Sacred Stone

“Look at this,” Halpert said, handing Hanley a file.

“Hunt was killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan,” Hanley said after he had finished reading.

“Right after that, Hickman started exhibiting strange behavior,” Halpert said, reading from his notes.

“So he blames the Arab world for the death of his only son,” Hanley said.

“So how did he come to fund the expedition to Greenland?” Stone asked.

“Apparently, since the death of his son, Hickman has funded numerous archaeological departments across the country. Ackerman’s expedition for UNLV was one of several slated for the year. The primary one was an expedition to Saudi Arabia by a scholar who is trying to discredit the legend of Muhammad as a myth. Ackerman’s was outside that realm but he received funds anyway. I think that the recovery of the meteorite was just a stroke of luck.”

“So Hickman decided at first to use history to attack the Arab world,” Hanley said slowly, “then, as if from the gods themselves, the meteorite drops in his lap.”

“But that has nothing to do with Islam or Muhammad,” Stone noted.

Halpert nodded. “At that point I think Hickman decided more direct retribution was needed. I found records he pulled up on his computer dated right after Ackerman’s finding. They explain the radioactive nature of iridium and the dangers it poses.”

“So he decides to grab the meteorite and then what,” Hanley said slowly, “combine it with an existing warhead and bomb some Arab country?”

“That’s what has taken me so long,” Halpert admitted. “At first I was following that same train of thought—that the meteorite was to be used somehow in a nuclear fashion. That was a dead end—there is simply nothing to tie him to the Ukrainian nuclear device or any other—so I started to branch out in my thinking.”

“Radioactive dust?” Hanley asked.

“That’s the only other logical use,” Halpert said.

“What else have you found?”

“I found records that Hickman just purchased a textile mill in England, near the town of Maidenhead.”

“That’s right about the current location of the meteorite according to the tracking data,” Stone said.

“He’s planning to sprinkle it onto clothes and send them to the Middle East?” Hanley asked.

“I don’t think so, sir,” Halpert said slowly. “The mill has a large order from Saudi Arabia for a shipment of woven prayer mats that has yet to be delivered.”

“So he’s planning to sprinkle the dust on the prayer rugs and infect the Muslims while they pray,” Hanley said. “Diabolically evil.”

“He arrived in London on his jet early this morning,” Halpert said. “I think—”

Right then Hanley’s telephone rang and he motioned to Halpert to wait while he answered. It was Overholt and he got right to the point.

“We have a problem,” Overholt began.

“NO,” THE HEAD of security for Dreamworld said, “I’m calling from my home phone. I don’t think it’s tapped.”

Continuing, he explained about the warrant and the items the detectives had removed.

Hickman listened.

“Where are you now, sir?” the head of security asked. “They would really like to speak to you.”

“It’s better that you don’t know,” Hickman said.

“Is there anything you want us to do?”

“Right now,” Hickman said, “there’s nothing anyone can do but me.”

Disconnecting, Hickman sat back in the chair in the office at Maidenhead Mills.

Someone in the government was hard on his trail. It would not be long until they traced him to his current location. Reaching for the telephone, he dialed.

THE CREWMEN FROM the Free Enterprise that had remained in Calais when the vessel sailed north had arrived in London this morning. There were four men, a skeleton crew really, but they were all Hickman had left. He telephoned them with their orders.

“You will need to steal a trio of trucks,” Hickman said. “Nothing will be available to rent because of the holiday.”

“What type?” their leader asked.

“The cargo are standard forty-foot shipping containers that slide aboard flatbed trailers,” Hickman said. “I called my man at Global Air Cargo and he recommended a few different types of trucks.”

Hickman read off the list to the man.

“Once we have them, where do we go?”

“Look at your map,” Hickman ordered. “There is a town named Maidenhead just north of Windsor.”

“I see it,” the man said.

“Once you’re in Maidenhead, drive to this address,” Hickman said, reading off the mill’s address and general directions.

“How soon do you need us?” the man asked.

“ASAP,” Hickman said. “I have a Global Air Cargo 747 jet waiting at Heathrow for the cargo.”

“How’d you arrange that on New Year’s Eve?” the man blurted.

“I own the company.”

“Give us at least an hour,” the man said.

“The faster the better.”

The noose was closing, but Hickman had yet to feel it tightening around his neck.

JUDY MICHAELS TAXIED the amphibian alongside the Oregon, then turned off the engine and walked back to the cargo door. Waiting for the plane to float forward on the tide, she waited until she saw someone on the deck then tossed up a rope. The deckhand secured the plane to the side and Cliff Hornsby climbed down the ladder.