"Bob, back away," Jones said. "I'm going to blow the door."
Pulling a round metallic disk from his pocket, Jones removed a piece of paper protecting the high-strength tape, slapped it on the door, and flicked a small switch on the side.
"Sir," he shouted at the door, "back away from the door, we're coming in."
Jones and Meadows moved a short distance down the hall and waited for the charge to explode. As soon as it had gone off, Jones raced over and pushed through the shattered remains of the door. Racing toward the bedroom, he panned the flashlight across the bed. It was empty. Scanning the room with the thin beam of light, he came across the hole cut in the floor. Then he reached for his portable radio and called the Oregon.
"Code Red," he said, "the principal has been taken."
As he waited for a reply, Jones surveyed the bedroom. "Bob, see what's down there."
Meadows climbed through the hole.
"What's happening there?" Hanley asked when he came on the line.
"They grabbed our player," Jones said quickly.
"Now that," Hanley said slowly, "was not part of the plan."
"THIS IS THE bottom of the stairs," Al-Khalifa said to his blindfolded abductee.
Al-Khalifa was still wearing the night-vision goggles, but from what he could see, His Excellency did not seem overly frightened. He was just following along with Al-Khalifa, as if his security forces had taught him not to resist.
"Come this way," Al-Khalifa said, opening the door to the garage and dragging the emir by the arm.
Esky appeared in the goggles at the same moment that Al-Khalifa heard footsteps from above.
"Open the door of the van and remove the motorcycle," he shouted.
Esky raced over to the van, opened the rear door, and slid a ramp down to the pavement. Then he climbed inside the van and pushed the bike down the ramp. The metal ice studs embedded in the motorcycle's tires clicked like locusts on the metal ramp. Al-Khalifa had managed to pull the emir over to the van. He reached inside and removed an AK-47 assault rifle from the van's floor. Holding the emir's shirt with one hand, he swiveled around and pointed the rifle toward the door. He opened fire as soon as Kasim, followed by Lincoln, exited the stairway and came through the door. At the same instant Esky pushed the starter button. The BMW 650 with sidecar roared to life.
* * *
KASIM WAS HIT in the arm by a round but he managed to flop on his stomach and roll under a car. Lincoln escaped injury, and he crouched alongside his partner and withdrew his sidearm. He sighted down the barrel but the emir was in his field of fire.
"Cover my escape," Al-Khalifa said, handing Esky the rifle.
Esky took the AK-47 and started spraying the area near the stairwell with controlled bursts. Al-Khalifa pushed the emir into the sidecar and climbed aboard the motorcycle. Reaching for the clutch lever, he clicked the BMW into gear then goosed the throttle and pulled away from the van. Esky increased his fire.
Al-Khalifa steered to the ramp leading out of the underground facility and started to drive up to ground level.
Lincoln reached for the microphone on his lapel and called the Oregon.
"The principal is aboard a BMW motorcycle," he shouted.
Kasim balanced his handgun in his good arm. Carefully taking aim, he squeezed off a trio of rounds that struck Esky in the groin, heart and throat. He dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and the AK-47 fell to the concrete floor. Lincoln raced across the distance to the van, slid the rifle farther away, and stood guard over the dying man. The sound from the BMW grew faint in the distance.
HITTING THE TOP of the ramp at ground level, the BMW's front wheel pawed at the air. Al-Khalifa threw his weight forward to bring the wheel down and exited the parking structure onto the road in front of the hotel. He turned right, down Steintun Road, and traveled a few blocks to where it intersected with Saebraut before turning east and racing along the harbor. The road led out of town and there was no traffic.
Al-Khalifa stared at the emir in the sidecar—the man seemed strangely unafraid.
* * *
AFTER RACING ACROSS the lobby and bursting through the hotel's front door, Crabtree and Hornsby caught sight of the retreating motorcycle. They raced for their black SUV parked in front of the hotel.
"Okay, everyone," Hanley said over the radio from the Oregon's control room, "our principal is aboard a BMW motorcycle."
