The Cyclops Conspiracy (30 page)

* * *

The package sat on Zanns’s elegant desk. Another cardboard shipper wrapped in black plastic. Sam and Lily sipped coffee in silence from demitasses.

“Where is Jasmine?” she asked her son.

“She dropped me off about an hour ago,” Fairing replied. “If she is late, she must have a good reason.”

As with all the other deliveries, the packaged contained highly classified information. With each shipment, Zanns and her Simoon had been able to plan their attack with amazing precision. The pearls contained within tonight’s package would finalize their attack. Would it be the final go-ahead? Or would all of their work be cancelled? Zanns silently recited a verse from the Quran, praying to Allah that everything was in place. The package would not be opened it until everyone was present and they were well up the York River. The hyper-sensitive nerves in her gut danced to a rapid tempo.

* * *

Jason explained Zanns’s security system to Peter and Waterhouse. He remembered her bragging about the ground sensors and infrared lasers.

Waterhouse found a gap in a hedgerow, a quarter mile downriver from Zanns’s estate. They followed the slope to the James and made their way north along the shore to the edge of Zanns’s property. They moved only when the clouds sporadically hid the moon.

Waterhouse carried bags with the parabolic microphone and its camcorder in a case slung over his shoulder, along with another bag of electronic equipment. Jason lugged a video camera and tripod. Peter had jammed his pistol into the waistband of his back and was on point.

Along the water’s edge, they hunched low, heading north toward the mansion. They passed through three properties, staying as far from the houses as possible, skirting the water, and staying out of view of the houses’ occupants. Piers berthed large powerboats suspended
from covered lifts. The third dock sported a small, metal johnboat outfitted with a small outboard motor and three fishing rods.

Peter held up a clenched fist, stopping the trio. They knelt near a hedge, looking out over the water. Zanns’s yacht, moored a hundred yards offshore, was backlit by the moon. The low rumble of its idling engines caught their attention. Twenty-five yards beyond, the float plane bobbed, unattended.

The motorized dingy
Retribution
was tied to the larger vessel, and though a service boat, it was larger than any vessel Jason could afford. The clanging of hatches interrupted the humming engines. They watched as a tall man walked along the port side and climbed a ladder to the bridge.

“That’s Oliver, Zanns’s assistant. What the hell is he doing out there at this hour?” Jason asked.

“I don’t know, but if they’re going for a ride, we’ve got a problem,” Waterhouse replied.

“We’ve got to know what they’re discussing, or we may never find out what this is all about,” Jason whispered sternly.

“If anyone’s got any bright ideas, now’s the time to speak up,” Peter said.

* * *

Zanns answered the bell herself.

“Daughter, what kept you?” she asked when she opened the door and saw Jasmine climbing the steps. The sensors out front chimed that a car had entered the drive.

“I drove by Ms. Boquist’s house to make sure that the police are making the appropriate progress. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“Nonsense. What did you find out?”

“They are on scene now. My contact in York County says they’re tracing the gun. They should know that it is Rodgers’s in about thirty minutes.”

“Excellent,” Zanns said, smiling. “Let us have a drink before we sail. Cooper’s men have placed tracking devices on the cars of Rodgers and his accomplices. Those cars are sitting idle. Do you know where Rodgers is right now?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” Kader replied. “After the incident at the restaurant, he did not go home.”

* * *

Peter and Jason humped back to the dock. Waterhouse stayed behind, keeping an eye on the house and yacht. Finally, Oliver climbed into
Retribution
, leaving
Vengeance’s
diesel engines purring. The engine of the powered launch whined to life. With a turn of the wheel and a push on the throttle, the launch zipped into a tight turn, heading for shore.

Using the cover of the high-pitched engine noise, Waterhouse whistled two short blasts. A minute later, Jason returned to Waterhouse’s side. “The big guy just headed for shore,” the private investigator said.

“Pete’s got the boat ready,” Jason replied. “He won’t start it until everyone’s on board and they’re under way. They’re definitely going for a ride.”

