The Cyclops Conspiracy (47 page)

* * *

“Are you sure?” Vince Mahoney, the director of the Secret Service, asked.

Mahoney had been Broadhurst’s second call. The first had been to the former president, Jacob R. Hope, at the Williamsburg Inn. Broadhurst had explained the threat in roundabout terms to the chief of Hope’s protection detail and then to the old man himself, hoping to convince him to cancel the christening of his own ship. After some pointed questions, Hope told him he had confidence in the service and that he wasn’t getting any younger. The event would proceed as planned.

“Yes, sir,” Broadhurst replied to Mahoney’s question. “As sure as we can be…There’s one other thing, sir. It seems we have moles inside the service. These folks are privy to information only known by a select few agents. I’m pursuing a witness who has knowledge of that fact. Apparently, they’ve been planning this for some time.” Broadhurst explained about the discovery of documents in Jason Rodgers’s home.

“You’re just full of good news tonight.” Mahoney hung up.

Peter, who had been escorted out of the room so Broadhurst could speak with Mahoney, was led back in, along with John Palmer.

“For the third and last time, where is your brother?”

“I don’t know, I told you!”

Peter had tried to call Jason on his cell phone then on Barbara Jensen’s phone. Both calls rolled to voice mail.

“That fire was deliberately set. You said there was no one else in the apartment when you left. So he must have started it. Why would he do that?”

“They—whoever
they
are—are out there trying to kill us. They must have caught up with him. Starting the fire was probably his only way out.”

“How did they catch up with him? What did you do while you were there?”

“We unloaded the guns from the car and I called you from my wife’s cell—” Peter stopped and snapped his fingers. He looked at the phone lying on the table. “Son of a bitch! They must have triangulated our position. I hope I didn’t give him away.”

“We don’t know how close these guys are to finding him. Hopefully, your brother’s smart enough to ditch the phone.”

“The calls rolled immediately to voicemail. He’s probably turned it off or taken the battery out.”

“Any bright ideas on how we can find him?”

Peter thought for a moment and said, “I have a pretty good idea where he’ll be at eleven o’clock tonight.”

“Let’s hope we find him before these terrorists do!”

“He’s probably hiding, waiting for us to show,” said Peter.

Broadhurst steered past the Marriott Hotel, circling the fountains at City Center.

There was no sign of Jason. The Friday night revelers crowding the sidewalks weren’t making spotting him any easier.

“We’ve circled three times already! You sure he’ll remember where to meet you?” Broadhurst paused. “Or he’s dead—”

Peter shot him a hard glance. “He knows where to meet me!”

Broadhurst pulled to the curb. “Now we wait,” he said.

Fifteen minutes passed. The back door of the car opened. Jason slid into the rear seat and said, “You’re late.”

Both men jerked their heads around. Peter smiled at his brother. “Let’s get out of here,” Jason said.

“Jason,” Peter said, “This is Special Agent Broadhurst of the Secret Service.”

Broadhurst nodded at the pharmacist. Jason smiled stiffly, remembering their encounter at the shipyard, and said, “We’ve met. Now, can we get the hell out of here?”

* * *

The physician stood between Jason and Peter’s beds, looking at his two patients. The service had used him before. He was well paid, didn’t ask a lot of questions, and, most importantly, kept his mouth shut. Broadhurst was by the window, looking at the brothers, but not seeing them. His mind was focused on other matters. Three untainted agents from the Richmond field office were standing guard in the hall.

“You’ve torn the surface sutures in your knee,” the doctor said to Peter. “Try not to move. I’ve sutured the wound back in place. The internal sutures are intact. There’s minimal bleeding. Your lung function appears to be okay. You didn’t inhale too much smoke. The burns are minor. The antibiotic cream will keep them from getting infected. You’re one lucky SOB.”

The physician turned toward Jason, frowning. “You, young man, however, are in much worse shape,” he said.

Broadhurst winced when he looked at Jason. The civilian had endured a hell of a lot in the last forty-eight hours. Jason’s cheek was swollen and red from the attack in his home. The left eye was almost closed, and looked like he’d gone through seven defenseless rounds with Mike Tyson. His nostrils were black and congealed with blood.

