Clive Cussler: Sacred Stone

Life in Kulusuk looked hard and grim.

North of town, the expanse of ice leading across to the mainland was barely visible as a dim outline. The surface of ice was black and slick as wind blew the snow and piled it into small drifts that ceaselessly formed and reformed. The hills across the frozen ice were only visible as an outline, a different color gray against a backdrop of nothingness. The scene looked about as inviting as a tour of a crematorium. Cabrillo felt the snowmobile slow then stop.

He climbed from the back and stood on the semi-packed snow.

“Later,” the teenager said with a quick wave of his hand.

Then the boy turned the yoke hard to the left, spun around on the snow-packed street and raced away. Cabrillo was left alone in the cold and darkness. He stared at the half-buried house for a second. Then he started walking through the drifts toward the front door. He paused on the stoop before knocking.

10

HICKMAN STARED ATthe records from the Saudi Arabian Office of Procurement that his hackers had lifted from a database. The records had been translated from Arabic into English but the translation was far from perfect. Scanning the lists, he made notes alongside the columns. One entry stood out. It was for woven wool kneeling pads and the supplier was located in Maidenhead, England. Reaching for his intercom, he buzzed his secretary.

“There’s a Mr. Whalid that works for me at the Nevada hotel. I think he’s an assistant food and beverage director.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary said.

“Have him call me at once,” Hickman said. “I have a question for him.”

A few minutes later his telephone rang.

“This is Abdul Whalid,” the voice said. “I was told to call you.”

“Yes,” Hickman said. “Call this company in England for me”—he rattled off the telephone number—“pretend you’re a Saudi Arabian official or something. They have a multimillion-dollar order for woven wool kneeling pads, and I want to know what exactly that means, woven wool kneeling pads. ”

“Can I ask you why, sir?”

“I own mills,” Hickman lied. “I’d like to know what these items are, because if we can make them, I’d like to know why my guys didn’t bid on the job.”

That made sense to Whalid. “Very good, sir. I’ll call them and call you right back.”

“Excellent.” Hickman returned to staring at the picture of the meteorite. Ten minutes later, Whalid phoned again.

“Sir,” Whalid said, “they are prayer rugs. The order is so large because the country is replacing the entire inventory used at Mecca. Apparently they do this every ten years or thereabouts.”

“Hmm, so we missed an opportunity that won’t be around again for a while. That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Whalid said. “I don’t know if you are aware that I ran a mill in my own country before the overthrow. I’d be very interested—”

Hickman cut him off rudely. His mind was racing. “Send me a résumé, Whalid,” he said, “and I’ll see it goes to the proper person.”

“I understand, sir,” Whalid said meekly.

Hickman hung up the telephone without as much as a good-bye.

PIETER VANDERWALD ANSWERED his cellular telephone as he was driving down the road just outside of Palm Springs, California.

“It’s me,” the voice said.

“This is not a secure line,” Vanderwald said, “so speak in generalities and let’s keep the call to less than three minutes.”

“The substance we spoke about,” the man said, “can it be applied in an aerosol form?”

“That’s one way it could be used. It would then transfer by air or get distributed along a human chain by touch or coughing.”

“Would the substance then transfer from person to person if it was on their clothing?”

Vanderwald stared at the digital clock on the radio of his rental car. Half the allotted time was gone. “Yes, it would transfer from clothing and skin, even through the air.”

“How long would it take for someone to die from exposure?”

The digital clock on the dash flipped over a number. “Within a week—maybe less. I’ll be at my land line tonight if you want to talk more.”

The line went dead and the man sat back in his chair. Then he smiled.

“JUST OVER TWO million seems a steep price, considering last year’s revenue,” the lawyer said over the telephone. “Once they fill the contracts they have, their books are a little bare going ahead.”

“Just do the deal,” Hickman said quietly. “I’ll write off any losses against the gains on my Docklands property.”

“You’re the boss,” the lawyer said.

“You got that right.”

“Where do you want the funds to come from?”

Hickman scrolled through a screen on his computer. “Use the Paris account,” he said, “but I want to close the transaction tomorrow and take possession of the company within seventy-two hours at the latest.”

“You think there’ll be a shortage of British mills for sale in the next couple of days?” the lawyer said. “Or do you know something I don’t?”

“I know a lot you don’t,” Hickman said, “but if you keep talking you’ll only have seventy-one hours to put this together. You just do what you’re paid to do—I’ll take care of planning.”

“I’m on it, sir,” the lawyer said before disconnecting.

Sitting back in his chair, Hickman relaxed for a moment. Then he picked up a magnifying glass on his desk and stared at the aerial photograph in front of him. Placing the magnifying glass down, he examined a map. Lastly he opened a file folder and flipped through the photographs inside.

The photographs were of victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bombings at the end of World War II. And although the photographs were graphic and disturbing, the man smiled. Vengeance is mine, he thought.

THAT EVENING HE called Vanderwald on his land line.

“I found something better,” Vanderwald said. “It’s an airborne plague that affects the lungs. Very toxic, it should kill eighty percent of the population of the country.”

“How much?” Hickman asked.

“The amount you need will be six hundred thousand dollars.”

“Have it delivered,” Hickman said, “along with as much C-6 as you can find.”

“How big is the structure you’re intending to demolish?” Vanderwald asked.

“The size of the Pentagon.”

“That much will be a million two.”

“Cashier’s check?” Hickman asked.

“Gold,” Vanderwald said.

11

CABRILLO STARED ATthe musk ox horns on the door, then reached over and lifted a fish-shaped iron door knocker and let it slam against the heavy planked door. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps from within, then it grew quiet. Suddenly a small hatch in the door the size of a loaf of bread opened and a face peered out. The man had shallow cheeks, a tobacco-stained gray beard, a mustache and bloodshot eyes. His teeth were stained and grimy.

“Slide it through the hole.”

“Slide what through the hole?” Cabrillo asked.

“The Jack,” the man said, “the bottle of Jack.”

“I’m here to speak to you about renting your snowcat.”

“You’re not from the trading post?” the man said with more than a hint of disappointment and despair.

“No,” Cabrillo said, “but if you let me in to talk, I’ll go down and get you a bottle afterward.”

“You’re talking Jack Daniel’s,” the man asked, “not the cheap stuff, right?”

Cabrillo was cold and growing colder by the minute. “Yes, made in Lynchburg, Tennessee, black label—I know what you mean. Now open the door.”

The peephole closed and the man unlocked the door. Cabrillo walked into a living room decorated in squalor and disarray. Dust from last summer coated the tables and upper edges of the picture frames. The smell was a mixture of old fish and foot odor. A pair of lamps on two side tables cast pools of yellow light into the otherwise dark room.