“We need a different plan. We can’t get close enough to use the parabolic mike without being spotted. We’ll have to get this contact mike on board.” Waterhouse held a tiny listening device. “It’s small enough to be put anywhere. In a lamp, under a desk, in a bookcase. Then I can tune a radio and a recorder to the frequency, and we’ll be able to hear what they’re saying. Someone’s going to have to swim out there and place it on the boat.”

“We don’t have time. They could come out any minute.”

“We have to make time.”

“How?”

“You said she has sensors around the property?”

Jason nodded. “Every ten feet around the perimeter.”

Waterhouse scratched his three-day beard. “Trip ’em. Should be enough of a diversion to give us time. But we have to move fast.”

* * *

Zanns, Fairing, Kader, and Oliver marched to the French doors. Just before Oliver reached for the handle, a red light in the corner of the living room began flashing. A muted klaxon sounded in sync with the pulsing beam.

“A ground sensor’s been tripped,” said Oliver.

“Sam, Oliver, check on it,” said Zanns.

Oliver walked quickly to the office, checked the console, and returned quickly. “Southwest corner near the water! I’ll go.”

“Take Sam with you. Call the monitoring company and tell them it’s a false alarm. No police tonight!” Zanns barked at Jasmine, who complied.

Fairing and Oliver jogged out the door carrying pistols. Jasmine, waiting inside the house, pulled a weapon from her boot. Zanns joined her, toting her own handgun.

* * *

Peter eased the johnboat away from the dock, heading south. The neighbor’s house was dark, and luckily no one came running as Peter yanked on the pull cord several times before it caught.

Waterhouse crouched low in the bow. Peter wheeled right and headed toward the anchored yacht only after reaching midriver. In the distance, the heavy night air carried the intermittent, muted tones of an alarm. He maneuvered upstream until the small craft created a straight three-point line with the mansion and the ship. The huge ship obscured the house. Peter jerked the wheel right again and headed straight for the massive vessel, the throttle set as low as it would go. The drone of the engine could be heard, but, God willing, in the
darkness they would be invisible. Twenty feet from the yacht, he cut the engine and drifted in. Waterhouse kneeled on the bow, ready to stop their forward progress. The puny johnboat looked like a barnacle on the belly of gigantic whale.

* * *

Jason was in the water under the same dock from which Peter had stolen the boat. He’d crept straight toward the house after Waterhouse left. Eighty feet away, a dim red glow began to flash inside the downstairs living room. He had tripped one of the sensors. Dropping to his belly, he crept back on all fours quickly and quietly, not waiting to see who emerged. He lay on the dock and slipped into the shallow, cold water under the wooden pier as two figures emerged from the house.

Floating on his back, his face inches from the weathered wood, Jason pushed his hands against the rocky bottom to keep his head above water.

* * *

After being hoisted up in Peter’s cupped hands and hidden by the yacht’s enormous superstructure, Waterhouse rose to full height on the starboard side. The bow aimed toward the James River Bridge. The massive vessel’s engines vibrated beneath him. He slipped aft, toward the door to the main salon. Seconds later, he dropped onto the deck.

* * *

Oliver and Fairing circled three times, finding no sign of intruders. The neighboring house was dark. The hum of a small outboard motor wafted to them. It was not an uncommon sound on the river at night. Even that had stopped. Satisfied, Fairing motioned for them to return to the house.

“It must have been an animal, a deer perhaps,” Fairing said.

“Perhaps,” Oliver replied before placing a hand on Fairing’s arm. “What’s wrong?” Fairing asked.

Oliver pointed to the neighbor’s dock. “The boat is gone from its berth on the dock. I haven’t seen it used in weeks.”

* * *

Jason moved out from under the dock. He grabbed the splintering planks and began to pull himself up. Two shadowy figures emerged from the tree line heading straight for the pier. The sight of the weapons in their hands caused his heart to skip a beat. Jason froze.

Had they seen him? Had they spotted the missing boat?

If he ran, he was sure to be spotted. Praying he hadn’t been seen, he dropped beneath the water’s surface once more. Footfalls grew louder, swooshing in the ankle-length grass. He closed his eyes, and Michael appeared in his mind. Jason mouthed the words to the Lord’s Prayer, hoping he would live to see his son again.

