Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

“Pay the man,” he said to Seng.

Seng reached into his jacket pocket and removed a wad of bills, then broke the paper seal. Counting out fifty, he handed them to the owner. “Bob,” Seng shouted to Meadows, who was almost at the door, “verify for me.”

“You gave him five,” Meadows said, “duly noted.”

33

THE OREGON WAS racing through the North Sea like a whale on speed. In the control room, Hanley, Stone, and Ross were staring intently at a monitor that showed the location of the meteorite. The signals had calmed down since the frequency adjustment. Other than the occasional distortions that occurred when the bugs passed near high-powered electrical lines, they were finally receiving a clear image.

“The amphibious plane just landed in the Firth of Forth,” Stone noted, glancing at another screen. “It’s too foggy for him to locate Mr. Cabrillo.”

“Have him stand by,” Hanley said.

Stone relayed the message over the radio.

Reaching for the secure telephone, Hanley called Overholt.

“The truck turned toward Edinburgh,” Hanley said.

“The British have cordoned

off the inner city as well as the highways leading south,” Overholt told him. “If they start toward London, we’ll have them.”

“It’s about time,” Hanley said.

THE DRIVER OF the van disconnected and turned to his partner. “There’s been a change in plans,” he said easily.

“Flexibility is the key to both sex and stealth,” the passenger said. “Where are we headed?”

The driver told him.

“Then you’d better take a left up here,” the passenger said, staring at the road map.

CABRILLO DROVE ALONG, tracking the truck with his remote detector. It had been nearly twenty minutes since he’d seen the truck, but once they reached the series of villages around Edinburgh he’d sped up and was closing the gap.

Taking his eyes off the metal box, he stared at the countryside.

The fog was thick as he drove along the road, which was lined with fences built from rocks and stones. The trees were barren of leaves and appeared as stark skeletons against a gray backdrop. A minute or so before, Cabrillo had caught a glimpse of the Firth of Forth, the inlet that cut into Scotland from the North Sea. The water was black and tossing; the span of the suspension bridge near the edge of the water was barely visible.

Pressing down on the gas pedal, he stared at the box again. The signal was growing closer by the second.

“I WAS ORDERED to drop you in front and take off,” the driver said. “Someone will meet you farther down the line.”

The driver slowed in front of the Inverkeithing Railroad Station, then came to a stop near a porter with a baggage cart.

“Anything else?” the passenger asked as he reached to open the door.

“Good luck,” the driver said.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, the passenger waved his hand at the porter. “Come here,” he said, “I have something to load aboard.”

The porter wheeled the cart over. “Do you have your ticket already?”

“No,” the passenger said.

“Where’s the baggage?” the porter asked.

The passenger opened the rear of the van and pointed at the box.