Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

Amid all this tension, hatred, violence, and anger, everything needed to be in place for a safe and successful hajj, which was due to start on January 10.

There was less than two weeks to accomplish all the necessary preparations.

SAUD AL-SHEIK STUDIED a stack of documents on his clipboard. There were still a thousand and one details, and the time of pilgrimage was quickly drawing near. His latest problem had just cropped up—the new prayer rugs he had ordered from England. They were not finished yet and the mill had just changed hands.

That, combined with the fact that England was

not exactly held in esteem by his people because of the UK’s support of the United States in the occupation of Iraq, was creating a hassle. Al-Sheik wondered if a bribe to the mill was in order. He’d pay them extra to complete the order and then run them through a broker in Paris to disguise their country of origin.

That would take care of both problems at once.

Pleased with his idea, he took a sip of tea and reached for his cell phone to place the call.

AT THAT MOMENT, the Greek cargo ship Larissa limped into the English Channel. The captain stared at his charts. He had been ordered to dock at the Isle of Sheppey, and he had never made port there before. His usual ports were Dover, Portsmouth and Felixstowe. What the captain had no way of knowing was that the British authorities had recently installed radiation detectors in his usual ports. By contrast, the Isle of Sheppey was as wide open as the Grand Canyon. And the people that had hired him knew this.

The captain studied his chart, then made his course correction. Then he scratched the scab on his arm. The Larissa plowed along, with smoke from the aging diesel engine venting out the single stack. She was a dying ship carrying a deadly cargo.

25

DWYER GLANCED DOWN at the dry desert ground as the Sikorsky S-76 helicopter flew above northern Arizona. Miles away to his left, he could see a snowcapped range of peaks. The view of the snow-covered mountains surprised him. Like most people who had never visited the state, Dwyer had been under the impression that the land would be an endless stretch of sand and cacti. Arizona, it now appeared, had a little of everything.

“How often does it snow here?” he asked the pilot through the headset.

“Those peaks are over near Flagstaff,” the pilot said. “They receive enough to support a ski area. The tallest peak is Humphries—it’s over twelve thousand feet.”

“This was not what I expected,” Dwyer admitted.

“Most people,” the pilot said, “say the same thing.”

The pilot had been a little reticent since first meeting Dwyer two hours ago in Phoenix. Dwyer couldn’t blame him—he was certain that the higher-ups in charge of Arizona’s homeland security had told the pilot nothing about Dwyer’s position or the purpose of the trip. Most people preferred to have at least a vague idea of their mission.

“We’re flying to the crater so I can remove some rock samples,” Dwyer said, “to take to a lab for testing.”

“That’s all?” the pilot said, visibly relaxing.

“Yep,” Dwyer answered.

“Sweet,” the pilot said, “because you can’t believe some of the assignments I’ve had lately. I almost hate to come to work some days.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’ve ended my shift in a chemical detox shower more than once,” the pilot said, “not my idea of a good day at the office.”

“This should be a piece of cake,” Dwyer assured him.

The revelation loosened the pilot’s jaw and he gave Dwyer a nonstop travelogue of the sights they were passing for the remainder of the flight. Twenty minutes later he pointed forward through the windshield. “There she is.”

The meteor crater was a massive pockmark on the dusty terrain. Upon seeing the sight from the air, it was not difficult to imagine the force that would have been required to make such a deep penetration of the earth’s crust. It was like a giant had taken a huge ball-peen hammer and whacked the earth. The dust clouds after the impact must have been visible for months afterward. The edge of the crater, a pie-crust-like circle, loomed ahead.

“Which side, sir?” the pilot asked.

Dwyer scanned the ground. “There,” he said, “near that white pickup.”

The pilot slowed the Sikorsky, then hovered and sat her down smoothly.

“I was ordered to remain aboard,” the pilot said, “and monitor the radio traffic.”

After the pilot had gone through his shutdown procedure and the rotor blade had stopped, Dwyer climbed out and walked over to a man in a cowboy hat and boots standing off to the side. The man extended his hand, and Dwyer shook it firmly.