The Cyclops Conspiracy (24 page)

Oliver spent his afternoons shuttling Kader and Fairing to the site. Sam had traveled down the previous day. Tomorrow, both would be flying down with him.

Kader pulled off five more shots. Oliver announced the results after each volley. Kader made her adjustments. Her final three rounds were placed in a nearly perfect cluster dead center from a mile away.

“That’s all for tonight, Oliver,” she said. “I’m dialed in.”

“It’s a pity that the world cannot appreciate your talents, Ms. Jasmine. The infidels will pay dearly.”

* * *

“He made a trip to the Windsor Towers this afternoon,” the young Secret Service agent explained. “Our guys followed him to some bridge near Lake Maury a couple miles up the road. He made a phone call from his cell phone, then proceeded to the towers.”

Special agent in charge Clay Broadhurst was reviewing the security procedures for the christening, reading from a list he’d prepared on his laptop. Everything was progressing as planned, except for one disturbing fact. Jason Rodgers was ignoring Broadhurst’s warnings to stay away from the shipyard. He was becoming a pain in the ass of enormous magnitude. “What did he do there?” Broadhurst demanded.

“We don’t know. He stopped at the gate, spoke to the attendant, then left. The agents followed him home. He’s there now.”

Broadhurst glanced at his watch. It was eight forty-five. Night had descended over Newport News. He looked out over the dark waters of the James from his borrowed work space, which served as one of two
command centers on shipyard property. The small, windswept waves were colored orange by the lights of the marine terminal.

“What’s the status on Rodgers’s background check?”

“I sent it to IB,” the junior agent replied. IB was the investigative branch of the service. “We’re still waiting for it.”

Broadhurst shook his head in displeasure. “Call them and tell them to get their asses moving! And I want that search warrant to examine his finances. I want to know what he eats for breakfast and what time he takes a shit every day.”

“I’ll get right on it. What do you want me to tell the guys on surveillance?”

Broadhurst stretched and clasped his hands behind his head. He removed a plastic container of Tums from his suit coat, shook two from the bottle, and popped them into his mouth. The heartburn felt like it was eating a hole in his stomach. It always got worse as the big day approached.

“Tell IB I want that report first thing in the morning. Then tell our guys to watch his house tonight and pay Jason Rodgers a visit before he leaves for work in the morning.” He held up a thumb and forefinger. “Make sure Rodgers knows he’s this close to finding his ass in jail.”

Her naked form hovered over him. She bobbed up and down in slow motion, as if floating on gentle, unfelt waves on an invisible ocean.

Jason’s head shifted fitfully as the image played out with his bedroom ceiling as its backdrop. Jasmine Kader’s stern demeanor in his dream was markedly different from her come-hither persona in real life. Her voice filled his ears with radio static, never rising to the level of coherence, but filling Jason with unease. Yet, in the time and space of this nightmare meaning penetrated, dredging the grooves of his subconscious, excavating memories of his noontime meal with her and the events that had followed, which until now had been locked away.

Jasmine Kader had interrogated him, probing, threatening, groping for information. His mind tried to grasp the purpose, but came up empty.

The sightlines of the dream blurred, wavering like a pane of glass coated with cascading water on a rainy day. He looked up from his bed at her naked form. At the caramel skin, delicate breasts, and soft curves. She was a perfect female specimen. Though he had never seen her undressed, his imagination filled in details. His loins
stirred. He reached for her with a tentative hand. Kader, the apparition, smiled and drifted out of reach.

Her right arm, covered by a sheath from shoulder to wrist, extended toward him gracefully. Her left hand slowly pulled back the sleeve. Jason shrank from the sight even before his eyes fully focused on the image.

The arm was not abnormal or grotesque. In fact, it was perfect and unblemished in every way, except for the tattoo. Through the wavy, undulating curtain, he discerned the marking. Jasmine moved her arm closer to him. It broke through the wavy drape as if coming from another dimension. The body art on the flawless skin repulsed him, convulsing him with dread.

