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“I don’t know,” Meadows said.
“Does it have to do with the motorcycle that was also on the tape?”
“Why don’t I call it in,” Seng said, “while you go inside?”
Meadows climbed out of the Range Rover. “You’ve got a damn good memory,” he said.
Seng held up his palm, where the number was scrawled in ink.
Meadows closed the door and walked to the pub entrance.
THE TREES IN St. James’s and Green Parks near Buckingham Palace were devoid of leaves, and the dormant grass was dusted with a thick frost. Tourists watched the changing of the guards with puffs of steam coming from their mouths. A man on a scooter came down Piccadilly then turned on Grosvenor Place and drove slowly past the lake inside Buckingham Palace Gardens. Continuing on, he rounded the corner onto Buckingham Palace Road to where it met the Birdcage Walk. Pulling to the side of the road alongside the lake inside St. James’s Park, he recorded his travel times and the traffic conditions.
Then he slid the small notebook back into his jacket pocket and puttered away.
CABRILLO POKED HIS head out the side window of the MG. An hour ago, when he had driven past Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland, he had been gaining on the van. Now as the MG labored up the Grampian Mountains the van was pulling ahead once again. Something needed to happen soon. Cabrillo expected to see Adams in the Robinson, the British army or air force, or even a police car any minute. He was sure the Oregon was sending help—he was unarmed in an underpowered chase car.
Surely someone had figured out where he was by now.
ON BOARD THE Oregon, they were working on the problem with limited success.
The ship was still a hundred miles from Kinnaird Head, steaming south at full speed. In a few more hours she’d be off Aberdeen, a few more and she’d cross a point offshore Edinburgh.
“Okay,” Kasim shouted across the control room to Hanley, “Adams reports he has enough fuel loaded on board to make it to the airport in Inverness. Once there, he’ll top off the tanks and head south along the road.”
“How much range will he have then?” Hanley asked.
“Hold on,” Kasim said, repeating the question to Adams.
“Most of England,” Kasim said, “but he won’t be able to make London without refueling.”
“We should have this wrapped up before then,” Hanley said.
“Okay,” Kasim shouted, “Adams said he has the engine going.”
“Tell him to follow the road until he finds Cabrillo.”
Kasim repeated the orders.
“He said the fog is as thick as a winter coat,” Kasim said, “but he’ll fly right above the road.”
“Good,” Hanley said.
Linda Ross walked over to Hanley’s chair. “Boss,” she said, “Stone and I reworked the tracking frequencies on the bugs on the meteorite. We’re getting a more complete signal now.”
“Which monitor?”
Ross pointed to one on the far wall.
The meteorite was almost to Stirling. Soon the driver of the van would need to signal his intentions with a turn. East toward Glasgow, or west toward Edinburgh.
“Get me Overholt,” he said to Stone.
A few seconds later Overholt came on the line.
“I’LL HAVE THE British seal off the roads just outside Glasgow and Edinburgh,” Overholt said, “and search every truck.”
“We’re blessed there’s not that many roads they can pick from,” Hanley said. “They should be able to snag the truck.”