Hornsby hit the key to unlock the doors of the SUV and climbed into the driver's seat. Crabtree reached for her radio as she sat down.
"They turned east and are driving along the harbor," she said. "We're giving chase."
AL-KHALIFA TWISTED THE throttle and took the BMW to seventy miles an hour on the snow-covered road. Passing three turnoffs, they crossed over a hill and were out of sight of Reykjavik. Watching the side of the road carefully, he located a trail where he had packed down the snow yesterday with a rented snowmobile. He turned onto the narrow strip of packed snow and drove over another small hill. A fjord with a thin crust of ice extended almost to the base of the hill. Suddenly, civilization seemed far away.
There, on a pad of packed snow, a Kawasaki helicopter was waiting.
HORNSBY SLOWED THE SUV as they passed the first turnoff and glanced at the snow for tracks. Finding none, he stepped on the gas and checked the next. Slowing to check the side roads was killing time, but Hornsby and Crabtree had no other choice.
The BMW motorcycle was nowhere to be seen.
AL-KHALIFA PLACED THE blindfolded emir in the passenger seat of the Kawasaki then locked the door from the outside with a key. He had removed the inside latch from the passenger side and now the emir had no way out. Walking around to the front of the helicopter, he climbed into the pilot's seat and slid the key into the ignition. As he waited while the igniters warmed, he stared over at his prisoner.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
The emir, still blindfolded with mouth taped shut, simply nodded.
"Good," Al-Khalifa said, "then it's time to take a little trip."
Twisting the key, he waited until the turbines had reached proper thrust. Then he pulled up on the collective and lifted the Kawasaki from the snow. Once the helicopter was ten feet off the ground he eased the cyclic forward. The Kawasaki moved forward, passed through ground effect as it rose in the air, then headed out to sea. Keeping the helicopter low over the terrain to blend in with the mountains, Al-Khalifa looked backward toward Reykjavik.
"THE TRACKS END here," Hornsby said, staring down at the snow through the open door of the SUV.
Crabtree was glancing out the side window.
"There," she said, pointing. "There's a packed trail."
Hornsby stared at the thin trail. "The snow's too soft. We'll just get stuck."
After calling the Oregon, who quickly dispatched George Adams in the Corporation's Robinson helicopter, Hornsby and Crabtree started hiking along the packed trail. They found the BMW motorcycle ten minutes later. By the time Adams flew overhead they had figured out what had happened. They called him on the radio.
"We have a blast patch from a rotor blast," Hornsby reported.
"I'll keep an eye out for another chopper," Adams said.
Adams flew as far from Reykjavik as he could before fuel ran low, but he saw no other helicopters. The emir had simply vanished, as if plucked from the earth by a giant hand.
Chapter 14
CABRILLO DROVE THROUGH the darkness with the lights atop the Thiokol cutting a dim path through the sea of white. Five hours and fifty miles north of Kulusuk, he was finally settling into a groove. The sounds from the snowcat, which at first seemed chaotic and indistinctive, were now taking form. He could feel the pulses from the engine, the roar from the treads, and the groaning from the chassis, and he used the noises to gauge his progress. The sound and the vibrations signaled to him when the snowcat was climbing. The squeal from the treads indicated the type of surface he was crossing.
Cabrillo was beco
ming one with the machine.
Twenty minutes earlier, Cabrillo had first steered onto the massive ice cap that covered most of Greenland. Now, by using Campbell's maps and detailed notes, he was guiding the Thiokol through a series of ice-covered valleys. If all continued according to plan, he would reach Mount Forel at about breakfast time in Iceland. Then he'd snatch the meteorite, load it aboard the snowcat, then cruise back to Kulusuk and have the Oregon's helicopter pick him and the orb up. In a few days they'd have their fee and it would all be over and done with. At least that was the plan—in and out and home.
CABRILLO FELT THE front end lighten and jammed the levers in reverse just in time. The Thiokol stopped dead in her tracks then quickly roared backward. Since leaving Kulusuk, the trip had gone smoothly. Still, the unforgiving wilderness rarely allowed such easy passage and, had Cabrillo not stopped and backed up, in a few more seconds he and the Thiokol would have been at the bottom of a wide crevasse in the ice.