Jason awoke with a jerk, eyelids fluttering. Temporarily paralyzed, stuck on the cusp between dream and reality, his chest heaved rapidly. Eventually, his muscles regained feeling. Movement returned, first to his fingers, hands, arms. He flexed his feet up and down, back and forth. He managed to find the floor, walked slowly to the bathroom, and splashed water over his face. Downstairs, he made coffee, turning the dream over, centrifuging two important realities into focus.

First, the tattoo was real.

Jason had seen it in the flesh through his drunken mist. His mind replayed snippets of their conversation at lunch. Staggering to his car. Jasmine grasping his arm. Heavy, pleasing perfume filling his nostrils. Then everything went black. He must have passed out. The next recollection was that of Jasmine and a man, helping him up the stairs. A liquid was squirted up his nose. His nostrils burned and his eyes watered. A minute later, the room began to roll and wave. He felt as he had after waking from an appendectomy many years ago.

He realized that he’d been drugged. Words had flowed from him in response to her pointed questions. Lies had been impossible. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said. But he told her what he knew. Why his mind was revealing it to him now, he would never know.

At some point, Jasmine had leaned in close to make sure he heard her words, her nose nearly touching his. Jason had reached out and
grabbed a fistful of blouse in an attempt to pull her close. Jasmine had been caught by surprise. He was a man under the influence of a narcotic and she, after all, was an extremely attractive woman.

Kader had tried to pull away, but Jason had held tight. She’d broken his grip, but not before her right sleeve rode up, exposing the forearm—and the tattoo. He’d seen the image before. It was identical to the one etched on the attacker’s arm at Pettigrew’s house. Jason hadn’t realized it until this very moment, but the hand-drawn sketch that Thomas had left in his files was a cruder version of the same design.

Jasmine Kader was tall and athletic, but she could never be confused with the brawny man who’d broken into Pettigrew’s home. They were two different people. Two identical tattoos in the same location on the forearm. Were Jasmine and the intruder part of the same organization or group?

Jason had assumed his attacker that day had been a robber, looking for loot. Now, Jasmine—adorned with the same tattoo—had drugged him and was asking difficult questions about his knowledge of the Colonial. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and sketched the image across the entire page. Ten minutes and three drafts later, he was satisfied. He folded it twice and put it in his wallet. He would compare it to the sketch Pettigrew had left in his files. But Jason was confident they were identical.

He gulped down the last of the coffee. The doorbell rang twice impatiently. Padding to the door, he threw it open. Two serious-faced men in dark suits and sporting sharp crew cuts glowered at him. The closest man held up an identification wallet. A bright gold badge with the star of the Secret Service was rammed into Jason’s face.

Lily Zanns’s policy forbidding electronic communications or over-the-air transmissions had been successful in keeping their operation undetected. Eavesdropping devices were everywhere. Hammon, she knew, nonetheless communicated by very advanced, high-tech methods. She was quite certain he was an American, with access to vast resources. The secret group he headed had access to a plethora of sophisticated devices. The Simoon did not. That was fine. There would be no e-mails, cell phone calls, or text messages about their mission. The only compromise she allowed was the rare coded phone call to the pizzeria in Hampton to set up the meetings with Cooper. So far, the strategy had worked.

Having to meet with Cooper face-to-face was becoming a chore. He had called an hour ago requesting another meeting. She despised the man sitting in her Mercedes more every time she laid eyes on him. “What is so important that you had to get me out here at this early hour?” she demanded.

The circular parking lot on the banks of the York River was deserted. They stood at redoubts nine and ten in the Yorktown National Battlefield. These two fortifications, held by the British, were vital to the defense of the hamlet more than two hundred years ago. If they’d fallen into the insurgent American hands, the small village would have been within range of the Continental Army’s cannons. An assaulting party led by Lieutenant Alexander Hamilton and supported by French troops stormed the earthworks in October 1781, capturing them, thus signaling the beginning of the end for the British.

Zanns had picked this location to have her clandestine meetings with Steven Cooper for its ironic historical significance. Zanns’s own assaulting party would be launching their attack on the imperialist nation that had become exactly what they’d despised so long ago in the British.

