Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

“Abso-freaking-lutely,” Nasuki said.

“I’ve got to go,” Dwyer said quickly.

“Somehow,” Nasuki said, “I knew you were going to say that.”

20

AT ABOUT THE time Cabrillo had touched down in Greenland, two men met in an abandoned waterfront building in Odesa, Ukraine, half a world away. Unlike the Hollywood staged switches, where teams of armed men converge on an area to switch cash for munitions, this gathering was decidedly less exciting. Just a pair of men, one large wooden crate, and one large black nylon bag containing the payoff.

“Payment is mixed like you requested,” one of the men said in English, “greenbacks, British pounds, Swiss Francs and Euros.”

“Thanks,” the second man said in Russian-accented English.

“And you had the records changed to show that this weapon was secretly sold to Iran in 1980?”

“Yes,” the second man answered. “From the old communist government to the radical Khomeini forces that overthrew the shah, with the money from the sale being used to fund the Russian occupation of Afghanistan.”

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; “The trigger?”

“We included a new one in the box.”

“Mighty white of you,” the first man said, smiling. He reached over and shook the second man’s hand. “You have that number to call if there is any trouble.”

“I will,” the second man said.

“You’re leaving the Ukraine, right?” the first man asked as he slid the crate along a roller ramp into the rear of a one-ton truck.

“Tonight.”

“I’d get far away,” the first man said as he pulled down the truck door and secured the latch.

“Australia far enough?”

“Australia would be just fine,” the first man said.

Then he walked to the front of the truck, climbed into the seat, shut the door and started the engine. Less than an hour later at a different dock the crate was loaded aboard an old cargo ship for the transit of the Black Sea—the first leg of a much longer journey.

AFTER LEAVING ODESA, the Greek cargo ship Larissa bobbed on the swells as she steamed east through the Mediterranean. To the starboard, the rocky cliffs of Gibraltar rose into the sky.

“Dirty fuel,” the grubby mechanic said. “I cleaned the filter and it should be okay now. As for the clunking, I think that’s just piston slap. The diesels need rebuilding, badly.”

The captain nodded and puffed on an unfiltered cigarette, then he scratched his arm. A rash had started forming off Sardinia that now extended from wrist to elbow. There was little the captain could do—the Larissa was still fourteen hundred miles and four days from her destination. He stared up as a large oil tanker passed alongside, then reached over and opened a jar of petroleum jelly and slathered some on the raw skin.

His deadline for delivering his mysterious cargo was New Year’s Eve.

Now that the fuel problem was solved, he was starting to feel he’d make the London deadline. Once there, his plan was to make the delivery, drink in the New Year at a waterfront bar, then locate a doctor the following day to look at the rash.

The man had no way of knowing the next doctor he’d see would be a coroner.

21

THE VIEW FROM the front window of the helicopter was a field of lights. On Hanley’s orders the crew of the Oregon had lit all the available lights and the ship looked like a Christmas tree against the dark sky. Flying with only instruments was nerve-racking, and Adams was glad they could soon touch down. Lining up behind the stern, he descended and hovered at the rear of the ship then gradually eased forward until the Robinson was over the landing pad.

Then Adams lightly touched down and began the shutdown procedure.

“Hard flight,” Cabrillo said as he waited for the rotor blade to stop spinning.