The Cyclops Conspiracy (39 page)

Jason moved cautiously through the house, keeping the lights off as he searched. He started near the foyer. He could see he was wrong about the door being locked. The molding and door jamb had been splintered, as if someone had kicked it in.

In the living room, his foot crunched something. He knelt and felt plaster dust and shards of glass on the carpet. Through the shadows, he saw two bullet holes in the ceiling. One of the recessed light fixtures had exploded. The remnants of a shattered vase rested on the carpet like discarded seashells.

Jason climbed the stairs to the second floor. Spacious bedrooms the size of his entire living room, with sitting areas and fireplaces, lined the wide hallway. The most elegant was the master bedroom. Large enough to play baseball in, it contained a bed of dark, ornately carved wood. Drawers, bathrooms, and closets revealed nothing unusual. The walk-in closet still held Zanns’s expensive outfits. He found nothing that indicated where she might be going. If Lily Zanns had skipped town, she was leaving the dirty work to her cohorts while she turned tail and ran.

Ten minutes later, he was back downstairs. He searched the garage. The vehicles he’d seen before, the Mercedes and the Maserati, were missing.

He walked the area, taking in everything and seeing nothing remotely significant. In one corner, Jason noticed a change in the texture of the concrete. A square was outlined on the floor. When he approached the anomaly, Jason saw it was a hinged door made of thick oak with a large padlock looped through a hasp, securing it. There was some kind of open space below the garage. Jason located a crowbar on a workbench. Fifteen minutes later, dripping with sweat, he succeeded in separating the hasp from the wood, dislodging the lock along with it. Jason descended a steep set of wooden steps. He found a light switch and flipped it.

The room looked like a morgue. Two large, stainless-steel tables stood in the center. One wall was entirely consumed by an enormous refrigerator; another held stainless-steel countertops with two sinks. Laid out between the sinks in neat, precise order were what appeared to be medical and dental instruments. Angled mirrors, tiny metal picks, scalpels, and syringes. The pungent odor of antiseptics filled the room. Jason moved to the refrigerator, opening the heavy door. It was large enough to walk into and had pull-out drawers, just like in a morgue.

He stepped on something. It was soft and flattened under his weight. Jason reached down and brought it into the light.

A severed human finger.

He threw it down in disgust.

A search of the first floor left Jason empty-handed. In the office, he risked turning on the desk lamp, bathing the room in a yellowish glow. He rifled through drawers. Nothing.

A thought struck him as he looked over the desk and saw the phone. He needed to contact his brother. He remembered the electronic bugs he’d found in his own house. A call would be safer from here. This place probably wasn’t being monitored, at least not by Zanns. Jason lifted the handset and heard a dial tone. He didn’t remember his brother’s cell number, but Peter’s home number was etched into his brain. Jason dialed.

The line rang and rang. Was Peter on the phone, or was it off the hook? It rolled to voicemail.

Jason left a message. Then a more frightening thought struck him: had they found Peter? Was he injured or worse?

Concerns about Christine and Michael reared themselves as well. Jason hung up, pushing the thoughts from his mind. He continued scanning the spacious study. Photos of the aircraft carrier were still on the wall. He went over to the bookshelves, running his hand across the leather bindings as if they could communicate with him through the pads of his fingers. There was nothing here.

As he turned to leave, he spotted a tome lying flat on a shelf. It was Zanns’s copy of the book she had given him his first day on the job,
The Essential Drucker
. Jason lifted it from the bookcase and ran his hand over the cover, hoping it would yield an insight.

It’s amazing what turns and challenges life throws at you
, he mused. The first time he’d opened his copy, his life had seemed to be heading down a new, exciting road. Since that day, it had all suddenly collapsed around him. He fanned the pages.

A piece of paper fell out, floating to the carpet. Jason picked it up and turned it over. It wasn’t paper, but a faded, aging photograph, cracked and bent. Two people, a man and woman, stood arm in arm, smiling. Jason recognized the much-younger Lily Zanns immediately. The man was someone Jason recognized as well. Not because Jason knew him personally, but because his face was known all over the world. Infamous and reviled. A younger Saddam Hussein. The Butcher of Baghdad. His arm comfortably draped around Lily Zanns’s shoulder, a sly, heartless smile creasing his face.

