“Sir,” the technician shouted, “we’re going to lose it. I’m at full positive pressure and the vacuum is growing.”
Dwyer stared into the room. He was seconds away from a maelstrom. Then it hit him like a fist. Taking a step over to the board, he flipped on the laser. The laser lit up and the firing end began to wildly spin. Smoke filled the room as it gyrated around then touched down on the sample. Wherever the laser touched, it burned.
“The pressure is dropping,” the technician yelled a second later.
“Back off the incoming air,” Dwyer ordered.
The objects in the room began to settle as the pressure was restored. A few minutes later, things were back to normal. Dwyer shut down the laser and stared into the room.
“Sir,” the technician said a moment later, “would you mind telling me what just happened?”
“I think,” Dwyer said, “there is something in those samples that likes the taste of our atmosphere.”
“Good God,” the technician said quietly.
“Luckily for us,” Dwyer said, “we just found both the disease and the cure.”
“There is more of that out there?” the technician said warily.
“A hundred pounds.”
SOON THE PILGRIMS would begin pouring into Saudi Arabia on chartered planes, buses from Jordan and ships crossing the Red Sea from Africa. Saud Al-Sheik still had a thousand details to attend to, foremost of which was arranging delivery of the prayer rugs. He had been promised that the new owner of the mill would call him tomorrow. So he called the Saudi National Airline and arranged for transportation space on a 747 cargo plane in two days’ time.
If the prayer rugs did not get here on time, not even his family connections could spare him from the wrath he would face. He stared around the warehouse in Mecca. Pallets of food and bottled water stretched to the ceiling. A forklift truck drove in and lifted the first container of tents from the floor to load into the truck for delivery to the stadium.
Tomorrow the first of the tents would be erected.
From then on, things would move very fast.
Making a note to make sure the poles, stakes and guidelines were taken, Al-Sheik walked toward the door to make sure the driver loaded the truck properly.
JEFF PORTE GATHERED up the items he was taking from Hickman’s office and stared at the head of security. “Our warrant gives us the right to any and all items we determine might be of value.”
The large manila folder in Porte’s hand contained documents, the dog tags and a few stray hairs he’d found on the desk.
“I understand, Jeff,” the head of security said.
“Two of my men will remain here,” Porte said, “in case we need anything else.”
The security chief nodded.
Porte headed for the door and walked down the hall toward the living room, where his two detectives were waiting.
“No one in or out,” Porte said, “unless I okay it.”
Walking from the penthouse, Porte rode down in the elevator, exited the lobby and climbed into his car. As soon as he returned to the Las Vegas Police Department he copied the dog tags and the other documents, then faxed them to the CIA.
As soon as Overholt received them he forwarded them on to the Oregon.
HANLEY WAS READING the stack of papers when Halpert entered the control room.
“Mr. Hanley,” he said, “I have my report.”
Hanley nodded and handed him the papers Overholt had sent. Halpert read them, then handed them back.
“This confirms my findings,” Halpert said. “I found Hunt’s birth certificate. His mother, Michelle, did not list the father but I managed to access the old hospital records and learned that the bill had been paid by one of Hickman’s companies. There’s no doubt now that Hunt was Hickman’s son.”
“So what does that have to do with the meteorite?” Hanley asked.
“Look at this,” Halpert said, handing Hanley a file.
“Hunt was killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan,” Hanley said after he had finished reading.
“Right after that, Hickman started exhibiting strange behavior,” Halpert said, reading from his notes.
“So he blames the Arab world for the death of his only son,” Hanley said.
“So how did he come to fund the expedition to Greenland?” Stone asked.
“Apparently, since the death of his son, Hickman has funded numerous archaeological departments across the country. Ackerman’s expedition for UNLV was one of several slated for the year. The primary one was an expedition to Saudi Arabia by a scholar who is trying to discredit the legend of Muhammad as a myth. Ackerman’s was outside that realm but he received funds anyway. I think that the recovery of the meteorite was just a stroke of luck.”
“So Hickman decided at first to use history to attack the Arab world,” Hanley said slowly, “then, as if from the gods themselves, the meteorite drops in his lap.”
“But that has nothing to do with Islam or Muhammad,” Stone noted.
Halpert nodded. “At that point I think Hickman decided more direct retribution was needed. I found records he pulled up on his computer dated right after Ackerman’s finding. They explain the radioactive nature of iridium and the dangers it poses.”
“So he decides to grab the meteorite and then what,” Hanley said slowly, “combine it with an existing warhead and bomb some Arab country?”
“That’s what has taken me so long,” Halpert admitted. “At first I was following that same train of thought—that the meteorite was to be used somehow in a nuclear fashion. That was a dead end—there is simply nothing to tie him to the Ukrainian nuclear device or any other—so I started to branch out in my thinking.”
“Radioactive dust?” Hanley asked.
“That’s the only other logical use,” Halpert said.
“What else have you found?”
“I found records that Hickman just purchased a textile mill in England, near the town of Maidenhead.”
“That’s right about the current location of the meteorite according to the tracking data,” Stone said.
“He’s planning to sprinkle it onto clothes and send them to the Middle East?” Hanley asked.
“I don’t think so, sir,” Halpert said slowly. “The mill has a large order from Saudi Arabia for a shipment of woven prayer mats that has yet to be delivered.”
“So he’s planning to sprinkle the dust on the prayer rugs and infect the Muslims while they pray,” Hanley said. “Diabolically evil.”
“He arrived in London on his jet early this morning,” Halpert said. “I think—”
Right then Hanley’s telephone rang and he motioned to Halpert to wait while he answered. It was Overholt and he got right to the point.
“We have a problem,” Overholt began.
“NO,” THE HEAD of security for Dreamworld said, “I’m calling from my home phone. I don’t think it’s tapped.”
Continuing, he explained about the warrant and the items the detectives had removed.
Hickman listened.
“Where are you now, sir?” the head of security asked. “They would really like to speak to you.”
“It’s better that you don’t know,” Hickman said.
“Is there anything you want us to do?”
“Right now,” Hickman said, “there’s nothing anyone can do but me.”
Disconnecting, Hickman sat back in the chair in the office at Maidenhead Mills.
Someone in the government was hard on his trail. It would not be long until they traced him to his current location. Reaching for the telephone, he dialed.
THE CREWMEN FROM the Free Enterprisethat had remained in Calais when the vessel sailed north had arrived in London this morning. There were four men, a skeleton crew really, but they were all Hickman had left. He telephoned them with their orders.