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“The last communication the British sent mentioned that they had forced the Cessna down at Inverness and were preparing to search the plane.”
“They won’t find anything,” Hanley said. “Our pilot said he and Cabrillo saw the pilot of the Cessna drop the package out the side.”
“Why hasn’t Cabrillo telephoned in,” Overholt said, “so we can coordinate help?”
“That, Mr. Overholt, is a question I cannot answer.”
“You’ll let me know as soon as you speak to him?”
“Yes, sir,” Hanley said as the telephone went dead.
THE MG TC rode like a buckboard wagon filled with grain. The thin tires, lever-action shocks and ancient suspension were no match for a modern sports car. Cabrillo was in fourth gear with the engine wound to her highest RPM and the old car was only doing a little over seventy miles an hour. Holding the wood-rimmed wheel with one hand, he slapped the side of his satellite telephone again.
Nothing. It
might have been the landing—despite his best efforts to protect the device, it had hit the dashboard when they finally touched down. It might be the power supply—satellite telephones burned through power like a fat man’s air-conditioning during a Phoenix summer. Whatever the case, Cabrillo could not get the green light to come on.
Just then he caught sight of the van a few miles ahead as it crested a hill.
EDDIE SENG GLANCED over at Bob Meadows as the car Meadows was driving neared the Isle of Sheppey. Plucked from the Oregon by the Corporation’s amphibious plane, the two men had been flown to an airport on the outskirts of London, where the armored Range Rover had been left by the British intelligence agency MI5.
“It looks like we received the weapons we asked for,” Seng said as he picked through the nylon bag that had been left on the rear seat.
“Now if we can just find where the Hammadi cell is hiding in London,” Meadows said confidently, “and locate the bomb and disable it while our chairman secures the meteorite, we can call it a day.”
“Sounds reasonably difficult.”
“I give it a seven on the ten scale,” Meadows said as he slowed to turn into the port.
SENG STEPPED FROM the passenger seat as Meadows was still shutting off the engine. He walked over to a lanky man with strawberry-blond hair and extended his hand.
“Eddie Seng,” he said.
“Malcolm Rodgers, MI5,” the man said.
Meadows was out of the Range Rover and approaching.
“This is my partner, Bob Meadows. Bob, this is Malcolm Rodgers from MI5.”
“Pleasure,” Meadows said, shaking his hand.
Rodgers began to walk toward the pier. “The captain was found at a local pub just up the hill. According to the customs slip, he had docked that evening.”
“Did the radiation kill him?” Meadows asked.
“No,” Rodgers said, “the preliminary autopsy showed traces of a poison.”
“What kind?” Seng asked.
“Nothing we’ve been able to verify yet,” Rodgers said, “some paralytic agent.”
“Do you have a phone?” Meadows asked.
Rodgers slowed and removed a cell phone from his pocket then looked at Meadows.
“Call your coroner and have him get in touch with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Ask them to send the toxicology profiles for Arabian Peninsula scorpion and snake venoms and see if they get a match.”
Rodgers nodded then made the call. While he was on the telephone, Seng studied the port area below. There were several old cargo ships, three or four pleasure crafts, and a single catamaran whose upper decks bristled with antennae and two davits. The rear deck of the catamaran was crowded with crates and electronic gear. A man was hunched over a table on the rear deck with his arms inside a torpedo-shaped device.