Jason’s eyes widened and his jaw fell open.

Holy shit!

It took a minute to recover. With his heart still racing, Jason dialed Peter again, keeping his eyes glued to the image of Zanns and Saddam. Once more, the line was busy, rolling to voice mail.

Please let Peter be safe!

He left a message, then, remembering his pledge to get her to safety, he dialed Christine’s house. The phone rang several times.

Answer!
It, too, rolled to voice mail. Jason left a message, hoping Christine was screening calls. Five minutes later, he redialed with the same result. Had they gotten to her, too?

He prayed that Peter and Chrissie were still alive. The thought of both of them dead sent an icy chill down his back.
Don’t do this! Focus on the task at hand!
Pushing panic aside, he calculated his options. Taking the wrinkled photograph, he limped from the mansion.

“They’re called the Simoon,” Tom Johnson said.

Peter stood in his dark kitchen, peering out into his backyard. He held the cordless phone to his ear, his free hand was rooted on his hip. His concentration on his friend’s words was absolute. The trees were deadly still, the atmosphere thick and humid. Peter knew from his years of outdoors duty that a storm was brewing.

The clicking on the line indicated an incoming call. Peter ignored it, riveted by his friend’s words.

The guard on duty at the jail had informed Peter that his brother had been taken by ambulance to the hospital. The attorney he’d retained to represent Jason had followed Peter to the emergency room at Tidewater Regional Medical Center. A sinking feeling hit Peter when he saw the police cars surrounding the entrance and the dented fenders of a Buick Riviera and a police cruiser. He prayed it was all for someone else. His prayers went unanswered when they were told Jason had escaped after a scuffle. Peter could not determine if Jason was the one who’d initiated it.

When they were younger, Peter would physically threaten anyone who messed with his kid brother. He’d guided Jason safely through the bumpy road of adolescence. A man comfortable with the frenetic danger of firefights in Iraq, Peter felt an incredible sense of duty toward his younger sibling that was equaled by his sense of futility. In battle he could see his enemies and shoot them dead. Tonight, and every night since he’d been dragged into this mess, the enemy was in the shadows. Deadly, ruthless cowards that made protecting Jason difficult. Peter was not a betting man. But if these men were as well connected and powerful as it seemed they were, the odds were against them. Peter, Jason, Waterhouse, and Christine were short stacked, all-in, and facing a pair of bullets before the flop.

Peter had told his wife, Lisa, to get out. Don’t go to your mother’s, don’t go to your sister’s, don’t use the cell phone, he’d told her. Find a hotel, pay with cash, and stay out of sight. He would call when it was safe. Maybe sometime this weekend.

It hadn’t played out well. She’d asked why.
What you don’t know, you can’t tell
, he thought, as he told her not to ask. But as usual, she’d persisted. Peter, impatient and scared for his family, had screamed at her to leave. He loved his wife and kids more than anything, but he couldn’t help overreacting in the midst of his stress. Hurt and confused, Lisa had piled the girls into the van and peeled away. But he felt better knowing they were safe.

“Simoon?” Peter replied.

“We don’t know much about them. I called a CIA buddy, and he queried some ultrasecret databases. It’s some secret organization that doesn’t officially exist.”

“What’re they all about?”

“Saddam funded a small group of killers to carry out hits against enemies of Iraq. Apparently, they didn’t get the memo that the Butcher of Baghdad was dead. No one knows who runs it or who’s involved. My buddy ran a search of CIA communications intercepted in the last
ten years to see if there was any mention of the word ‘Simoon.’ Nothing came up, no bank accounts, no paper trails. It was a dead end.”

“So how do they know they exist?”

“There’s an operative inside the Iraqi government who dealt with one of their agents. That’s all he’d tell me.”

“Well, they’re in Newport News. We have two sightings of those tattoos on two different people. The art matches what we saw in Basra.”

“No shit! Why?”

