"So they are onto the switch?" the man asked.
"They caught your partner entering Edinburgh," Hickman said. "He must have given you up."
The man considered this for a moment. "I doubt that," he said, "at least not this soon. Someone else must be following us."
Hickman didn't tell the man about the break-in at his office. The less the man knew the better. So far he had lost his team on the Free Enterprise as well as one of his men inside Great Britain. Hickman was running out of assets he could use. And he'd need the man in Maidenhead.
"Whatever the case," Hickman said, "I've taken care of the problem. You exit the train in Newcastle upon Tyne and place the package in a locker. Then proceed to the nearest restroom and place the locker key in the farthest toilet tank from the door. I have arranged for someone to pick up the package and take it the rest of the way."
"What should I do then?" the man asked as he stared out the train window. The sign said Bedlington. He was thirty miles from his new stop.
"Make your way to this location in Maidenhead by rental car," Hickman said, reading off an address, "and meet up with the rest of the team coming in from Calais."
"Sounds great," the man said.
"It will be," Hickman agreed.
AT THE SAME time that Adams and Cabrillo were flying toward London, the Oregon was passing through the fifty-five degree latitude, offshore of Newcastle upon Tyne. In his office, Michael Halpert was staring at a stack of documents he'd printed from the files Truitt had sent. Halpert was underlining sentences with a yellow highlighter when one of the computers in his office beeped and the printer started.
Halpert waited until the document was finished, then removed it and read.
The pictures Truitt had stolen had been matched on a U.S. military database. The face belonged to one Christopher Hunt of Beverly Hills, California. Hunt had been a captain in the U.S. Army until he had been killed in Afghanistan. Why did Halifax Hickman have a photograph of a dead soldier in his office? What possible tie could it have to the theft of the meteorite?
Halpert decided to dig deeper before contacting Hanley.
NEBILE LABABITI STARED at the bomb, bathed in the light from a flashlight, with glee. It was sitting on the floor in a ground-floor office/ showroom on the Strand that was located below Lababiti's apartment. The office had been vacant for the last few months, and Lababiti had jimmied the lock last week then changed it so he had the only key. As long as no one wanted to show the office in the next few days, he was home free.
The showroom had an overhead garage door for deliveries. The space was perfect for loading the bomb into a vehicle for the run down to the park. Out of sight, but with a fast exit. It was all coming together, he thought.
Turning off the flashlight, he slipped out the door and walked across the street to a pub near the Savoy Hotel. Then he ordered a pint and dreamed of death and destruction.
Chapter 35
THE DATE WAS December 30, 2005. Bob Meadows and Eddie Seng were on the road to London. The traffic was thick and the roads were slick with rain. Seng adjusted the radio to receive a weather report, then listened as the announcer gave a detailed outlook. The dashboard of the Range Rover glowed in the dim light and the heater was blowing.
Seng clicked the radio off.
"Rain turning to sleet in the next hour," he said. "How do people live here?"
"It's dismal, that's for sure," Meadows said, staring out at the growing darkness, "but the people are surprisingly upbeat."
Seng ignored the comment. "Friday-night traffic," he said, "people must be going into London for the shows or something."
"I'm surprised Mr. Hanley has not called back yet," Meadows said.
After leaving the pub, Meadows had called in to report their findings.
"The Oregon's probably in some rough seas right about now," Seng said as he slid to a slow crawl behind a line of traffic that stretched for miles ahead.
* * *
IT WAS COLD on the North Sea, but not as rough as it could have been. The storm that was advancing from the north was laying down the seas and, other than a ten-degree decrease in temperature in the last hour, those on board the Oregon had noticed little change.
Belowdecks in the Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was actually warm. The last few days he had been working on Al-Khalifa's recovered satellite phone. The unit had been immersed in seawater when his body had been thrown overboard. Since the thermal vents had bloated the body quickly and it had floated to the surface with the phone still in the pocket, the in-sides had not had a chance to corrode much.
Nixon had taken the unit apart and cleaned it thoroughly. But when he reassembled the phone it still did not work. He'd decided to bake the chip boards in a small toaster oven to make sure that all trace of moisture was gone. Removing the parts from the oven carefully with medical forceps, he reassembled the unit then added the freshly charged battery.
The unit lit up and the message icon flashed.
Nixon smiled and reached for the intercom.
HANLEY AND STONE had been working on Seng and Meadows's information. They had managed to hack into the British Motor Vehicles Registry and match a name and address with the motorcycle license plate. Then they ran the information on Nebile Lababiti through a different database and located bank information and his visitor visa information. Stone was cross-checking everything now.
"His rent checks don't match the address he gave passport control," Stone noted. "I ran the name of the building his rent checks are made out to through a mapping program and found the location. He told passport control he lives in the Belgravia section of London. The building he pays rent to is a few miles away, near the Strand."
"I know the Strand," Hanley said. "Last time I was in London I ate at a restaurant on the Strand named Simpson's."
"Any good?" Stone asked.
"It's been in business since 1828," Hanley said. "You don't stay around that long if the food is bad. Roast beef, mutton, good desserts."