They strode onto the pier. The soles of their shoes were inches above his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in a quiet breath, and ducked under the frigid water.

* * *

Waterhouse looked high and low for several minutes, choosing where to plant the microphone. The hands of his internal clock seemed to accelerate the longer he was inside. The cabin was lit by bursts of moonlight streaking through the tinted glass of the salon. He moved to a lamp situated on the table in the center of the room and stuck the tiny microphone in place.

Time to leave. He crawled aft and hopped onto the starboard walkway. As he was about to stand up, Peter waved him down. “Two of them are on the dock. Stay right there!” he whispered from the bow of the johnboat.

Waterhouse dropped to his stomach. He couldn’t see what was going on, so he watched Peter, whose eyes never left the men on the pier. Peter walked the boat aft to stay out of sight, gripping the yacht’s metal rail with his powerful hands.

* * *

“They’re leaving,” Peter whispered.

He reversed course and pushed the boat toward the bow. Using the yacht’s railing, he walked it hand over hand, matching the pace of the two men on shore. They were a hundred yards from the water. Waterhouse crawled along on the starboard side, staying with Peter. Waterhouse ducked under the metal rail onto the launch. Both men crouched low, hugging the hull.

“Let’s get out of here,” Waterhouse said.

Peter knelt at the engine and pulled the starter rope. He tried six times in rapid succession, but it would not turn over.

* * *

Jason slipped out from under the pier, gasping for air. Peter and Waterhouse were nowhere to be seen. When Oliver and Fairing disappeared through the trees, Jason heaved himself onto the dock, soaked and dripping. He hadn’t taken two steps on shore when he saw two men and two women emerge from the house. He dropped to his stomach. Zanns led the quartet across the patio, past the gazebo, and onto the lawn. Fairing’s flat package was under her arm.

In the dim light, he could make out the form of a long-legged woman with straight black hair. Jasmine Kader walked quickly beside Lily Zanns, along with Oliver and Sam.
So much for a vacation in Hilton Head,
he thought. His disgust quickly turned to concern.

Where are you, Peter?

* * *

Peter swore as he continued to pull the cord.

The boat had drifted, allowing Waterhouse a view of the yard and the mansion’s pier.

“Shit, they’re heading this way,” he gasped.

The group of four walked with a determined purpose toward the pier.

Peter pulled furiously, cursing and praying simultaneously, telling the Mercury engine what he was going to do to it if it failed to cooperate.

“They’re on the dock, getting into the dingy!”

Retribution’s
engine turned over. A moment later, the bow lifted as the launch rocketed directly toward the yacht.

* * *

“Please, please, please!” Peter pleaded. Suddenly, the engine sputtered and caught. “Thank you, Jesus! Let’s go!”

Waterhouse shoved the tiny boat away from the yacht. Peter thrust the rudder hard to starboard, gunning the throttle, twisting it to the stop, keeping the yacht between them and the launch. Peter smiled a relieved, shit-eating grin at Waterhouse as they raced away. “How far away was the yacht from the dock?” he yelled.

“About a hundred yards!”

Peter estimated where a hundred yards from the yacht was, then subtracted twenty. When he reached that point, he cut the engine and turned the wheel, throwing the boat into reverse to stop any drift.

“Quick, over the side,” he commanded.

“But my equipment!” Waterhouse said.

“It’s got to go!” Peter grabbed Waterhouse and the black bag. They jumped over the side. Waterhouse swore as he fell into the river. They surfaced and clung to the gunwale, using the boat as cover.
They peered around the outboard engine, watching and waiting. The conspirators climbed aboard
Vengeance
. The two women made their way into the main salon. The men were visible on the bridge. After a few minutes, the yacht’s screws engaged, and the vessel made a slow turn in their direction.

Peter released another virulent string of curses.

* * *

“We are behind schedule,” Zanns said. “Let’s go.”

Fairing and Oliver climbed the ladder to the bridge. Zanns set the package on the table in the center of the cabin. The women relaxed as the engines revved. The yacht began to inch its way downriver.