Cabrillo would not be so lucky.
EARLY THE MORNING of January 1, Saud Al-Sheik was awakened by the chirping of the computer in his home office, indicating an e-mail had arrived. The mill in England was reporting that the prayer rugs he had been waiting for had cleared customs and were documented in Paris. They were now en route to Riyadh via 747.
Once at the air cargo terminal in Riyadh, they needed to be trucked across Saudi Arabia to Mecca. There the containers would be opened, and the rugs would be sprayed with pesticide, then left to air out for a day or so before being placed in the stadium.
Al-Sheik stared at the clipboard on his desk. With the exact date the rugs would appear an unknown, he had scheduled all his trucks for other duties. The earliest he could truck the rugs was January 7. He'd arrange it so they were sprayed on the eighth, left to air out for a few hours, and then moved into place on the ninth.
That still gave him twenty-four hours before the official start of the hajj. Al-Sheik was cutting it close, but what choice did he have? He had a million details to cover and only so much time to do the impossible.
It would all come together, he thought as he rose to leave the office and climb back into bed—it always did somehow. Inshallab—God willing. Lying in bed, Al-Sheik's brain bubbled with a thousand details. Deciding further sleep would not be forthcoming, he rose and walked into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
THE CHALLENGER 604 was over the Mediterranean when the pilot opened the cockpit door and shouted to the rear.
"Mr. Chairman," he said, "Saudi is refusing us entrance until we have the proper documents. We have to decide what to do now."
Cabrillo thought about it for a few moments. "Divert to Qatar," he said. "I'll call the emir's representative in a couple of minutes. Don't worry, he'll honor our request."
"Qatar it is," the pilot said, closing the door again.
IT WAS SUNRISE when Hickman's Hawker crossed over the Red Sea into Saudi Arabia and across the desert to Riyadh. Touching down smoothly, the pilot taxied over to the jet terminal and slowed.
"Keep her fueled and ready," Hickman said.
As soon as the door opened he walked out, down the steps and onto Saudi soil carrying the boxed meteorite.
"So this is the country I will ruin," he whispered as he looked around at the dry hills near the airport, "the heart of Islam."
Spitting on the ground, he smiled an evil smile.
Then he walked to where a limousine was waiting to take him to the hotel.
HICKMAN WAS ALREADY checked in and sleeping before the Challenger raced up the Indian Ocean, turned and crossed atop the Strait of Hormuz into the Persian Gulf en route to Qatar. The emir had come through with flying colors. His representative had smoothed out entry into the country and a suite of hotel rooms was awaiting Cabrillo and his team. It was arranged that Cabrillo would meet with the emir himself at noon today. First Cabrillo would grab a few hours' sleep. Then he'd explain the problem in person.
The pilot opened the door again and shouted back, "The tower has cleared us, sir."
Cabrillo stared out the window at the azure waters of the gulf. Dhows, the strangely shaped boats that carried fisherman and cargo across the water, bobbed peacefully. In the distance to the north, Cabrillo could make out the long expanse of an oil tanker heading south. The wake trail from the tanker's massive propellers trailed back for miles.
Cabrillo heard the engines on the Challenger start to slow.
Then they began to descend for landing.
Chapter 46
TWELVE HINDUS WERE clustered into a cheap apartment in an aging building in downtown Riyadh. They had arrived in Saudi Arabia a week prior using work visas listing their occupations as laborers. Once through customs and immigration they had disappeared, never meeting with the employment agency that had arranged their entry.
One by one they had made their way to the apartment that Hickman had had stocked with food, water and supplies enough to last for several weeks. Never venturing out or communicating with anyone, they were to lie in wait until contacted.
The twelve men would be the only forces that Hickman would use in Saudi Arabia for the plan he was about to initiate. What Hickman had in mind was simple on the surface, considerably more complex in application. He and the twelve Hindus were first planning to make their way to Mecca. Once there, Hickman was planning to steal the most sacred artifact to Islam, the meteorite inside the Kaaba that had allegedly been discovered by Abraham, and switch it with the one from Greenland.
Then he would take Abraham's meteorite elsewhere to destroy. Hickman was planning to stab Islam in her heart.
IN HIS HOTEL room in Riyadh, Hickman stared at his notes.
Mecca is the center of Islam. The city was the birthplace of Muhammad and the religion he founded. Located forty-five miles from the Red Sea on a dusty plain studded with hills and mountains, the city was once an oasis on a trade route that linked the countries along the Mediterranean with Arabia, Africa and Asia. There, according to legend, some two thousand years before the time of Jesus Christ, God ordered Abraham to build a shrine. Over the centuries the shrine was destroyed and rebuilt numerous times. In 630 the prophet Muhammad took control of Mecca and rid the structure of all false idols. All that Muhammad left was the Kaaba and the sacred stone housed inside. He made this the centerpiece of his new religion.
Over the centuries that followed, the area housing the stone was ringed by a series of walls and larger, increasingly more elaborate structures. The last major rebuilding, in the twentieth century, was funded by the Saudi royal family. This construction resulted in the surrounding mosque, al-Haram, the largest on Earth.