The doctor ran a light over both pupils and palpated the entire length of Jason’s body one more time, checking for unseen injuries and assessing neurological function. Jason lay still, unable or unwilling to respond. The physician unwrapped the elastic bandage from around his waist and removed the blood-soaked gauze from the hole in his side. Jason jumped as the gauze tore away.

“This man needs surgery. I see signs of infection,” the doctor announced after inspecting and probing the wound. “His kidney’s
probably been lacerated. Quite frankly, I’m amazed he’s still conscious. Except for the wound in his side, nothing else is life threatening. But this wound needs to be treated.”

“Not until I resolve some issues, Doc,” Broadhurst countered.

“He needs to be in a hospital!” said Peter.

“My job is to protect POTUS. Your brother stays in my custody until I understand and secure the situation.” Broadhurst turned to the physician and said, “Do what you can, Doc.”

“I can give him IV antibiotics,” the doctor said. “I’ll make a call. Give me an hour and I can have them here.”

“Do it,” Broadhurst commanded.

The doctor left to order his drugs.

“You bastard! You heard the doctor. He needs surgery!” Peter persisted. “We’re not helping you until you get him to a hospital!”

“Peter, that’s enough,” Jason mumbled through the side of his mouth. “I’ve come this far. I’m seeing it through. What do I need to do?”

“Start from the beginning.”

Jason explained the series of events Peter had shared with Broadhurst earlier, but in much greater detail.

“The recording mentions shooting locations,” said Broadhurst.

“Fairing lives in the Windsor Towers just north of the shipyard,” Jason said. “His condo overlooks the dry dock. I think they’re gonna take a shot from his apartment in the towers.”

“We’ve been to his apartment. He’s not there. I’ve got agents standing guard outside the door. The same with Zanns’s estate. It seems they’ve all disappeared.”

“Maybe they left town?” asked Peter.

“Until I question them or have them in custody, we go on the assumption that they’re still a threat.”

“Why not postpone the christening?” Jason asked, propping himself on his elbows.

“I’ve tried that. It’s a no-go.” The director of the Secret Service, Vince Mahoney, had already returned Broadhurst’s call. Both presidential father and son had denied his request for a postponement.

“So what happens now?”

“I’m going back to the shipyard to finalize a few things. You two need to get some sleep. The agents outside the door will make sure you’re not disturbed,” said Broadhurst.

“Or that we leave?” Peter said. “Are we being detained?”

“Let’s just say that you’re guests of the Secret Service.” Broadhurst smiled. “I’m certainly not convinced that recording isn’t a fake. So you two will remain that way until I release you after the christening tomorrow. If you want to leave, you can. But I will make sure you have two agents attached to each of you at the hip to keep you safe, if you know what I mean.” Broadhurst took a step toward the door, then stopped. “And there are two more agents in a car sitting beneath your window,” he added with a slight smile.

Peter motioned toward the men outside the door. “How do you know they’re not—”

“Moles?”

“Yeah.”

“Because they’re from our Richmond field office. They helicoptered in a few hours ago. They’re untainted. If they’re not, you’ll be dead soon.”

Capped by vaulted ceilings and adorned with Persian carpets and expensive tile, the Omni’s lobby boasted a gourmet coffee bar and ornate sofas. The gray morning light filtered through the rain-dotted windows. The phalanx of agents engulfed Jason and Peter in a tight, fast-moving perimeter as they exited the elevator. Heads turned when they emerged. This was not the slow, casual movement normally seen in the lobby of a luxury hotel.

Two smaller agents led the way as Jason and Peter were marched toward the entryway. Each was taller than Jason, with wide shoulders and short, gelled crew cuts. The brothers were flanked by the larger third and fourth agents. Each man clutched a fistful of deltoid, ensuring they did not slow the human convoy.

A young boy pointed at Jason’s grotesquely mutilated face as he and his brother limped along. “Look at that man, Mommy,” he said. The embarrassed mother quickly shushed her son.

The damp morning air was thickened by the rain and clouds. Two large black SUVs pulled under the overhang. Doors flew open, and the agents shoved their charges inside.

Jason only had a moment to breathe in the sweet air before he was shoved inside the second SUV. The two doses of intravenous antibiotics had quelled his fever during the night, but Jason was far from out of the woods. Without further treatment, the infection would return, threatening sepsis and more bouts of agony.

