The Cyclops Conspiracy (27 page)

The same tattoo, stenciled on all of their arms, was the Arabic symbol for
Simoon
, “the Poison Wind.” It was the only link to her ultrasecret group—and to the group’s architect. Zanns had made them get the body art many years ago. The select few remaining in her homeland carried the same design on their arms. If the Americans figured out who was behind the Simoon before the event, they’d cancel it, and all their work would be wasted. As much as she wanted Rodgers alive to serve as their red herring, Lily Zanns understood the deeper, more pressing implications of his discovery.

How Pettigrew came to be in possession of it, she didn’t know. At this point, it really didn’t matter. What did matter was that Jason Rodgers and his three cohorts had seen it twice and knew there was a connection to her, to Jasmine, Sam, and Oliver. Rodgers had shown it to the three other members of his team. And because of that, all four had become liabilities. Rodgers’s cronies would be rewarded with painful deaths. Jason Rodgers himself would be neutralized only after he’d served her purposes. It was time for the evidence Jasmine had planted in Rodgers’s house to be put to use.

Cooper continued speaking, his words barely registering as Lily pondered the situation. His final statement jerked her back to reality. “If this blows up because of your incompetence, the deal’s off—and you’re out twenty-four million dollars.”

Zanns studied him briefly. “Tell Hammon it will all be taken care of in twenty-four hours—including that pain in the ass, Rodgers.”

Peter Rodgers traced his finger over his brother’s drawing. To the uninitiated, it resembled a fragment of an electrocardiogram, a squiggly line, nothing more. But it stirred in him distant yet painful memories. Memories he’d spent years conquering.

If there was anyone who could figure this out, it was Johnson. The last time either of them had seen it had been about thirty seconds before Lance Corporal Rodriguez had been blown into three large chunks and Tom Johnson lost both legs. Afterward, Peter had passed the intel up the chain, then went back to his other duties. In weeks, the symbol—but not the carnage—had been forgotten.

Peter dialed the number. Three rings later, Tom Johnson picked up.

“You legless good-for-nothing computer hack. You couldn’t find your ass with a GPS, a compass, and a blood hound,” said Peter.

It took a moment, but Johnson recognized his friend’s voice. “Peter-fucking-Rodgers, how they hell are you, Sarge?”

“Earning an honest living, giving Americans a choice when it comes to buying firearms. Tom, you’re not going to believe what I’m looking at.”

* * *

Both her children were soldiers of the cause and knew nothing else. They’d been indoctrinated from a young age. Zanns knew that someday they would give their lives for her purpose. But in very different ways.

Lily Zanns possessed no maternal emotions. She did not think of Jasmine as her own flesh and blood. Though she’d given birth to her in a difficult twenty-hour labor and nurtured her into a beautiful, intelligent woman, Lily viewed her daughter as a soldier to be sacrificed. Of course, she would be martyred, hailed as a heroine. But ultimately—though she did not know it—Jasmine was expendable. She was, after all, female, and therefore had no claim to her father’s birthright.

Sam was a different story. He, too, was a soldier and had been groomed for a historic fate. He was as skilled as his younger sister in weapons, hand-to-hand combat, explosives, and military tactics. His future, however, held no bounds. Because he was male and her firstborn, Sam was destined to fill his father’s shoes in a spectacular fashion. Zanns had revealed that destiny to him almost a year ago, while she mourned the death of Sam’s father. It was then that she’d told him of their real plan. Like a true patriot, he hadn’t shrunk from it, but instead relished the idea.

At that time, Zanns had been two years into planning the jihad. First they would strike the infidels a crippling blow. Then, using the momentum from the devastating attack, they would set in motion the tumbling political dominoes that would cast out the imperialistic bastards, returning their country to its rightful place atop the Muslim and Arab world.

