Stepping into the lavatory was like hiding out below an outhouse. It didn’t smell good and the light was bad. Luckily, Lababiti knew exactly where he had placed the tablet and he removed the foil-wrapped packet from his pocket and unwrapped it in the dim light.
Then, clutching the tablet in his hand, he quickly walked back to the table.
Coustas was still at the bar badgering the barkeep to pour a little more ouzo into his glass. He watched as the barkeep bent over and lifted the bottle to top off the drink while, at the same time, a thin, dark-skinned man poked his head into the bar, sneezed and left again. Lababiti was just about to sit down again when he witnessed the signal that the heist had gone smoothly.
He crushed the tablet and sprinkled the contents into the last third of Coustas’s glass.
Then he sat down as the Greek walked over carrying the drinks. The sound of a motorcycle outside racing away filtered through the walls. “The bartender wants more money,” Coustas said, sliding into his seat, “said he’s gone through what you left.”
Lababiti nodded. “I need to go out to my car and get some more pounds. Just finish your drink and I’ll be right back.”
“Then we can discuss bonuses?” Coustas asked, raising the partially filled glass to his lips and taking a sip.
“Bonuses as well as the transfer of cargo,” Lababiti said, rising. “I assume you’ll take payment in gold?”
Coustas nodded as Lababiti walked toward the door. He was high on ouzo and newfound wealth. Everything seemed perfect in his world—until he felt the pain in his chest.
LABABITI MOTIONED TO the barkeep that he was walking outside for a second, using a single raised finger, then he exited the bar and walked up the street to his Jaguar sedan. The street was empty, littered with trash, and barely illuminated by the few operational streetlights.
It was an avenue of broken dreams and misplaced hope.
Lababiti never hesitated or faltered. He unlocked the door of the Jaguar with his key fob and then climbed inside and started the engine. Adjusting the volume on the CD player, he slid the sedan into gear and pulled smartly away.
When the owner of the bar raced out onto the street to report to the smartly dressed foreigner that his friend had taken ill, all he caught was the sight of taillights as the Jaguar crested the hill and disappeared.
BRITISH POLICE INSPECTORS usually don’t show up when people die in bars. It happens frequently and the causes are usually obvious. For Inspector Charles Harrelson to be summoned from bed required a call from the office of the coroner. And at first he was none too happy. After packing tobacco into his pipe, he lit the bowl and stared down at the body. Then he shook his head.
“Macky,” he said to the coroner, “you woke me up for this?”
The coroner, David Mackelson, had worked with Harrelson for nearly two decades. He knew the inspector was always a little testy when he was awakened from a deep sleep.
“You want a cuppa, Charles?” Macky said quietly. “I can probably get the owner to make us one.”
“Not if I’m going back to sleep,” Harrelson said, “which I think I will be, judging by the looks of this unfortunate soul.”
“Oh,” Macky said, “I think you might need one.”
Pulling back the sheet over Coustas’s body, Macky pointed to the red marks on his arms.
“Know what that is?” he asked Harrelson.
“No idea,” Harrelson said.
“Those are radiation burns,” Macky said, removing a tin of snuff and snorting some into his nose. “Now, Charles, are you glad I woke you?”
29
ADAMS CAUGHT Aglimpse of the Cessna, motioned to Cabrillo, and pointed at the moving map on the navigation system.
“He’ll be crossing over land in the next few minutes,” Adams said through the headset.
“Hopefully,” Cabrillo said, “the RAF will be there to greet him. Then we can wind this up and be done with it. How’s our fuel?”
Adams pointed to the gauge. The headwinds had taken their toll, and the needle was just above empty. “We are pretty far into the reserve, boss, but we have enough to reach land. After that there’s no telling, however.”
“We’ll touch down and refuel,” Cabrillo said confidently, “as soon as Hanley informs us that the jets have made the intercept.”
But at that moment Hanley was fighting through layers of red tape on two continents.
“WHAT THE HELL do you mean there’s no planes?” he said to Overholt.
“The quickest the British can scramble a jet is ten minutes from now,” Overholt said, “from Mindenhall, which is down south. They have nothing currently based in Scotland. To make matters worse, their assets in the south are stretched like we are—most of their fighter wings are deployed to help us in Iraq and Africa.”
“Does the U.S. have a carrier in the area?” Hanley asked.
“Nope,” Overholt said, “the only vessel we have in the sea close by is a guided-missile frigate that has been ordered to intercept the yacht steaming from the Faeroe Islands.”
“Mr. Overholt,” Hanley said, “we have a problem. Your friend Juan is probably on fumes by now—if we don’t get him some help soon we’re going to lose the meteorite once again. We’re doing our job here, but we need some backup.”
“I understand,” Overholt said, “let me see what I can do and I’ll call you back.”
The telephone went dead and Hanley stared at the map on the monitor in the control room. The blip from the radar image of the Cessna was just crossing over the shoreline. He began to dial.
“YES, SIR,” THE pilot of the Challenger 604 sitting in Aberdeen said. “We have been running the turbines every half hour to keep them warm. We can be off the ground as soon as we receive clearance.”
“The target has just reached land at Cape Wrath,” Hanley said, “so fly east first, then turn north. It appears his present course is toward Glasgow.”
“What do we do when we reach him?”
“Just follow him,” Hanley said, “until the British jets arrive.”
While Hanley and the pilot had been talking, the copilot had received clearance for takeoff. He motioned to the pilot.
“We just got clearance,” the pilot told Hanley, “is there anything else?”
“Keep an eye out for our chairman. He’s aboard the Robinson helicopter and he’s low on fuel.”
“We’ll do it, sir,” the pilot said as he advanced the throttles and began to taxi toward the runway.
A light mist wet the windshield of the Challenger as the pilot steered down the access road toward the main runway. From the looks of the clouds to the north, it was only going to get worse. Lining up on the runway, the pilot ran through his checks.
Then he advanced the throttles to the stops and raced down the runway.
JAMES BENNETT STARED at his fuel gauge with concern. He wouldn’t make Glasgow with the fuel onboard, so he adjusted his course slightly to port. Bennett’s plan was to stay over land in case he had to make an emergency landing, so he decided his new course would be south to Inverness then almost due east to Aberdeen. He’d be lucky if he reached the Scottish port. But Bennett was not a lucky man.
Just then his telephone rang.
“We have a problem,” the voice said. “We just intercepted a British communication stating they are scrambling a pair of fighter jets to intercept you. We have perhaps fifteen minutes until they reach you.”
Bennett glanced at his watch. “That is a problem,” he said quickly. “I’ve had to change course because of fuel. I can no longer make Glasgow like we’d planned. The best I can do is maybe Aberdeen—and I can’t reach there before the jets arrive.”
“Even if you had the chance to refuel in the Faeroes,” the voice said, “it now turns out that Glasgow would have been out because of the British fighters heading your way. What about the helicopter? Do you think he’s still following?”