Jason had promised Broadhurst early this morning he was not about to let the small matter of his health get in the way of stopping these killers. Jason was not the Secret Service’s prisoner. He could leave anytime, with a gaggle of well-armed men following close enough to know when he farted. Though technically not a prisoner, Jason was held captive to a more sinister force: the knowledge that his failure to act could cost important lives.

If Lily Zanns and her terrorists had their way, Newport News would be two words uttered with contempt and disdain by the rest of the world for decades to come. Jason Rodgers was prepared to do whatever he could to prevent it.

Fairing watched Steven Cooper standing before the expanse of the large picture window, punching keys on Cyclops’s keyboard. The infidel represented everything Fairing hated about Americans. He was blond and cocky, contaminated with an air of superiority. He had no comprehension of sacrifice, much like his lazy countrymen. His type of cowardice refused to dirty its hands. To topple their sitting government, they, instead, paid people like Fairing and the Simoon to do it for them.

Lily had informed Fairing about Cooper’s five-million-dollar blackmail. Ever since, the desire to shove the barrel of the sniper rifle down Cooper’s throat and pull the trigger was a formidable one. He would see that urge fulfilled.

Fairing shifted his gaze through the window to the yardage beyond. The gray behemoth sat in the flooded dry dock, awash in red, white, and blue as rain slanted across her decks, waiting to be released from her landlocked captivity.

The condo’s windows had been tinted a year ago to protect it from outside eyes, especially those of the well-trained Secret Service
countersnipers, who were most assuredly stationed on the rooftops. Two two-inch-diameter holes had been carved in the glass, one for Cyclops’s laser beams, the second for Fairing’s projectile. Fairing shifted his gaze back to Cooper, who had paused from assembling Cyclops. Lazy smoke wafted toward the ceiling from the cigarette dangling from his lips. “That thing better be ready, Cooper,” Fairing warned.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” Cooper snapped without looking up.

Fairing snarled as he noticed Cooper’s trembling hands and the dollops of sweat coating his neck. Cooper would have dispatched him long ago, had he not been the only one who could operate Cyclops. Fairing ran his hand over the pistol under his shirt. The first round in the magazine had Cooper’s name on it.

The Secret Service had stretched the large white canvas behind the dais to prevent exactly the sort of long-range sniper shot they were about to execute. By painting an infrared laser target on the white fabric, Cooper’s machine would make such an audacious shot not only possible, but very doable for Fairing and Jasmine Kader. The infrared laser, visible only through special scopes mounted on their sniper rifles, would mark the exact points at which Fairing and Jasmine would place their rounds. The projectiles would pass through the canvas, following a precisely predetermined trajectory to the presidential targets, without Fairing or Kader ever having to lay eyes on them.

Every detail had been accounted for: the exact heights of the standing Jacob R. Hope and the seated son; the downward angle of the shots; wind speed and direction; gravity; rain; and the deflection effect of the canvas. All had been programmed into the laptop attached to Cyclops. A small anemometer had been placed by another accomplice at the dry dock. The device transmitted wind speed and direction to Cyclops. The software calculated the exact location through which each bullet would need to pass, and translated that into a target. The parameters and specifications had been worked out in minute detail. The data was updated continuously, and the location of the laser target adjusted for a center mass blow to the torsos of both men. They were counting on
the fact that both men would be in their expected locations and would not move significantly when the shots were taken.

The Camp, their secret range, had been laid out as an exact replica of the dimensions and trajectory of the Windsor Towers to the dry dock, situated in the same cardinal direction on the compass to account for wind and sun.

Grudgingly, Fairing admired the ingenuity of the device. Cyclops was a marvel of digital engineering. Two thin cables snaked from the expensive laptop to twin high-intensity lasers housed in horizontal cylinders. Each was mounted on motorized swivels set atop two minitripods that had been screwed into the wooden platform Fairing was using. Hammon had paid a hi-tech guru very well; millions had changed hands for its construction. It was the only one of its kind and had been built for only one purpose, today’s christening. All blueprints and prototypes had been destroyed. After its use today, Cyclops would disappear.