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CABRILLO WASN’T SURE if Ackerman was dead or alive.
From time to time Cabrillo would feel what seemed like a faint pulse, but the wound was no longer bleeding—and that was a bad sign. Ackerman had not moved a muscle since Cabrillo had returned to the cave. His eyes were closed and the lids were motionless. Cabrillo propped him up so the wound was below his heart and then covered him with a sleeping bag. There was not much else he could do for him.
Then his telephone rang.
“The signal from the meteorite is leading right to the Akbar,” Hanley said.
“Al-Khalifa,” Cabrillo spat out. “I wonder how he found out about the meteorite.”
“I alerted Overholt that Echelon has a leak,” Hanley said, “that’s the only way.”
“So the Hammadi Group is trying to produce a dirty bomb,” Cabrillo said, “but that doesn’t explain who the first people that grabbed it were.”
“We haven’t been able to find out any information on the passenger,” Hanley said, “but my guess is that it was someone working with Al-Khalifa and they had a falling out.”
Cabrillo thought for a minute. It was a plausible explanation—maybe the only one that made sense—still, he had an uneasy feeling. “I guess we’ll know when we recover the meteorite and liberate the emir.”
“That’s the plan,” Hanley agreed.
“Then this will be over,” Cabrillo said.
“Neat as a pin.”
Neither Cabrillo nor Hanley could foresee that the outcome was still days away.
Nor did they know it would be anything but neat.
“Have Huxley call me,” Cabrillo said. “I need some medical advice.”
“You got it,” Hanley said as he rang off.
ON BOARD THE Akbar, high-powered landing lights were flicked on to light the landing pad.
Off to the side, a pair of Arabs watched as Al-Khalifa lined up over the fantail then eased forward and touched down. As soon as the helicopter’s skids touched the deck, the two men raced under the spinning rotor blade and secured the skids to the deck.
The blade slowed as Al-Khalifa pulled on the rotor brake, and once it was stopped he climbed out and walked around to the passenger side. Taking the box in his hands, he walked to the door to the main salon and waited until it was opened.
He walked inside and approached the long table and sat the box on the top.
As he unfastened the clasp and flipped the lid open, the terrorists gathered around and stared at the orb in silence. Then Al-Khalifa reached down and lifted the heavy sphere and held it over his head.
“A million more infidels dead,” he said grandly, “and London in ruins.”
“Praise be to Allah,” the terrorists shouted.
“ONE MILE DEAD ahead,” the captain of the Free Enterprise said, “moving at fifteen knots.”
A total of nine men dressed in black waterproof uniforms were clustered in the pilothouse. The men were armed with rifles on slings, handguns, and grenades.
The Free Enterprise was dead in the water. Outside on her rear deck, a large black bulletproof inflatable boat was being lowered over the side. Fifty-millimeter machine guns were mounted on the bow and stern of the inflatable. Mounted to the rigid fiberglass floor of the vessel was a high-performance gasoline engine.
The boat disappeared over the side and splashed into the water.
“We go in at the stern,” the leader said, “neutralize the targets, retrieve the meteorite, and then get out again. I want us back on board in five minutes tops.”
“Will there be any friendlies?” one of the men asked.
“One,” the leader said, handing out a photograph.