"What's the street like," Stone asked, "the Strand itself?"
"Busy," Hanley said, "hotels, restaurants, theaters. Not the perfect place for a covert operation."
"Sounds like an excellent place for a terrorist to strike."
Hanley nodded. "Find me the closest heliport."
"I'm on it," Stone said.
Then the intercom buzzed and Nixon asked Hanley to come down to the Magic Shop.
LABABITI HAD FINISHED two pints of ale and a double shot of peppermint schnapps. He stared at his gold wristwatch then smoked a cigarette. When that was finished he snubbed it out in the ashtray, tossed some pound notes on the bar and walked outside.
The Yemeni who would drive the bomb to the location was due to arrive on the bus from the airport in the next few minutes. Lababiti found the bus stop just up the street, then leaned against the building and smoked another cigarette while he waited.
London was alive with holiday cheer. The shop windows were decorated for the season and people crowded the streets. Most of the hotels were booked solid as people arrived in London for the New Year's Eve celebration. There was an Elton John concert planned for Hyde Park. And at both Green and St. James's Parks near Buckingham Palace, the trees had been adorned with thousands of colored lights. The streets near Hyde Park would be closed, and food courts, temporary pubs and outdoor restrooms would be placed on the streets for the massive party. Fireworks would be launched from barges anchored in the River Thames. And the sky would burn with celebration.
Lababiti smiled with a secret only he knew. He would be supplying the most powerful fireworks, and when it was done the party, and all who attended, would cease to exist. The bus pulled up and Lababiti waited as it unloaded.
The Yemeni was nothing more than a child, and he appeared scared and confused by the unusual surroundings. Stepping timidly off the bus after most of the others at the stop had disembarked, he clutched a cheap suitcase in his hands. He was dressed in a tattered black wool overcoat that
must have been bought used. The thin outline of a mustache that would never have time to fill in adorned his upper lip like the mark left from a glass of chocolate milk.
Lababiti stepped forward. "I'm Nebile."
"Amad," the boy said quietly.
Lababiti steered him down the street toward the apartment.
They had sent a child to do a man's job. But Lababiti didn't care—there was no way he would do it himself.
"Have you eaten?" Lababiti asked when they were away from the crowd.
"I had some figs," Amad said.
"Let's get your bags in my apartment and I'll show you around."
Amad simply nodded. He was visibly trembling, and speech would not come.
HANLEY LISTENED TO Al-Khalifa's messages, then saved them.
"His voice prompt is short," Hanley noted.
"It may be enough," Nixon said.
"Get on it then," Hanley said.
"You got it, boss."
Leaving the Magic Shop, Hanley walked back to the elevator and took it up. He walked along the passageway and entered the control room. Stone pointed to a screen with a map of downtown London being displayed.
"We can put them right there," he said, "Battersea Park."
"How far is it from Belgravia and the Strand?" Hanley asked.
"The heliport is built on pilings on the Thames," Stone said, "between the Chelsea Bridge to the east and the Albert Bridge to the west. If they cross over the Albert Bridge on the Queenstown Road, they're in Belgravia. From there it's only a short drive to the Strand."
"Beautiful," Hanley said.
* * *
MEADOWS REACHED FOR the telephone on the first ring.
"Go to Battersea Park," Hanley said without preamble, "there's a heliport there out in the Thames. Cabrillo will be arriving shortly in the Robinson."
"Have you made arrangements for a hotel?"
"Not yet," Hanley said, "but I'll book several rooms at the Savoy."
"So you located our man?" Meadows asked.
"We think so," Hanley said. "He should be right across the street."
"Perfect," Meadows said, disconnecting.
NEXT HANLEY CALLED Cabrillo to report. After giving him the locator numbers for the heliport, he explained that Meadows and Seng would meet him there.
"George will need to hangar the helicopter at Heathrow," Cabrillo said. "I'm sure they won't let us leave it on the helipad."
"I'll make the arrangements," Hanley said.
"Be sure to book him a hotel as well," Cabrillo said, "he's exhausted."
"I'll put him up right near Heathrow, close to the Robinson."
"What else?" Cabrillo asked.
"Nixon got Al-Khalifa's satellite telephone working."
"Can he match the voice so we can call his contacts?" Cabrillo asked excitedly.
"We'll know soon."
Chapter 36
ROGER LASSITER SAT on a bench outside the restroom in the train station at Newcastle upon Tyne. He had been watching the door and the areas nearby for the last twenty minutes. Nothing seemed amiss. He waited until the man who had just entered had finished and left. Now the facility should be empty. Glancing around one last time, he stood up and walked inside.
Then he made his way down to the far stall and took the lid off the tank.
The locker key was inside, and he quickly removed it and slid it in his pocket. Then he walked from the facility and located the locker. After watching the area for another half hour and finding nothing out of place, he waited until a luggage porter walked past and hailed him.
"I have a rental car in the parking structure," Lassiter said, smiling, with a twenty-pound note in his hand. "If I pull it up to the doors, will you bring out a package I have?"
"Where is it, sir?" the porter asked.
Lassiter handed him the key. "Over there," he said, "in a luggage locker."
