Reaching for the phone again, he dialed his hangar.
Get my plane ready for a trip to London.
AHOY, MEADOWS SAID to the man on the deck of the catamaran.
Ahoy, the man answered.
The man was tall, a shade over six foot four inches in height, and slim. His face was framed by a trimmed goatee and a tangled mess of graying eyebrows, and his eyes were clear and twinkled as if possessing a secret no one else knew. The man, who appeared the wrong side of sixty years of age, still had his hands inside the torpedo-shaped object.
Permission to come aboard?
Are you the sonar guy? the man said, grinning.
No, Meadows said.
Come on aboard anyway, the man said with a trace of disappointment.
Meadows climbed onto the deck and approached the man. He looked vaguely familiar. Then Meadows placed the face. Hey, Meadows said, youre that author, that
Retired author, the man said, smiling, and yes, Im him. Forget about that for a momenthow are you with electronics?
My oven is still on daylight savings time, Meadows admitted.
Damn, the author said, I blew the motherboard in this sonar and I need to get it fixed before the weather clears and we can go out again. The repairman was supposed to be here an hour ago. He must be lost or something.
How long have you guys been docked here? Meadows asked.
Four days now, the author said. Another couple more and Ill need to spring for new livers for my teamtheyve been sampling the local flavor. That is, except for one guyhe swore it off years ago and now hes hooked on coffee and pastries. The question is, where do I find these guys? These expeditions are like a floating insane asylum.
Oh, yeah, Meadows said, you like to do underwater archaeology.
Dont say archaeology on this vessel, the author joked. Archaeologists are on the same plane as necrophilia on this boat. Were adventurers.
Sorry, Meadows said, smiling. Hey, were looking into a theft on these docks a couple of nights ago. Did you guys lose anything?
Youre an American, the author said. Why would you be investigating a robbery in England?
Would you believe national security?
Oh, sure, the author said. Where were you when I was still writing? I had to make everything up.
Seriously, Meadows said.
The author considered this for a moment. Finally he answered. No, we didnt lose anything. This boat has more cameras on it than a Cindy Crawford swimsuit shoot. Underwater, above water, down in the cabins on the instruments, hell, probably in the head for all I know. I rented it from a film crew.
Meadows looked astonished. Did you tell the Brits that?
They didnt ask, the author said. They seemed a lot more interested in explaining to me that I hadnt seen anythingwhich I hadnt.
So you didnt see anything?
Not if it was late at night, the author said. Im over seventy years oldif its past ten at night, there had better be a fire or a naked girl if you want to wake me.
But the cameras? Meadows asked.
They run all the time, the author said. Were making a television show about the searchtapes are cheap, good footage is precious.
Would you mind showing them to me? Meadows asked.
Only, the author said, walking toward the door leading into the cabin, if you say pretty please.
Twenty minutes later, Meadows had what he had come for.
32
NEBILE LABABITI GLANCEDat the nuclear bomb sitting on the wood floor of the apartment just off the Strand with excitement tempered by apprehension. It was an inert objectmainly machined metal and a few copper wiresbut it elicited a feeling of awe and danger. The bomb was more than just an objectit had a life. Like a painting or sculpture infused with the life force of its creator, the bomb was not simply a hunk of metal. It was the answer to his peoples prayers.
They would strike directly at the heart of the British.
The hated British that had stolen artifacts from the pyramids, oppressed the citizens of the Middle East, and fought alongside the Americans in battles they had no place mounting. Lababiti was smack-dab in the center of the lions den. Downtown London was all around him. The City, where the bankers that funded the oppression resided; the art galleries, museums, and theatre districts of downtown were nearby. Number 10 Downing
Street, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace.
The palace. Home to the queen, the ancient symbol of all he despised. The pomp and circumstance, the righteousness and ceremony. Soon it would all burn with the fires from the sword of Islamand when it was over, the world would never be the same. The heart would be cut from the beast. The hallowed ground seeping with history would become a barren wasteland where the human soul would find no purchase.
Lababiti lit a cigarette.
It wouldnt be long now. Sometime today the young Yemeni warrior who had agreed to deliver the payload to the target would arrive in the city. Lababiti would wine and dine the boy. Supply whores and hashish and tasty treats. He could do no less for a man willing to commit to the cause with his life.