Sacred Stone

Dwyer stared through the thick glass viewing window at the sample, which was clamped in a vise on a workbench inside the tightly sealed room. Dwyer had placed a diamond-tipped portable air-powered saw into the entry port earlier, then moved it over to the bench by reaching through the wall with his arms inside the thick Kevlar gloves. The saw was now sitting in the pincer arms of a robotic device that Dwyer could control with a joystick.

“I’m going to use the saw,” Dwyer said, “stand by.”

The technician slid into a chair behind a large control panel. The wall in front of him, including the area around the small windows that looked into the sealed area, was covered with gauges and dials.

“We’re negative,” the technician noted.

Dwyer carefully moved the joystick and started the saw spinning. Then he slowly lowered it down to the sample. The saw started smoking, then ground to a halt.

It would not be until noon tomorrow that it could be repaired.

TINY GUNDERSON THROTTLED the Gulfstream down and entered the pattern at Heathrow. He and Pilston had taken turns sleeping on the flight from Las Vegas. Truitt had napped in the rear and was now awake and drinking his second pot of coffee.

“Fill up?” he asked through the door of the cockpit.

“I’m okay,” Gunderson said. “How about you, Tracy?”

Pilston was talking to the tower on the radio but she motioned no with her hand.

“Hanley arranged a hotel near the airport for you two,” Truitt said. “I’m taking a cab into the city.”

Gunderson made his turn to final approach. “We’ll fuel up, then stand by at the hotel,” he said.

“Sounds like a plan,” Truitt said.

Something had been bothering Truitt for the entire flight and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He had been trying to remember the interior of Hickman’s office for hours but, try as he might, the picture was not clear. Sitting back in his seat, he buckled the seat belt and waited for the Gulfstream to set down.

Ten minutes later he was inside a cab heading through the deserted streets for the Savoy. The cab was driving past Paddington Station when it hit him.

OVERHOLT WAS PLANNING to sleep in his office on the couch. Win, place or show, something would be happening in the next forty-eight hours. It was almost ten at night when the president called again.

“Your boys screwed up,” the president said. “There was nothing on the train.”

“Impossible,” Overholt said. “I’ve worked with the Corporation for years—they don’t make mistakes. The meteorite was on the train—it must have been moved again.”

“Well,” the president said, “now it’s loose somewhere in England.”

“Cabrillo is in London right now,” Overholt said, “working on the missing nuke.”

“Langston,” the president said, “you’d better get control of this situation, and soon, or you’d better start figuring if you can make it on your retirement pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Overholt said as the phone went dead.

“WE HAVE THE meteorite headed south on the road just south of Birmingham,” a weary Hanley said to Overholt’s question. “We’ll be off shore of London tomorrow morning and then we can off-load our operatives and track it down.”

“We’d better,” Overholt replied. “My ass is in the wind here. What’s the status on the bomb recovery?”

“Cabrillo and his team plan to pinpoint the location tomorrow and then call MI5,” Hanley said.

“I’m sleeping here in my office tonight,” Overholt said. “Call me if anything changes.”

“You have my word,” Hanley said.

DICK TRUITT GOT his key from the desk, then tipped the doorman to place his bag in his room. He walked down the hall to Cabrillo’s suite and knocked on the door softly. Meadows answered.

“Easy money,” Meadows said when he saw who it was. He stood aside to allow Truitt to enter. Truitt walked into the suite. Half-eaten plates of food sat around a table along with open files and notes.

“Morning, boss,” he said to Cabrillo.

Then he walked over to the telephone and called room service for a club sandwich and a Coca-Cola. Returning to the table, he slid into a chair.

“Halpert learned the identity of the soldier in the photographs you swiped,” Cabrillo said, “but how he’s tied to Hickman we’ve yet to determine.”

“He’s his son,” Truitt said simply.

“Well, hell,” Seng blurted, “that explains a lot.”

38

“HE HAS TO be,” Truitt said. “When I was in Hickman’s office I saw something that registered in my mind as odd but I didn’t have time to investigate it before he returned to the penthouse. On a shelf near his desk there was a set of bronze baby shoes.”

“That’s odd,” Cabrillo said. “Hickman has no known offspring.”

“Yes,” Truitt said, “but wrapped around them was a set of dog tags.”

“Did you have a chance to read the tags?” Seng, a former marine, asked.

“Nope, but I bet someone from the Las Vegas police could. The thing is, why would he have another man’s dog tags?”

“Unless they were from someone close,” Meadows said, “and that person was dead.”