Once he had reversed a safe distance away, Cabrillo slipped on his parka and climbed from the cab. Reaching up and adjusting the lights, he walked forward and stared into the abyss. The thick wall of the glacier glowed blue and green in the lights.
Staring across the rift, he estimated the gap at twelve feet. There was no way to estimate how far down the crack went before it narrowed and closed. He tightened the hood of his parka against the howling wind. A few feet more and the snowcat would have tipped into the crevasse and downward until the crack narrowed and it was pinned facedown. Even if Cabrillo had survived the fall, there was a good chance he would have been trapped in the cab with no way out. He would have frozen to death before anyone could have found him, much less mount a rescue.
Shuddering from the realization, Cabrillo walked back and climbed into the cab of the Thiokol and stared at the clock. The time was now 5 a.m., but it was still as dark as it had been all evening. He glanced at the map, then took his divider and measured the distance to Mount Forel. Thirty miles and three hours of travel time left. Reaching for the satellite phone, he dialed Campbell. Surprisingly the phone rang only once.
"Yep," Campbell said in a clear voice.
"I just about ran into a crevasse."
"Give me your GPS numbers," Campbell said.
Cabrillo read them off and waited while Campbell consulted his map in Kulusuk.
"Looks like you took a wrong turn about a mile back," Campbell told him, "and went left instead of right. You're up against Nunuk Glacier. Backtrack and skirt the edge of the glacier. That will take you over a small rise and down into the lowland. From there you could see Forel if it was clear and not pitch-black outside."
"You sure?" Cabrillo asked.
"Positive. I've been up the canyon you're in before—it's a dead end."
"Back about a mile and turn left," Cabrillo reiterated.
"That would be a right turn to you," Campbell said quickly, "you've changed directions."
"Then I follow the edge of the glacier?"
"Yes, but right now, while you're stopped, I want you to climb out and adjust the light on the driver's side sideways. That way, once you reach the edge of the glacier, the light will illuminate the edge. The reflection will look like jade or sapphires—just glance occasionally to the side to check your progress. Once the edge of the glacier recedes you'll crest a ridge and start down again. That will signal that you're free of Nunuk Glacier. Then you'll have a straight shot up the side of Mount Forel. It's steep but the old Thiokol can make it—I've done it before."
"Thanks," Cabrillo said. "Are you going to be able to make it a few hours more if I need you? Keeping it on the straight and narrow?"
"I'm just sipping enough to get by," Campbell said. "I'll be here if you need me."
"Good," Cabrillo said as he shut the telephone off.
Climbing from the cab again, he reached up to the roof of the Thiokol and adjusted the light to the side. Then he climbed back in, shifted into first, and spun the snowcat 180 degrees on her tracks. Driving slowly, he found the edge of the glacier a few yards away and started following along.
Mount Forel was not far away, but in the snow and darkness it was still hidden.
Cabrillo needed to reach the mountain and retrieve her secret. But there was someone else with the same plan—and he didn't follow the same rules for fair play as the Corporation. The two of them were bound to collide.
* * *
THE EMIR FELT the helicopter slow as Al-Khalifa lined the Kawasaki up over the fantail of the Akbar, and then carefully set her down on the landing pad. Once deckhands had chained down the skids and the rotor blade was secured, Al-Khalifa walked around, unlocked the door and dragged him into the main salon. The emir's eyes were still taped but he could hear what sounded like a half dozen Arab voices. The air in the salon smelled of gunpowder, oil, and a strange, sweet almond odor.
Hustled down a set of steps to a lower deck, the emir was unceremoniously tossed on a bed and had his hands and feet bound together with thick tape. He lay on his back like a trussed chicken. The emir heard Al-Khalifa order a guard posted outside. Then he was left alone to ponder an unknown fate.
Other than the fact that the skin on his face had started sweating from the heat in the cabin, the man was not overly concerned. If Al-Khalifa was going to kill him he would have done it already. That, and he knew his friends at the Corporation would seek him out soon. If only he could scratch his nose under the plastic—then he'd feel better.
