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“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?