Zanns had driven herself to the meeting, a rare occurrence. Oliver had arrived late last night from taxiing Jasmine Kader to North Carolina and would be making a return trip in a matter of hours. The trips to the Camp in the deep woods were now daily. Preparation for their task on Saturday took precedence. So Zanns was relegated to the menial task of actually getting behind the wheel of her Maserati.

“Rodgers,” Cooper began, “was spotted at the Windsor Towers last night. We intercepted him calling the Colonial asking for Fairing’s phone number. He then called his brother and had him do a reverse look-up to get the address. Rodgers knows that Fairing lives in the towers. Hammon is extremely concerned!”

Zanns was already aware of this fact. Fairing had retrieved the message from the towers guard and had called her last night warning about Rodgers’s visit. Cooper’s men had followed the pharmacist as well. Cooper’s call this morning asking for a meeting was annoying but not unexpected.

“We’ve had a team following him since we learned of his return. He and two other men were seen coming out of the Newport News Police building,” Cooper continued.

She knew this also, but feigned ignorance. “You’ve been following him? There was no need! I have someone handling that. My person says Rodgers knows nothing about the real plan. He thinks it’s insurance fraud.”

“Who, your tramp, Jasmine? We saw her meet with him for lunch.”

Zanns leveled a disgusted look at the spy. Cooper was unaware Fairing and Kader were Zanns’s offspring. She hid her anger, resisting the urge to reach out and slap the tight smirk from his face. “I wouldn’t want to be on Jasmine’s bad side. She’s skilled with many weapons.”

Cooper ignored the threat and replied coolly, “When was the last time she spoke with him? My men haven’t seen her with Rodgers in days. What he knows may have changed. They’ve visited the police, and we have no idea what they said. He needs to be disposed of.”

“Rodgers is not to be killed. Two pharmacists dead at the Colonial in a matter of weeks would raise suspicion. He has no obvious vices that we can use to stage an accident, no drug use or alcohol. Anyway, there’s not enough time for him to put everything together.”

“Pettigrew was not a drunk. That didn’t stop you with the old man!”

Zanns glared. She was clutching at straws. There were many ways to eliminate Jason Rodgers without arousing suspicion. He would remain alive until such time she deemed it necessary to eliminate him.

“We’ll find out what he knows,” Cooper continued. “His house and car have been bugged. Cameras are in place. His cell phone is being monitored. He’ll be meeting with the brother, Peter, and two others. We suspect one of them is Christine, the daughter. The fourth person is the private investigator.”

“Where will the meeting take place?”

“At Rodgers’s house. We should know more then. He may have to be dealt with.”

“If suspicions are raised, they will look to me, Fairing, or Kader. We cannot have the police investigating before the plan is executed.”

“Lily, you’re a fool!” Cooper’s statement was calm and analytical.

Zanns aimed a string of French expletives at Cooper. She paused and gathered herself. “I will be confirming receipt of the funds by
tomorrow night. Every penny needs to be in the ten different accounts, or the plan will not be carried out. Are you ready to move it?”

Cooper bristled. “Of course. Twenty-four million dollars, to be wired into an escrow account in the bank in the Caymans. The flow of money cannot be reversed, our account will be closed, and the records deleted immediately after the transfer. Once the plan is executed, you can activate the password. The bank has specific instructions that the money is not to be moved until Sunday, when the password is presented. You will be given the password after the event, in a secure e-mail. The letters of the password will be embedded in a seemingly inane message, and can be retrieved using the predetermined numbering sequence. It will be routed through untraceable servers in Europe and Indonesia. We’ve paid a bank employee to monitor the news channels. Once news of the deed is public, he will know to release the funds to the password holder. If there’s no news, the password will be voided, and the funds will be rerouted to other accounts. Naturally, the bank employee will be eliminated shortly thereafter.

“If the funds aren’t moved before 9:00 a.m. Atlantic time—whether or not the deed is accomplished—they will be recirculated back to my agency through another string of accounts.” Cooper hesitated. “Suffice it to say, Lily, failure to produce results will not be looked upon favorably. You and your protégés will be marked and hunted. You’ve already been given earnest money.” Three years earlier, Zanns and her team had been given a nonrefundable deposit of twelve million dollars.