Sacred Stone

CLAY HUGHES LIVED in the mountains north of Missoula, Montana, in a cabin he’d built himself, on a plot of land 160 acres in size that he owned free and clear. A hot spring on his property provided heat for the cabin as well as for the series of greenhouses that supplied most of his food. Solar and wind energy provided electricity. Cellular and satellite telephone communications kept him in voice contact with the rest of the world. Hughes had a bank account in Missoula with a six-figure balance, an address at a pack-and-ship office to send and receive his mail, plus three passports, four social security numbers and driver’s licenses with different names and addresses.

Hughes liked his privacy—not uncommon among assassins who enjoy keeping low profiles.

“I have some work for you,” Hickman said.

“How much?” Hughes asked, cutting to the chase.

“Maybe five days, for fifty thousand dollars. And I supply the transportation.”

“I take it someone is going to have a bad day,” Hughes said. “What else?”

“I’ll need an object delivered somewhere when it’s done,” Hickman told him.

“Does it help the cause?” Hughes asked.

“Yes.”

“Then the delivery will be free,” Hughes said magnanimously.

“My jet will be there in an hour,” Hickman said. “Dress warm.”

“I want gold,” Hughes said.

“Gold it is,” Hickman said as he disconnected.

AN HOUR LATER a Raytheon Hawker 800XP touched down at the Missoula airport. Hughes shut off the engine of his restored 1972 International Scout. Reaching into the rear, he unzipped a bag and checked his firearms once again. Satisfied all was in order, he zipped the bag closed and lifted it out onto the ground. Then he closed the rear gate, bent down and armed the explosive device that he used as a burglar alarm.

If anyone messed with his vehicle while he was gone, the Scout would explode, hiding any evidence of his ownership as well as his personal papers. Hughes was nothing if not paranoid. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and made his way toward the jet.

Forty-seven minutes later the jet crossed into Canada on a north-northeast course.

5

THE DAY AFTER the e-mail from Greenland was intercepted, Langston Overholt IV was sitting in his office at CIA headquarters in Virginia, staring at a picture of the meteorite. He glanced at a report on iridium, then stared at his list of agents. As usual he was shorthanded. Reaching into a bowl on his desk, he removed a tennis ball and methodically began bouncing it against his wall and catching it when it returned. The repetition relaxed him.

Was this worth pulling agents off another assignment? It was always risk versus reward. Overholt was awaiting a report from the CIA scientists that might shed more light on the possible threat, but for right now it looked pretty straightforward. He needed someone to travel to Greenland and secure the meteorite. Once that was done, the risk was minimal. Since his agents were tied up, he decided to call an old friend.

“Two five two four.”

“This is Overholt. How’s Iceland?”

“If I eat another piece of herring,” Cabrillo said, “I could swim to Ireland.”

“Rumor has it you’re working for the commies,” Overholt said.

“I’m sure you know about it,” Cabrillo said. “Security breach in the Ukraine.”

“Yeah,” Overholt said, “we’re working it as well.”

Cabrillo and Overholt had been partners years before. A bad deal in Nicaragua had cost Cabrillo his job with the CIA, but he’d kept Overholt out of the mess. Overholt had never forgotten the favor and over the years he’d funneled Cabrillo and the Corporation as much work as oversight would allow.

“All this terrorism,” Cabrillo noted, “has been a boon for business.”

“Got time for a little side deal?”

“How many people will it require?” Cabrillo asked, thinking about the jobs they were already contracted for.

“Just one,” Overholt said.

“Full fees?”

“As always,” Overholt said, “my employer is not cheap.”

“Not cheap, just quick to fire.”

Cabrillo had never gotten over being hung out to dry, and with good reason. Congress had raked him over the coals, and his boss at the time had done nothing to cool the fire. He had about as much compassion for politicians and bureaucrats as he did for dental drills.

“I just need someone to run over to Greenland and pick something up,” Overholt told him. “Take a day or two.”

“You picked a prime time,” Cabrillo said. “It’s freezing cold and twenty-four-hour darkness this time of year.”

“I hear the Northern Lights are pretty,” Overholt offered.

“Why not have one of your CIA drones handle this?”

“As usual, none are available. I’d rather just pay your crew and wrap it up with a minimum of hassle.”

“We still have a few days’ worth of work here,” Cabrillo said, “before we’re free.”

“Juan,” Overholt said easily, “I’m pretty sure this is a one-man job. If you could just send one of your men over there and retrieve what we need, he’d be back before the end of the summit.”