The Cyclops Conspiracy (44 page)

Thirty yards to the north, a large white canvas had been stretched between two forty-foot poles. Seventy-five feet wide and thirty feet high, the fabric provided no special protection, other than obscuring the view of possible snipers from the north, specifically from the
identical twin spires of the Windsor Towers. Those who would be witnessing the ceremony tomorrow were some of the most influential human beings on the planet, and they would all be congregated well within range of an expert marksman.

Shipyard workers were putting on the finishing touches, hanging red, white, and blue bunting, running sound cables and adjusting microphones, placing cameras, and arranging chairs. The slate-gray sky, crowded with dark, low-hanging clouds, forecast heavy rain and thunder. An impromptu covering had been placed over the stage, VIP seating, and podium to keep the politicos dry. As usual, it would be the common folk getting rained on.

Crowds would be funneled through metal detectors and searched. No bags, cameras, or video equipment would be allowed inside the yard. Plainclothes Secret Service agents would be scattered among the throng, looking for signs of trouble. Agents would never be more than a few feet from the president and the other dignitaries. Broadhurst had spent the last month making sure the three concentric layers of protection around the president were solid and impenetrable.

Broadhurst threw his head back, staring up at the gargantuan warship as ceremonial fabric fluttered in the breeze. He could not help but admire the handiwork of the shipyard employees, which had taken eight years to construct and had cost taxpayers billions. The wind blew in from the southwest, lugging with it nasty weather.

Broadhurst turned his collar up and studied the choppy river waters and the vertical drawbridge of James River Bridge beyond, looming out of the thickening haze.

Jacob R. Hope, president number 42, would arrive today and check in at the Williamsburg Inn. His son Gary, number 44 and current chief executive, would arrive aboard Air Force One in the morning, landing at Newport News—Williamsburg International Airport.

When Gary was elected, the Hopes joined a most exclusive club. They were the third pair of father-son presidents behind the Adamses and the Bushes. The Harrisons, William Henry and Benjamin, were
grandfather and grandson. Since Jacob’s election in 1980, the White house had been occupied by either a Bush or a Hope, alternating family names with each administration. Broadhurst had served for three years under George W. Bush and under the newly elected Gary Hope since his election last year.

The motorcade would travel along Jefferson Avenue and cross over to Warwick Boulevard. A full police escort would stop traffic and provide an uninterrupted journey. Jacob R. and Gary would meet up at the shipyard at a prechristening reception. Of course, only Broadhurst and a handful of agents knew these details.

He’d scrutinized every detail of the security plan with his detail this morning. Nothing had been omitted. The motorcade routes had been secured. Mailboxes were removed and manhole covers were welded shut along the route. Every building taller than three stories in the immediate area had been scanned and inspected. The church steeple nearby had been buttoned down, and an agent had been standing a lonely post. Residents of the Windsor Towers had been instructed to leave all windows closed for the twenty-four hours leading up to the christening. Agents scanned the building with powerful field glasses, making sure everyone was in compliance. Countersnipers had been positioned on the roofs of both buildings.

Jason Rodgers’s mug shot flashed in Broadhurst’s mind, haunting him. The man was at large, and that fact alone ate away at his gastric lining. But other troublesome facts had been uncovered by the background check and investigation into Rodgers’s finances. Two large deposits from Cooper Venture Capital had been deposited to his account within a week of each other in the last month. The address of the company headquarters was fake, and they could find no listing of any business with such a name in any corporate directories. Specific details about the event, known only to a select few, had been found in Rodgers’s home.

How the hell had Jason Rodgers, a pharmacist apparently lacking any ties to political or terror groups, gotten his hands on classified details
of the christening? What his beef with Gary Hope or his father was, Broadhurst didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to let Rodgers or anyone bring harm to his charges. Agents from the field offices in Richmond, Norfolk, and Charlotte had been called in to bolster manpower.

Broadhurst had wanted to delay the christening for twenty-four hours until they could capture Rodgers. But that was not his call. Politics outside his control influenced this christening. President Hope and his father would have the final say. The elder President Hope was in his eighties and not getting any younger. The next step in the life of this vessel would be the commissioning ceremony, two years hence. Broadhurst suspected that they both wanted the ship commissioned while 42 was still alive and 44 was still in office. No other ship’s namesake had ever been alive to witness either its christening or its commissioning.

Back in Washington, Special Agent Woody Austin had promised Broadhurst he would personally convey his concerns to the president. Since they’d spoke thirty-six hours ago, the director of the presidential protection division had not communicated with Broadhurst. Until he was told otherwise, the christening would go off as scheduled, bad weather, potential assassins, and all. Broadhurst pulled his overcoat tighter around him, the chill in his bones caused by something deeper than weather. As he walked along the gangway to the rear of the ship, his cell phone rang.

Broadhurst flipped open his phone. “Agent Broadhurst, this is Detective John Palmer with the Newport News Police Department. We need to talk. Now!”

Peter’s cell phone chirped. It was Tom Johnson. Peter let it go to voice mail, turned the phone off, and removed the battery. He removed Lisa’s phone, redialing his friend’s number as they sped out of Suffolk.

“Tom, it’s Peter. What’s up?”

Peter listened in silence for two minutes.

“Okay, thanks, Tom.”

“What was that all about?” asked Jason.

“First, we go to the gun shop. Then we need to get in touch with the special agent in charge at the shipyard.”

“Who was on the phone?” asked Jason.

