Something had been bothering Truitt for the entire flight and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He had been trying to remember the interior of Hickman’s office for hours but, try as he might, the picture was not clear. Sitting back in his seat, he buckled the seat belt and waited for the Gulfstream to set down.
Ten minutes later he was inside a cab heading through the deserted streets for the Savoy. The cab was driving past Paddington Station when it hit him.
OVERHOLT WAS PLANNING to sleep in his office on the couch. Win, place or show, something would be happening in the next forty-eight hours. It was almost ten at night when the president called again.
“Your boys screwed up,” the president said. “There was nothing on the train.”
“Impossible,” Overholt said. “I’ve worked with the Corporation for years—they don’t make mistakes. The meteorite was on the train—it must have been moved again.”
“Well,” the president said, “now it’s loose somewhere in England.”
“Cabrillo is in London right now,” Overholt said, “working on the missing nuke.”
“Langston,” the president said, “you’d better get control of this situation, and soon, or you’d better start figuring if you can make it on your retirement pay.”
“Yes, sir,” Overholt said as the phone went dead.
“WE HAVE THE meteorite headed south on the road just south of Birmingham,” a weary Hanley said to Overholt’s question. “We’ll be off shore of London tomorrow morning and then we can off-load our operatives and track it down.”
“We’d better,” Overholt replied. “My ass is in the wind here. What’s the status on the bomb recovery?”
“Cabrillo and his team plan to pinpoint the location tomorrow and then call MI5,” Hanley said.
“I’m sleeping here in my office tonight,” Overholt said. “Call me if anything changes.”
“You have my word,” Hanley said.
DICK TRUITT GOT his key from the desk, then tipped the doorman to place his bag in his room. He walked down the hall to Cabrillo’s suite and knocked on the door softly. Meadows answered.
“Easy money,” Meadows said when he saw who it was. He stood aside to allow Truitt to enter. Truitt walked into the suite. Half-eaten plates of food sat around a table along with open files and notes.
“Morning, boss,” he said to Cabrillo.
Then he walked over to the telephone and called room service for a club sandwich and a Coca-Cola. Returning to the table, he slid into a chair.
“Halpert learned the identity of the soldier in the photographs you swiped,” Cabrillo said, “but how he’s tied to Hickman we’ve yet to determine.”
“He’s his son,” Truitt said simply.
“Well, hell,” Seng blurted, “that explains a lot.”
38
“HE HAS TObe,” Truitt said. “When I was in Hickman’s office I saw something that registered in my mind as odd but I didn’t have time to investigate it before he returned to the penthouse. On a shelf near his desk there was a set of bronze baby shoes.”
“That’s odd,” Cabrillo said. “Hickman has no known offspring.”
“Yes,” Truitt said, “but wrapped around them was a set of dog tags.”
“Did you have a chance to read the tags?” Seng, a former marine, asked.
“Nope, but I bet someone from the Las Vegas police could. The thing is, why would he have another man’s dog tags?”
“Unless they were from someone close,” Meadows said, “and that person was dead.”
“I’ll call Overholt and ask him to have the Las Vegas police check,” Cabrillo said. “You men get some rest. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”
Meadows and Seng filed out but Truitt remained. “I slept on the Gulfstream, boss,” he said. “Why don’t you give me the addresses you have and I’ll do a little late-night recon.”
Cabrillo nodded and handed Truitt the information. “Meet back here at eight a.m., Dick,” he said. “The rest of our people will be arriving then.”
Truitt nodded, then walked down the hall to change clothes. In five minutes he was riding down the elevator.
HALPERT WAS PULLING an all-nighter. The Oregonsurged toward London with only a minimum crew handling navigation. The operatives were asleep in their cabins and the ship was quiet. Halpert liked the solitude. Setting the computer to search the Department of Defense records, he walked down the hall to the galley and toasted a bagel while he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Smearing the bagel with cream cheese, he wrapped it up and slid it under his arm, then took the pot back with him to his office.
A single sheet of paper was sitting in his printer tray, and he picked it up and read it slowly. Christopher Hunt’s next of kin was his mother, Michelle Hunt, who was a resident of Beverly Hills, California.
Halpert entered her into the computer to see what he could find.
IT WAS FOUR A.M. London time when the Hawker 800XP carrying Hickman touched down at Heathrow. He was immediately met on the runway by a black Rolls-Royce limousine. The limousine set off through the deserted streets toward Maidenhead.
Hickman wanted to be at Maidenhead Mills when it opened. The rest of his team was due in from Calais soon and he had much to accomplish. He stared at the vial of plague he had bought from Vanderwald. A little of this and a little meteorite dust and voila.
THE INTERIOR OF the house was plush considering its location in London’s East End. Along the grittiest section of London proper, in the last few years the East End had become more upscale as high prices in Central London had forced the citizens farther away from the city center.
The three-story house on Kingsland Road, not far from the Geffrye Museum, had survived the bombings of World War II nearly unscathed. After years of life as a rooming house for the immigrants who had settled in the area in the late twentieth century, it had, for the last few years, been resurrected as a high-class whorehouse run by an old-line East End crime family named for its leader, Derek Goodlin.
The lower floor was a salon area with sitting rooms and a pub. The second floor was comprised of a casino with another bar along the wall, and the top floor contained the bedrooms, which were outfitted for a variety of tastes and fetishes.
As soon as Lababiti had pulled the Jaguar in front and climbed out with Amad, Derek Goodlin, who was operating the house this evening, had been alerted to his arrival. Goodlin, who was called “Bugs” behind his back because of his beady eyes and pockmarked skin, smiled, raced to the door and in his mind started counting his money.
Goodlin had dealt with the Arab before and he knew the house would make thousands before Lababiti called it a night.
“Chivas and Coke,” Goodlin ordered the bartender as he raced to greet his guest.
Swinging the door open, he smiled, showing thin, pointed teeth. “Mr. Lababiti,” he said with all the warmth of a snake encased in ice, “how good of you to join us this evening.”
Lababiti detested Goodlin. He was all that was wrong with the West. Goodlin sold sin and depravity—the fact that Lababiti was a frequent buyer made little difference.
“Evening, Derek,” Lababiti said quietly, taking the drink from the waiter who had raced over. “Still running your crooked game, I see.”
Goodlin smiled his evil smile. “I just supply what people want,” he said.
Lababiti nodded and motioned for Amad to follow him inside. Walking over to the ornate carved mahogany bar in the pub room, he slid into a chair alongside a round table with a lit candle on top. Goodlin followed behind like a lapdog.
“Will you be gaming this evening?” Goodlin asked once the pair was seated.
“Maybe later,” Lababiti said, “but for now, bring my friend here an Araq and then have Sally brought down.”