In the center of the mosque lies the Kaaba, a small structure draped in a black silk covering that is embroidered with passages from the Koran in gold thread. The silk covering is changed yearly, and once each year in a show of humility the floor around is swept by the king of Saudi Arabia.
Pilgrims come to kiss the sacred stone and drink from the spring of Zamzam nearby.
In less than a week, over a million people would pass alongside the Kaaba.
For now, however, it was closed in preparation.
Hickman turned on the computer in his hotel suite and logged on to a mainframe at one of his aerospace companies in Brazil. He had stored his most important files there. Downloading the pictures and documents, he scanned through them.
He stared at an aerial photograph of the mosque at Mecca.
The al-Haram, also known as the Great Mosque, is a massive structure. Huge walls and arches made of stone ring the area and are tiered to additional levels with the same curved arches. The walls are ringed by seven minarets that soar into the air for hundreds of feet. A total of sixty-four gates allow the pilgrims entrance; the entire area has a floor space of nearly 200,000 square feet.
The mosque dwarfs the Kaaba, which is only some sixty feet by sixty feet in dimension.
All Hickman and his team had to do was get inside the curtain surrounding the Kaaba, remove the sacred stone, which was mounted in a silver frame in a wall in the southeast corner of the structure some four feet off the ground, and replace it with the one from Greenland. Then they had to try to make their escape.
All in all it seemed fairly impossible.
HIS ROOM PHONE rang. The front desk clerk was alerting him to an overnight package that was waiting for him at the front desk. Hickman asked that a bellman bring it up to him. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Hickman opened the door, slipped the bellman a tip and took the package.
THE OREGON SLOWED in the water off France.
"I've got her on radar," Stone said to Hanley.
Hanley nodded and watched the exterior cameras as the amphibious plane appeared out of the gloom. Slowing, the plane dropped down and landed in the water and taxied toward the ship. Hanley watched as the deckhands secured it to the side and the team aboard climbed off. Then he reached for the radio.
&n
bsp; "Ms. Michaels," he called out to the pilot.
"Yes, sir."
"The ship is bound for the Red Sea. How much sleep have you had recently?"
"Not much," Michaels admitted.
"Make land at Spain and find a hotel room," Hanley said. "After you're fully rested, start making your way south. I'd take up refuge at an airport in southern Italy for now—you should be close enough there that we can call you if we need you."
The amphibian had proved a useful tool, but it was just too large to take aboard the ship.
"Very good, sir," Michaels said.
"One of the men is coming out to you with two stacks of hundred-dollar bills," Hanley said, "ten thousand dollars in total. Can you safely fly alone or do you want someone to go with you?"
"No, sir," Michaels said, "I'll be fine."
"If you need more funds, just call," Hanley said. "We can wire to you wherever you move. Now get some rest, but keep the plane fueled and ready to go at all times."
"Yes, sir."
"And Michaels," Hanley said, "you did a hell of a job. I know this was your first pilot-in-command mission and I want you to know the Corporation couldn't be happier."
"Sir," Stone said, "we have Adams inbound in the Robinson."
Michaels poked her head at the side door of the plane and glanced up at where she knew a remote camera was mounted. She gave Hanley a thumbs-up, then climbed back inside and secured the door. Walking back to the cockpit, she started the engines then keyed the microphone.
"I hear Adams on the radio," she said, "so I'll clear out now."
The lines were taken back aboard the Oregon and Michaels idled away from the ship. Once clear, she hit the gas, took the amphibian up to speed and lifted off. Making a slight arc to the left, she headed toward Spain.
"Let's get Adams safely aboard," Hanley said, "and get back up to speed."
Two minutes later the Robinson appeared over the fantail and dropped onto the pad.
As soon as the helicopter was secured to the deck, Hanley ordered full speed again.
CABRILLO SLEPT LIKE a rock until 11 a.m., when the hotel front desk telephoned to wake him. Cabrillo ordered breakfast, then telephoned Jones's room.
"I'm awake, sir," Jones said.
"Shower, change and meet me in my suite for breakfast," Cabrillo said.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Jones said.
Cabrillo had already showered, and he was shaving when the room service waiter knocked on the door. Dressed in his robe, he answered the door and motioned for where the waiter should place the cart. Walking over to his wallet on the dresser, he removed a bill and attempted to hand it to the man.
"Sorry, sir," the waiter said, "the emir has taken care of everything."
The waiter disappeared out the door before Cabrillo could argue. He finished shaving and dressed in clean clothes. He was adjusting the television to watch the news when Jones knocked on the door. Cabrillo let him in and the two men started on breakfast. Jones was halfway through his omelet before he spoke.
"I haven't met the emir, boss," he said. "What's he like?"
"The emir is in his mid-fifties and very progressive in his thinking," Cabrillo said. "He's allowed the United States military to maintain a base here for a few years. In fact, the entire Second Gulf War was based from the airfield here."
"How are his connections with Saudi Arabia?" Jones asked.
"Usually good," Cabrillo said, "but that can change day by day. The Saudis are always running a fine line between appearing pro-Western, which most of the Arab world thinks the emir is of late, and placating the large body of religious fundamentalists in their own population. The line has been stretched almost to the breaking point more than once."