Zanns had already begun to lay the groundwork for Sam’s ascent. Through other, trusted members of the Simoon back on the Arabian Peninsula, their coalition had been taking shape. Inside her homeland, they had reached out to potent Shi’a and Sunni power brokers and select religious leaders who were unhappy with the American occupation. Members of the Islamic Dawa Party and Supreme Islamic
Council who had been wooed with the money and the promise of power were already on board. Outside her country, factions sympathetic to their cause would provide soldiers, intelligence, and funds. Hammas, Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, the Palestinian Liberation Front, the Islamic Jihad Union, Al-Shabaab. Each in turn would be promised a seat at the table when the new order took shape. They would cast the American pigs out of their homeland and the Middle East altogether, and then they would turn their attention to annihilating the Jews from the face of the planet.

At the head of that table would sit her son, Sam. By then he would be known by his given name, Sharif. When Sam’s bravery in striking down the infidels became worldwide news, he would be positioned to fulfill their glorious mission. His father and Allah would look down from heaven and smile upon them.

Her bastard children had been her ticket to a life of privilege because of their father’s prominence, status, and wealth. Her countrymen had starved and cowered under an oppressive thumb, but Zanns ignored those inconsistencies. After all, she loved the dictator,
her
dictator, Amo. Amo was his favorite, pet name. A name he let only those close to him use.

His real name was well known to the entire world—infamous, in fact. It was a name synonymous with death and suffering.

Zanns reflected as she took in the furniture, artifacts, and photos around her spacious study. She felt a brief twinge of sentiment. She recalled the turbulent twists and turns that had led her into his arms, and ultimately to this moment. Allah truly had tapped her for immortality.

Her biological parents were kind, loving souls who’d named her Delilah. Henri was a large black man with massive, gentle hands, who would lift her high above his head to squeals of delight. Imane was a dark-skinned Catholic missionary of Middle Eastern descent. They lived a quiet life in Iraq in a small village near Babil. Zanns smiled to herself. She was the only person still alive on the planet who knew that she’d been born to Christian parents.

At the age of ten, she’d returned home from school and called for her mother. When there was no response, Delilah began to look for her. Her search ended quickly and tragically.

Upon entering the bedroom of the small house, Delilah was assailed by the sight of blood everywhere. Her mother’s throat had been slashed. Her dress was pulled up around her waist. Delilah knew unspeakable acts had been perpetrated on her before she died. Her father, on the other hand, had been shot twice. His testicles had been cut off and stuffed into both cheeks.

The hard-packed, earthen floor had turned black as it mixed with her parents’ blood. The walls were smeared with cursed writings, using the crimson ink from her parent’s veins.

Delilah screamed and fled the house, fearing the attackers would come for her. The next ten days were a blur. She roamed the desert, stopping to steal food and sleeping in the cold night air under the stars. On the tenth day, she snuck into a house whose occupants appeared to be away. Delilah found several pieces of bread and some goat’s milk, devouring them quickly. She roamed the house. Finding a shawl, she swung it around her shoulders. When she turned, she saw the man standing in the doorway. She could see in his eyes that her-now tragic life would take another step downward into the pit of fire.

The man looked over his shoulder out the door to be certain they were alone. He blocked Delilah’s only avenue of escape. The rape lasted hours. The man relented only because he grew tired. Delilah was tied and left exposed and bleeding until nightfall.

His name was Muhsin, which means beneficent and charitable. He was far from it. The wife’s was named Fadwa. They kept her tied her up for two straight weeks. She was not allowed to bathe and was only untied so she could relieve herself while Muhsin watched. Her captivity lasted nearly a year. Muhsin beat her mercilessly, making her an example to his three daughters. During her slavery, Fadwa gave Delilah the most unpleasant of chores. The daughters ridiculed her. Once, she tried to run, but Muhsin ran her down a few hundred
meters from the house. He unleashed on her a savage beating. Delilah knew then she would only be free when Muhsin and Fadwa no longer drew breath. That day, she began devising a plan.

Muhsin enjoyed his opium. As she performed her chores, Delilah stumbled upon his stash one morning. She scraped some of the powder from the small container into her palm. Over the course of a few months, Delilah managed to squirrel away enough to kill a horse. Her opportunity came one night when Fadwa had taken the girls to visit her mother in a village up the road. Delilah knew what would happen that night. Muhsin came to her. Delilah endured it. When Muhsin demanded tea, Delilah mixed a large amount of opium into it. Thirty minutes later, Muhsin was in a drug-induced coma. She found a large boulder and caved in his skull. For good measure, she cut off his manhood and stuffed it into his mouth as revenge for her father’s mutilation.

