Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

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.”