“They’re trying to kill two more people.”

“Two
more
?”

“Three people are already dead because they knew too much.”

“Who are the targets?”

“I don’t know. They used codenames. Torpedo and Thunderbolt.”

A heavy silence hung on Johnson’s end of the line.

“Tom, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Did I just hear you right? Did you say Torpedo and Thunderbolt?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of proof do you have?”

“We have a recorded conversation between the major players. They used prescriptions to signal dead drops. We witnessed one of the drops. They’re going to use snipers. We just don’t know who the targets are.”

“I do.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Movement beyond the swing set in the backyard caught Peter’s eye. The lights were off in the kitchen. He was immersed in shadow, and could see into the darkness easily. A shadow quickly darted from one tree to another. Peter stepped away from the window.

“Torpedo and Thunderbolt are Secret Service codenames for President Jacob R. Hope and his son, Gary.”

Peter’s jaw fell open as the shadowy figure stopped under the large oak.

“You yanking my chain?”

“I shit you not, ole buddy. Are you sure about this?”

“As sure as the fact that you’ll never scratch your toes again.”

“I’ll contact Woody Austin in the Presidential Protection Division. He’s the top kick. And I’ll have them get in touch with the agent in charge for the christening. Okay?”

Peter noticed a second figure, hunched against another tree.

“Pete, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You need to keep your head down on this one.”

“Don’t worry, I plan on it.”

Peter hung up and watched as the figures executed another move, closing in. Thirty yards of ground separated them from the deck. He didn’t have much time, and he’d forgotten all about the earlier, missed call.

“Not tonight,” Peter whispered. “Not tonight, motherfuckers!”

* * *

It took as long to cross the last one hundred yards as it had to get from the bus stop to her current location. The bus had let her off a quarter mile from her house. The driver had eyed her with concern, as did the few passengers. She was soaked and matted. Luckily, she had a ten-dollar bill in her pocket. More than enough for the fare. She hadn’t waited for her change.

Christine crouched under a magnolia tree. The police had had plenty of time to send a car to watch her place. She ducked behind a parked SUV and studied the quiet avenue.

The bend in the road made it impossible to see her house. She ducked between the Jensen’s and Smith’s. Neither property was fenced, and she melted easily into the woods beyond the backyards.

Christine thought about going to Mrs. Liggieri’s, but quickly nixed that idea. The last thing she wanted to do was scare the old
woman and implicate her by association. She’d probably drop dead on the spot.

She made her way to the decrepit garage in her own backyard, which served as a storage shed. Her house was dark. She hadn’t been home since early this morning.

The moon ducked behind a patch of clouds. Christine moved into the open, shielded by the darkness. At the corner of the house, she peered through shrubs. The car was parked on the opposite curb and didn’t belong. She’d never seen it before. Two men sat in the front seat. She couldn’t identify the model, but its unimaginative design suggested an undercover police car.

Retreating slowly, she slipped to the deck and climbed the stairs. She slipped the key into the lock, opened the door a crack, and angled in. Dropping to all fours, she crawled through the kitchen and foyer and up the stairs to her bedroom. She finally stood and regarded herself in the mirror. She looked awful and felt worse. Matted hair, wet clothes, scratches, and lacerations on her face and hands.

Her mind kept coming back to Jason. Christine picked up the phone and tried his cell numbers and house phones, mashing the buttons as if added pressure would ensure an answer. Only voice mail answered her. “Jason, this Chrissie. I need your help. Please call me!”

Christine held the phone away from her ear, thinking.
Peter!
Maybe he would know where Jason was, or maybe Jason was with him. She found the number and dialed. It rang numerous times, but eventually the voice mail picked up.

Christine hung up, frustrated.

Click!

The sound was a familiar one. The front door latch had been disengaged. She heard it four or five times daily as she entered and left her house. A sound so ingrained in her memory, she didn’t hear it even when she did. Christine had locked the door this morning. Of that she was certain. A single woman living in Newport News always
locked her doors. Tonight, that click reverberated like a cannon shot along the dark walls.

No one else had a key to her house. She hadn’t even given one to her father.