Cabrillo stared out the window again. “It looks like he reached his goal.”
“I’m sorry, Juan,” Hanley said. “In two more days, when the summit wraps up, we could reposition the Oregon and Adams could fly you up in the helicopter. Right now, however, this is all we’ve got.”
“No sweat,” Cabrillo said, staring at his notes. “Sixth house from the church.”
“Red walls,” Hanley said, “and yellow-painted trim.”
“Well then, let me go meet a madman.”
He disconnected and walked through the door leading outside.
CABRILLO LEFT HIS boxes of supplies at the airport and approached a snowmobile taxi with an Inuit teenager standing alongside. The boy raised his eyebrows when Cabrillo gave the address but he said nothing. He seemed more concerned with the fee, which he quoted in Danish currency.
“How much in U.S. dollars?” Cabrillo asked.
“Twenty,” the boy said without hesitation.
“Done,” Cabrillo said, handing the boy a bill.
The boy climbed onto the snowmobile and reached for the starter button. “You know Garth Brooks?” the boy asked, assuming everyone in the United States must know everyone else, just like in his village.
“No,” Cabrillo said, “but I played golf with Willie Nelson once.”
“Cool. Is he any good?”
“Wicked slice,” Cabrillo said as the boy hit the starter and the engine roared to life.
“Get on,” the boy shouted.
Once Cabrillo was seated, the boy raced away from the airport. The snowmobile’s headlight barely cut through the darkness and blowing snow. Kulusuk was little more than a cluster of homes a mile or so from the airport. The sides of the houses were partially covered by snowdrifts. Trails of smoke and steam came from inside. Teams of dogs were clustered near houses, along with many snowmobiles; skis were propped up into the snow, tips aloft; snowshoes hung on nails near the doors.
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 AT the 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.