MICHAEL HALPERT WAS widening the search. Logging on to the FAA computer, he pulled up the flight records for Hickman’s jet. As soon as he saw the records, he knew he had their man. One of Hickman’s jets, a Hawker 800XP, had recently filed a flight plan for Greenland. The latest plan filed was for a Las Vegas–London jaunt that placed Hickman’s plane in London right now.
Printing them, Halpert began to search the British property records.
Nothing came up under Hickman’s name so he began to search using the long list of Hickman’s companies. Hours would pass before the search would bear fruit. While the computer was searching, Halpert tried to imagine why one of the richest men in the world would want to conspire with Arab terrorists to explode a nuclear bomb in London.
It was always love or money, Halpert thought.
There was no way Halpert could envision that Hickman could make money off a disaster like an atomic bomb blast. Halpert tried for an hour to find some financial motive but came up short.
It had to be love then, he thought.
And who does one love enough to kill for but family?
39
THE OREGON DOCKED at Southend-on-Sea at the mouth of the Thames just past 6 A.M.
The operatives were all awake and showered. One by one they filed into the dining room for breakfast. They were due to meet in the conference room at seven. Hanley had grabbed a few hours’ rest and then had been back at work by 5 A.M., planning the logistics for the coming operation.
Just after 6:00 he telephoned Overholt and woke him.
“Our team is going into London soon,” he said. “We think we have the principals located, but so far we have yet to detect traces of radiation.”
“Are you coordinating with MI5?” Overholt asked.
“Mr. Cabrillo will contact them soon and turn over command of the operation. He just wants to make sure our team is in place as a backup.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Overholt said wearily. “What’s the status on the meteorite?”
“We’re doing things one at a time,” Hanley said. “As soon as the threat of the bomb is gone, we’ll switch our team over to that problem.”
“What’s the current location?”
“Just south of Oxford,” Hanley said, “headed south. If it comes within the outskirts of London, we’ll move on it. If not, we’ll deal with it when the bomb is recovered.”
“The Las Vegas police have been stymied,” Overholt said, “so I issued a national security directive that gives them authority to do whatever we need. They should be entering the penthouse soon. You know that if you’re wrong, and Hickman is not behind this, by the time the fallout settles I’ll be out of a job.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Overholt,” Hanley said, “we are always looking for qualified applicants to join our team.”
“You’re a regular barrel of laughs, Mr. Hanley,” Overholt said as he disconnected.
Hanley replaced the telephone in the cradle on his command chair and turned to Stone.
“How are the arrangements coming?”
“As usual, Mr. Truitt has been Johnny-on-the-spot,” Stone said. “He’s been working since early this morning. He’s purchased sets of British clothing and overcoats for the people we’re sending to London. He’s also arranged for a tour bus to pick them up here. Last I spoke with him, he was on the bus on his way here.”
“Good man,” Hanley said. “What about Nixon?”
“Nixon has the equipment ready and is completing the final checks as we speak.”
“Halpert?” Hanley asked.
“Still hard at work, last I checked. He claims he’s pursuing a different angle and should have the details in another few hours.”
“Go over the roster,” Hanley said.
“We have four in London already,” Stone said, reading from a printed sheet. “Cabrillo, Seng, Meadows and Truitt. The six to be transported are Huxley, Jones, Lincoln, Kasim, Murphy and Ross.”
“That gives us a force of ten inside London,” Hanley noted.
“Correct,” Stone said. “Air support at Heathrow is Adams in the Robinson and Gunderson and Pilston in the Gulfstream. Judy Michaels just flew in from her leave and is taking over the amphibian piloting.”
“Operations on the Oregon?” Hanley asked.
“The vessel will be crewed by Gannon, Barrett, Hornsby, Reinholt and Reyes.”
“Who does that leave?”
“You, me, Nixon in the Magic Shop, Crabtree here on logistics, and King,” Stone finished.
“I forgot about King,” Hanley said. “We need him in there as support.”
“Do you want me to include him in Truitt’s group?”
Hanley thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “Have Adams pick him up and put them both on standby. I want them close to the scene and ready to take to the air at a moment’s notice. Adams and King can provide air cover.”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Stone said.
“Excellent.”
“TRUITT CASED THE principal’s apartment building early this morning,” Cabrillo said.
Cabrillo, Seng and Meadows were eating breakfast in the chairman’s suite.
“Where is he now?” Meadows asked.
“He’s on his way to the port where the Oregon is docked to pick up the rest of the team.”
“Then I guess he didn’t detect traces of the bomb,” Seng said, “or we’d have already moved by now.”
“Correct,” Cabrillo said.
“So we have to wait until they move?” Meadows asked.
“If the bomb is in London,” Cabrillo said, “and the principals realize someone is on to them, they could blow it at any time. They might not be at their primary target yet, but with a nuclear warhead—even a small one like this—the destruction would be horrific.”
“So we try to flush them out,” Seng asked, “then make the grab and defuse the weapon?”
“I’m sure that’s not what MI5 wants,” Cabrillo said, “but that’s what I will recommend.”
“When do you meet with them?” Meadows asked.
Cabrillo wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and stared at his wristwatch. “In five minutes,” he said, “in the lobby.”
“What would you like us to do?” Seng asked.
“Walk the area near the apartment and get the lay of the land.”
EDWARD GIBB WAS not happy. Being awakened on New Year’s Eve and ordered into work was not his idea of a pleasant holiday. An attorney had telephoned this morning and asked if he could meet the new owner of the mill and unlock the doors. Gibb had almost refused—he’d decided on retirement and was planning to tell the Human Resources Department as soon as they all returned to work—but the idea of meeting the mysterious buyer of Maidenhead Mills intrigued him.
After showering, dressing and eating a quick breakfast of tea and toast, he drove over to the mill. A limousine was idling near the front doors, the exhaust creating puffs of smoke in the chill air. Gibb approached and knocked on the rear window. The window slid down and a man smiled.
“Mr. Gibb?” he asked.
Gibb nodded.
“Halifax Hickman,” the man said, climbing out of the rear and standing on the asphalt near the doors. “Allow me to apologize for taking you away from your family on a holiday.”
The men shook hands.
“No problem, sir,” Gibb said, walking toward the door. “I can understand you might want to see what you spent your money on as soon as possible.”
“I was on my way to Europe,” Hickman lied, “and am limited in time.”
“I understand, sir,” Gibb said as he reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys and unlocked the door.
“Thank you,” Hickman said as Gibb opened the door and stood aside.
“Keep these,” Gibb said, handing Hickman the keys. “I have another set.”