Delilah ran for hours through the night, stopping to rest for a few minutes every so often. Fearing Muhsin would awaken from death and drag her back, she refused to stop. She stumbled upon a road in the dark night. As luck would have it, a large, dark sedan was passing and nearly hit her. The car screeched to a halt. A stout, robed man emerged from the backseat along with the driver and helped her into the car.

Seeing her state of malnutrition and uncleanliness, the man questioned the young girl. Delilah sat rocking in the soft leather, crying, unable to put into words what had happened or what she had done.

“My name is Ahmed,” he told her. “Whatever you are afraid of cannot hurt you here. You are safe, my child.”

She slept on the soft leather during the ride. When she awoke, it was daylight. Ahmed coaxed her from the vehicle. They had stopped outside a beautiful religious building. “Come, child,” he said. “You are safe now. This is my mosque. No one can hurt you.”

“Where are we?” asked Delilah.

“Far away from your tormentors. Near Tikrit.”

He took her inside, where he knelt in prayer. Delilah watched, fascinated. When he was finished, he led her outside and down a
path to his house a hundred meters away. The imam’s wife made her a sumptuous lunch. Delilah showered, was given fresh clothes, and slept restfully for the first time in over twelve months. Never again would she experience poverty or fear.

The cleric and his spouse guided her to adulthood, educating her and revealing to her that Allah was the one true God and Islam the one true faith.

During that time, the cleric introduced her to a very good friend of his. A young man, tall and dark, with a thick, bushy moustache. He had been exiled, had returned, and was soon to be jailed. Over the course of the next ten years, she would meet him several times more. Though he was married to three other wives over the years, that young man gave her two children and changed Delilah’s life forever. Delilah, a.k.a. Lily Zanns, had even taken his name.

Now her every action had been in preparation to avenge him, to perpetrate the ultimate jihad. Three years of tedious preparation would come down to an event that would last less than five seconds. Her children, her soldiers, were prepared, ready for battle—ready to die. After tonight, she would never see Jasmine again. She would only look upon her son many years from now. They would avenge their father, a man they had never known.

The whole world knew the public person. Zanns knew the private man—intimately. She had caressed his warm, olive skin and looked into his soulless eyes as he ravaged her in animalistic love. Though they would never be together again, she ached for those long-ago days. This mission was her final tribute to him.

Zanns removed a folded piece of paper from inside her blouse. She always kept it close to her heart, stuffed inside her brassiere. Unfolding it, she scanned Amo’s final letter to his people, penned days before his death. She read the final paragraph, her favorite passage:

Dear faithful people, I say good-bye to you, but I will be with the merciful God who helps those who take revenge
in him and who will never disappoint any faithful, honest believer…Allahu Akbar…Allahu Akbar…Long live our nation…Long live our great struggling people…Long live Iraq, long live Iraq…Long live Palestine…Long live jihad and the mujahedeen.

Saddam Hussein Abd-al-Majid al-Tikriti, President and Commander in Chief of the Iraqi Mujahed Armed Forces

With two fingers, she stroked the amulet hanging around her neck. Opening it, she gazed down at his smiling face. Amo, her beloved Amo, had been taken into custody years ago, captured in a spider hole by the Americans. She’d tracked his case through the media and secret messages embedded in the web site, which were relayed through his incompetent lawyers. Then she had watched the horrific cell phone video as he was ridiculed while the noose was placed around his neck.

She missed him deeply, but she knew Saddam would be pleased by her work.

* * *

It had happened again. She’d made a fool of herself over a man.

Jason had been the latest in a string of failed relationships. Initially, he’d seemed different than the others. He was so kind and attentive. But then that brat of a son demanded too much attention, getting in the way of her quality time with Jason. And that bitch of an ex-wife was always calling to talk about the Little Prince. She, Sheila Boquist, deserved some consideration, some attention, too. What was so difficult about that?