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“This is the final stage shaver and vacuum unit,” he said, pointing to a machine that looked like a large version of the broiler unit used at Burger King. “The material is fed in on the belt, it’s treated, and then it comes out here on these series of rollers.”
The metal frame that contained the rollers was waist high and went to an area for packing, then it stretched in a half circle to end near the loading dock. Bolts of cloths could be pushed along until they were boxed or wrapped, and then taken along to the trucks for shipment.
Hickman’s eyes were scanning the area nearby. “Are those the prayer rugs for Saudi Arabia?” he asked, staring at three large metal shipping containers near the milling machine and next to the door to the docks. “Can I see them?”
“Yes, sir,” Gibb said, unlocking each of the containers and swinging the doors open, “and they are overdue to be delivered.”
Hickman peeked inside. Each of the metal containers was as large as a semitrailer. They were designed to be loaded aboard a 747 cargo plane. The rugs were hanging from vises on the ceiling of the containers and stretched forward as far as the eye could see. Each container held thousands.
“Why aren’t they stacked?” Hickman asked.
“We have to spray them with insecticide and disinfectant before they are allowed into Saudi Arabia. They don’t want Mad Cow disease or some other airborne pathogen brought in—every country makes that mandatory now,” Gibb said.
“Leave them open,” Hickman said, “and give me the keys to the containers.”
Gibb nodded and handed Hickman the keys.
“When are the workers due back from holiday?” Hickman asked.
“Monday, January second,” Gibbs said, following Hickman, who was walking back through the machines toward the lobby area again.
“I’ve got some guys from the U.S. coming in to help. We’ll make those a top priority,” Hickman said as they neared the lobby and front offices. “Now, can you show me to an office where I might use a telephone?”
Gibb pointed to stairs that led to a glass-enclosed office overlooking the shop floor. “You’re welcome to use mine, sir. It’s unlocked.”
Hickman smiled and reached out for Gibb’s hand. “Mr. Gibb,” he said easily, “why don’t you get back to your family. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Gibb nodded and started for the door, then stopped. “Mr. Hickman,” he said slowly, “would you like to come over this evening and celebrate the New Year with us?”
Hickman was halfway to the stairs and turned back to look at Gibb. “That’s a kind offer,” he said, “but for me New Year is always a time for quiet reflection.”
“No family, sir?” Gibb asked.
“I had a son,” Hickman said quietly, “but he was murdered.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the stair.
Gibb turned and walked through the door. Hickman was nothing like the newspapers said. He was just a lonely old man, as ordinary as white rice. Gibb might reconsider his plans to retire—with Hickman as owner, big things might be afoot.
Hickman entered the office and reached for the telephone.
CABRILLO ENTERED THE lobby with Meadows and Seng in tow. A blond man dressed in a black suit and polished shoes approached immediately.
“Mr. Fleming has cordoned off a quiet area of the dining room so you can meet in private,” the man said, referring to the head of MI5. “It’s right this way.”
Seng and Meadows headed for the front door. Like magic, several men in the lobby reading newspapers rose and followed. They would not be alone for their reconnaissance.
Cabrillo followed the blond man into the dining room. Taking a hallway to the left, they entered a private room where a man was seated at a table with a pot of tea and a silver platter of pastries.
“Juan,” the man said, rising.
“John,” Cabrillo said, reaching out to shake hands.
“That will be all,” Fleming said to the blond-haired man, who walked back through the door and closed it behind him.
Fleming motioned to a chair and Cabrillo sat down. Fleming poured Cabrillo a cup of tea and waved his hands over the platter of pastries.
“I’ve eaten,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup of tea.
