the control room on the Oregon.

AT THE SAME time Cabrillo was finishing his grooming, it was just past 8 P.M. Washington time. Thomas “TD” Dwyer had spent the last few days working double shifts inside the infectious agents laboratory at Fort Detrick, Maryland, which was located in the mountains north of Washington, D.C., near Frederick. Dwyer was exhausted and almost ready to call it quits for the night. So far he had subjected the samples from Arizona to ultraviolet light, acids, combinations of gases, and radiation.

And nothing had happened.

“Ready to wrap it up for the night?” the army technician asked.

“Let me just cut off a sample for tomorrow,” Dwyer said, “then we can start again at eight a.m.”

“Do you want me to warm up the laser?” the technician asked.