The porter took the key. "What kind of rental car should I look for?"
"It's a black Daimler sedan," Lassiter said.
"Very good, sir," the porter said, wheeling his cart toward the locker.
Lassiter walked out of the lobby and crossed the road to the parking structure. If he got in the car, started it, and was allowed to exit the garage, he was home free. If anyone was on to him, they'd make their move by then.
No one came. No one stopped him. No one knew.
After paying the parking fee, Lassiter drove around the loop to the front of the train station. The porter was waiting alongside the curb with the box on his cart. Lassiter pulled alongside, then popped the trunk release inside the glove box.
"Put it in the boot," he said, as he rolled down the passenger window.
The porter lifted the box into the rear of the Daimler and closed the lid. Lassiter placed the sedan into gear and pulled away.
THE CIA'S LIAISON to MI5 sat inside an office at MI5's headquarters in London.
"Your contractors gave us a tape that shows a license number for the van that we believe left with the nuclear device," he said. "We have a team descending on the rental agency as we speak. As soon as we retrieve the information about the renter, we should be able to recover the bomb."
"Excellent," the CIA agent said evenly. "Now, what is the status of our missing meteorite?"
"That should be resolved shortly," the MIS agent said.
"Do you need our help?" the CIA agent asked.
"I think not," the MI5 agent said. "We have the Royal Army and Marines on the job."
The CIA agent rose from his chair. "Then I'll just wait for you to contact me," he said, "after you've made the recovery."
"Once we have it, I'll contact you immediately." As soon as the CIA man left his office, the MI5 agent reached for the telephone.
"How long until we intercept?" he asked.
"The train is five minutes way," a voice said.
IN A WOODED area one mile north of the village of Stockton, the nearest train station to Middlesbrough, it looked as if a war was commencing. A pair of British army Challenger tanks sat on each" side of the railroad tracks. Farther up the tracks to the north, approximately where the end of the train would be after it was stopped, two platoons of Royal Marines in camouflage hid in the woods, waiting to enter the train from the rear door. Farther to the left and right of the tracks, in cleared fields hidden behind the rows of trees that lined the tracks, were a single Harrier jet and an Agustawestland A-129 Mongoose helicopter with a weapons pod attached.
From the distance to the north the sound of the number twenty-seven train grew louder.
The British army colonel in charge of the operation waited until he could see the nose of the locomotive. Then he called the engineer over a radio and ordered him to stop. As soon as the engineer caught sight of the Challengers he slammed on the brakes and the train started sliding to a stop, with sparks flying from the wheels. The Harrier and Agustawestland, which had both been hovering, popped up over the trees and assumed a fire support role at the same time that the Royal Marines slid from the woods and boarded at all the doors.
A methodical search would be made, but they would find nothing.
AT THE SAME time, Roger Lassiter was driving south on the highway leading to London. Passing Stockton, he noticed the commotion in the distance and took the exit to the right toward Windermere. Once he reached the main north-south highway that passed through Lancaster, he would continue on through Birmingham and access southern England. Lassiter lit a cigar and stared out at the rain.
APPROACHING THE THAMES from the air, Adams studied the GPS for his exact location. Cabrillo was glancing out at a park across the river. A huge tent, lit by spotlights, was swarming with workers completing the installation.
"To your left, sir," Adams said over the headset.
The square outline of the heliport pad was lit with flashing lights. Then a car nearby flashed its headlights. Adams lowered the collective and started down.
"Seng and Meadows are here," Cabrillo said. "I'm going to
have them take me to the hotel so we can regroup. Hanley is having someone meet you at the executive air terminal at Heathrow with your hotel key. What else will you need, George?"
"Nothing, sir," Adams said. "I'll refuel and head to the hotel. When you need me, just call."
"Get some sleep," Cabrillo ordered, "you've earned it."
Adams was on his final approach and didn't bother to answer. Dropping down over Battersea Park, he edged forward to the pad and then lightly touched down. Cabrillo opened the door and grabbed his telephone. Ducking down, he crab-walked away from the Robinson. Once he was clear he stood upright. He was nearing the Range Rover when Adams lifted off and flew across the Thames.
Meadows climbed from the passenger seat and opened the rear door for Cabrillo.
"Where are we at?" Cabrillo said as he slid into the rear and closed the door.
"We forwarded what we have to Mr. Hanley," Seng said. "He said you'd fill us in."
Seng steered away from the heliport and out of the park. He stopped at the light and waited to turn onto Queenstown Road to cross the Chelsea Bridge.
Cabrillo began to explain as Seng drove them toward the Savoy.
* * *
THE OREGON WAS racing south. It was almost midnight on December 30 and the ship was scheduled to reach the docks near London at around 9 a.m. local time. The conference room was crowded. Hanley was writing notes on a dry-erase bulletin board. The board was becoming crowded.
"Here's what we know," he said. "We now believe that the theft of the meteorite and the missing Ukrainian nuclear bomb are not related. We believe that Al-Khalifa and his group got wind of the meteorite through an officer that was bribed at the Echelon listening post and then decided to combine it with their existing plan, which we believe is a terrorist strike in the heart of London."