Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

Lababiti nodded. “I need to go out to my car and get some more pounds. Just finish your drink and I’ll be right back.”

“Then we can discuss bonuses?” Coustas asked, raising the partially filled glass to his lips and taking a sip.

“Bonuses as well as the transfer of cargo,” Lababiti said, rising. “I assume you’ll take payment in gold?”

Coustas nodded as Lababiti walked toward the door. He was high on ouzo and newfound wealth. Everything seemed perfect in his world—until he felt the pain in his chest.

LABABITI MOTIONED TO the barkeep that he was walking outside for a second, using a single raised finger, then he exited the bar and walked up the street to his Jaguar sedan. The street was empty, littered with trash, and barely illuminated by the few operational streetlights.

It was an avenue of broken dreams and misplaced hope.

Lababiti never hesitated or faltered. He unlocked the door of the Jaguar with his key fob and then climbed inside and started the engine. Adjusting the volume on the CD player, he slid the sedan into gear and pulled smartly away.

When the owner of the bar raced out onto the street to report to the smartly dressed foreigner that his friend had taken ill, all he caught was the sight of taillights as the Jaguar crested the hill and disappeared.

BRITISH POLICE INSPECTORS usually don’t show up when people die in bars. It happens frequently and the causes are usually obvious. For Inspector Charles Harrelson to be summoned from bed required a call from the office of the coroner. And at first he was none too happy. After packing tobacco into his pipe, he lit the bowl and stared down at the body. Then he shook his head.

“Macky,” he said to the coroner, “you woke me up for this?”

The coroner, David Mackelson, had worked with Harrelson for nearly two decades. He knew the inspector was always a little testy when he was awakened from a deep sleep.

“You want a cuppa, Charles?” Macky said quietly. “I can probably get t

he owner to make us one.”

“Not if I’m going back to sleep,” Harrelson said, “which I think I will be, judging by the looks of this unfortunate soul.”

“Oh,” Macky said, “I think you might need one.”

Pulling back the sheet over Coustas’s body, Macky pointed to the red marks on his arms.

“Know what that is?” he asked Harrelson.

“No idea,” Harrelson said.

“Those are radiation burns,” Macky said, removing a tin of snuff and snorting some into his nose. “Now, Charles, are you glad I woke you?”

29

ADAMS CAUGHT A glimpse of the Cessna, motioned to Cabrillo, and pointed at the moving map on the navigation system.

“He’ll be crossing over land in the next few minutes,” Adams said through the headset.

“Hopefully,” Cabrillo said, “the RAF will be there to greet him. Then we can wind this up and be done with it. How’s our fuel?”

Adams pointed to the gauge. The headwinds had taken their toll, and the needle was just above empty. “We are pretty far into the reserve, boss, but we have enough to reach land. After that there’s no telling, however.”

“We’ll touch down and refuel,” Cabrillo said confidently, “as soon as Hanley informs us that the jets have made the intercept.”

But at that moment Hanley was fighting through layers of red tape on two continents.

“WHAT THE HELL do you mean there’s no planes?” he said to Overholt.

“The quickest the British can scramble a jet is ten minutes from now,” Overholt said, “from Mindenhall, which is down south. They have nothing currently based in Scotland. To make matters worse, their assets in the south are stretched like we are—most of their fighter wings are deployed to help us in Iraq and Africa.”

“Does the U.S. have a carrier in the area?” Hanley asked.

“Nope,” Overholt said, “the only vessel we have in the sea close by is a guided-missile frigate that has been ordered to intercept the yacht steaming from the Faeroe Islands.”