"ATTACH THE WEAPONS pod," Al-Khalifa said as he walked back into the main salon. "I need to fly to the mountain as soon as possible,"
Four of the men walked outside and started the process. The installation went slow—wind, rain and snow were raking the Akbar's deck, but the men were trained and unrelenting. Twenty-seven minutes later their leader walked back in, wiping snow off his gloves.
"The pod is installed," he said to Al-Khalifa.
"Have the men come inside and gather around the table."
The teams of terrorists slid into chairs at the long ornate table. The gathering was a confederacy of killers, a party of thugs. They stared up at Al-Khalifa and waited.
"Allah has blessed us again," Al-Khalifa began. "As you witnessed, I captured the pro-western emir that rules my country and have taken him prisoner. Soon I will ascend to the throne. On the second matter, a Western traitor has alerted me to the location of an orb of iridium we can use in conjunction with the bomb that is destined for London. If I can retrieve this iridium, it will magnify the destruction in London at least a hundredfold."
"Praise be to Allah," the group shouted spontaneously.
"Right now the Akbar is heading for the east coast of Greenland," Al-Khalifa said grandly. "In a few hours, when we arrive, I'll fly the helicopter over and recover the iridium. As soon as I return, we'll set a course for England and the conclusion of the mission."
"There is but one, and that one is Allah," the group shouted.
"For those of you that have your duties finished, I want you to rest up," Al-Khalifa said. "We will need everyone on their toes once we reach England. Soon those that oppose Allah will feel our wrath."
"Allah is great," the group shouted.
The meeting broke up and Al-Khalifa walked from the room and down to his cabin. He would grab a few hours' sleep. He had no way of knowing that this sleep would be his last until the big one.
Chapter 15
AT HOTEL KANGERLUSSUAQ, thirteen hundred miles away, Clay Hughes was finishing a breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast washed down with a pot of steaming coffee. Michael Neilsen approached his table.
"You ready to go?" Hughes asked, standing up.
"The weather has not improved much," Neilsen said, "but I'm willing to try if you want. What's your verdict?"
"We go," Hughes said.
"If I were you," Neilsen said, "I'd have the hotel pack some food for the trip—if we go down out there, it'll be some time before help can arrive."
"I'll order a
platter of sandwiches and a couple thermoses of coffee," Hughes said. "Anything else you can think of we might need?"
"Just some luck," Neilsen said, glancing outside.
"I'll get the food and meet you at the helicopter."
"I'll be ready," Neilsen said, walking away.
Fifteen minutes later the EC-130B4 lifted from the snow-packed runway and started flying east. A slight tinge of yellow infused the clouds as the scant sunlight tried to penetrate the gloom. Mostly it was dark and dreary, like an omen carried on an evil wind.
The hours passed as the Eurocopter flew high above the snowy terrain.
THE THIOKOL STOPPED and Cabrillo stared at the map. He estimated that he was within an hour of reaching the cave on Mount Forel. Once he had started away from the glacier, he noticed his satellite telephone was receiving signals again. He hit the speed dial and called the Oregon.
"We've been trying to reach you," Hanley said as soon as he answered. "The emir was kidnapped last night."
"Kidnapped," Cabrillo said quickly, "I thought we were on top of that situation."
"They grabbed our guy," Hanley said, "and we have had no communication with either party since."
"Do you have an idea where they've taken him?"
"We're working on it."
"You get our man back," Cabrillo said.
"Will do."
"I'm almost at the site," Cabrillo said. "I'll wrap this up and get out of here. Meanwhile, you locate me some faster mode of transportation home."
"Yes, sir," Hanley said.
Cabrillo disconnected and tossed the telephone on the passenger seat.
AT THE SAME time Cabrillo started up Mount Forel, an attendant at Reykjavik International Airport was sweeping snow from the bottom of a ramp leading up to a privately owned 737. Auxiliary power units were supplying the plane with heat and electricity from both sides. The inside of the jet was lit up like a billboard and it spilled out of the windows into the dim light outside.