Cabrillo was just finishing his last bite of potatoes when the room phone rang.
"The limo is downstairs," Cabrillo said after he hung up. "Let's go meet him and you can form your own opinion."
Rising from the table, Jones followed Cabrillo out the door.
IN LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, Langston Overholt was reading a report from MI5 about the nuclear warhead the Corporation had disabled. Britain was now secure, but the meteorite had still not been recovered. Michelle Hunt had been transported to England, but, as yet, Overholt was not sure how they would use her.
Hanley had reported in an hour ago and updated Overholt on the situation, but a recent flap with the U.S. government over support to Israel had made the Saudis increasingly difficult to deal with. Overholt had called his counterpart at the Saudi secret police to report the theory about the poisoned prayer rugs but had yet to receive a reply.
He was beginning to think he might need to call the president to intercede.
The thing that puzzled Overholt most of all was that when the Corporation had searched Maidenhead Mill they found no trace of the meteorite or any residue that it might have been processed like they originally theorized.
Just then the telephone rang.
"I have the satellite data you ordered, sir," an officer from the National Security Agency said. "I'll send it over now."
"Do that," Overholt said, "but tell me over the telephone where the Hawker went."
"Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, sir," the man said. "Arrived early this morning and remains there. We have a shot of the plane on the runway and the aerial tracks—that's what I'm sending."
"Thanks," Overholt said and hung up.
Sitting back in his chair, Overholt reached in his desk drawer and removed a tennis ball. He began to bounce it against the wall. After a few minutes he began to nod.
Then he reached over and dialed a number.
"Research," a voice answered.
"I need a quick overview on the Islamic faith and in particular sacred sites in Mecca." Overholt had remembered something about a meteorite and Islam from a history class taken years before.
"How detailed and how soon?" the voice asked.
"Brief and within the hour," Overholt said, "and find me an Islamic scholar inside the Agency and send him to my office."
"Yes, sir."
While Overholt was waiting, he bounced the ball against the wall over and over. He was trying to think like a parent with the ghost of a dead son clawing at his brain. How far would he go to revenge the death? How could he strike at the heart of the beast itself?
THE EMIR'S PALACE, sitting on a hill overlooking the Persian Gulf, was opulent. Surrounded by a high stone wall that housed a courtyard with garages, a large parklike grass area, and several pools, the palace grounds seemed surprisingly friendly—not like the drab and dreary edifices situated throughout much of Britain and Europe.
As the limousine pulled through the gate and headed around the circular drive toward the front doors, several peacocks and a pair of flamingos scattered. Off to one side, a mechanic dressed in a khaki jumpsuit was soaping off a Lamborghini off-road vehicle, while two gardeners were harvesting nuts from a pistachio tree nearby.
The limousine stopped in front of the door, and a man dressed in a Western businessman's suit walked out. "Mr. Cabrillo," he said, "I'm Akmad al-Thani, special assistant to the emir. We've talked before on the telephone."
"Mr. al-Thani," Cabrillo said, taking the man's extended hand and shaking it, "pleasure to finally meet you. This is my associate, Peter Jones."
Jones shook al-Thani's hand and smiled.
"If you men could come this way," al-Thani said, walking toward the door, "the emir is awaiting you in the drawing room."
Cabrillo followed al-Thani with Jones on their heels.
They entered a large foyer with marble floors and a pair of arching staircases on both sides leading to the upper floors. There were several marble statues tastefully arranged around a large polished mahogany table in the center, with a massive floral arrangement on the top. A pair of maids dressed in uniforms bustled about, and in one corner a butler in black coat and tails was motioning at a workman who was adjusting a spotlight that pointed to a painting that looked like a Renoir.
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Al-Thani continued past the foyer through a hallway that led into a large room with an entire wall of glass looking out on the water. The room had to be over eight thousand square feet, with numerous seating areas clustered around tall potted plants. Several plasma televisions were placed around the room, and there was even a grand piano.
The emir was sitting at the piano, and he stopped playing when the men walked in.
"Thank you for coming," he said, rising.
Walking over to Cabrillo, he extended his hand. "Juan," he said, "always good to see you."
"Your Excellency," Cabrillo said, smiling and turning to Jones, "my associate, Peter Jones."
Jones took the emir's extended hand and shook it firmly. "Pleasure," the emir said, motioning to nearby couches. "Let's sit over here."
The four men took their seats, and if by magic a waiter appeared.
"Tea and cakes," the emir said.
The waiter disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
"So what was the end result in Iceland?" the emir asked.
Cabrillo filled him in on the details. The emir nodded.
"If you men hadn't been there and made the switch," the emir said, "who knows where I'd be right now."
"Al-Khalifa is dead now, Your Excellency," Cabrillo said, "so that is one less worry."
"Nonetheless," the emir said, "I want the Corporation to do a full-scale assessment of my security and the threats to my government as soon as possible."
"We would be happy to do that for you," Cabrillo said, "but right now there is a more pressing matter we'd like to discuss."
The emir nodded. "Please, by all means."