“Tom Johnson. There’s a mole inside the Secret Service or the White House. There may be others on-site at the shipyard. My instructions are to warn Special Agent Broadhurst. Deliver the message in person. No phones, no cells, no e-mails. All electronic communications may be compromised. Tom spoke with the director of the presidential protection division himself. A guy named Woody Austin.”

Peter studied the passing scenery as he rubbed the scar over his eye. “Austin didn’t tell Tom what was going on. But Tom guesses that Austin was blackmailed into helping to place the moles. I guess Austin had enough of the BS and asked Tom to contact Broadhurst through me. He figured Tom could be trusted, since he works in the counterfeit division and isn’t close to what’s going on. Austin told Tom that since I was one of the people who recorded Zanns’s meeting, I was to deliver the message.”

They pulled into the gun shop parking lot and parked around back. Jason waited in the car while Peter went inside.

Ten minutes later, Peter had loaded the trunk with two pistols, five boxes of ammo for each, and an AR-15, the civilian version of an M-16.

Jason merged into traffic and followed Route 258 back over the James River Bridge. “We need to get rid of this car,” he said.

“Got any ideas?” asked Peter.

“I know a place we can get a car without having to steal one,” Jason replied.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in there?” Jason asked as the car idled. He pulled the killer’s Lincoln in front of the sliding doors of Keller’s Food and Drug, his former employer.

“Can’t risk it. You used to work here, remember? The last thing we need right now is someone recognizing you.” Peter shot Jason a sideways glance. “Are you sure she’ll help us?”

“I’m not sure about anything at this point. I burned a bridge, but I don’t know who else to turn to. Barbara’s a good technician, and I trust her. How far that trust will take us, I don’t know. Just tell her that I’m out here and get her to come outside.”

Peter eased out of the car, favoring his wounded leg. Jason found a parking spot with a view of the front door, sunk low in the seat, and kept the car running.

* * *

The line at the pharmacy counter was three-deep, served by a male pharmacist and his two helpers. Jason had briefed Peter on the way over. Lawrence Quigley would probably be on duty, and both technicians were female. Barbara Jensen, stout and round, weighed in at about two hundred eighty. Peter picked her out easily, as she stood with her head down studying something on the counter behind the wall of glass.

Customers in front of him picked up their prescriptions, paid their bills, and moved off. When it was his turn, he walked to the register. The black woman saw him and walked over. “May I help you?”

“Barbara Jensen, please?”

Hearing her name, Barbara Jensen shuffled over. The woman was massive, a wrecking ball draped in a gray lab coat. Her sad, circular, blue eyes peered at Peter from deep inside a spherical face capped with thin, gray hair.

“Can I help you?”

“Barbara, my name is Peter. I have a message from a friend I’ve been asked to deliver. Can I speak to you for just a moment?” Peter motioned with his head, indicating he wanted her to step out of the pharmacy.

The large technician met him in the health and beauty aisle. “What can I do for you?” she asked, glancing at his leg.

“My brother is Jason Rodgers.”

Her eyes widened slowly. “My God!” she said loudly. “He’s been all over the—”

Peter put a finger to his lips. “I know,” he said, looking around nervously.

“Is he okay?”

“Yes—and no.”

“Tell me he didn’t kill that woman!” Jensen had sense enough to whisper the question.

“You can ask him yourself. He’s outside. He—we—need your help.”

Her girth swayed away from Peter, as if he had some extremely contagious disease.

“Everything you see on television is wrong. We’re dealing with some really deep shit here. Just give Jason a few minutes, please,” Peter pleaded.

Jensen studied Peter, peering into his concerned eyes. “No. Trouble’s the last thing I need.”

His voice quavered.
“Please!
It’s a matter of life and death. Not just his life, but others’ as well.”

The woman put her fleshy hands on her hips in displeasure. “Let me tell you,” she began. “Your brother left us—left me—high and dry when he quit a few weeks ago. I worked hard for him for four years. He didn’t even have the decency to give proper notice, let alone ask me to come with him. Now I’m stuck here with this dimwit,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the pharmacy.

“Please, he said we could count on you.”

“I can’t,” she replied, shaking her head. “That’s asking way too much.”

* * *

Peter appeared in the sliding doors of the grocery store—alone. Jason’s heart sank. He rammed the gearshift into drive and pulled to the entrance, whispering curses. Peter got in; Jason depressed the accelerator, and the stolen Lincoln began to move away. Jason braked, allowing a car to pass.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw the doors opening again.

Peter placed a hand on Jason’s arm. “Hold on!”

Jason turned his head. The brothers watched the nearly three-hundred-pound woman break out in a painfully hurried waddle. Barbara Jensen, out of breath, put her weight on the car door and leaned in the open window, looking to Peter first.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to react.” She looked at Jason. “I owe you. I haven’t forgotten the time you covered for me when my
husband was dying. If it wasn’t for you, Carl would’ve died alone. I just needed time to wrap my brain around all this.”

She examined his bruised, battered face, and smiled. “Your looks have improved.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Jason replied.

“Oh, honey, you deserve a lot more than that black eye. But we’ll save that for later.”

“We need a place to get out of sight for a few hours.”

“You mean hide?” she deadpanned.

“Whatever,” Jason replied.

Barbara reached into her lab jacket and jangled a set of keys. Removing one, she handed it over. “You remember where I live?”

Jason nodded. “We’ll ditch the car away from the store so it’s not traced to you.”

Jensen smiled. “I’ll be home in a few hours. Help yourself to what’s in the fridge. I’ll make you something to eat when I get back. And I’m going to want a full explanation on how you managed to get yourself in such trouble. It’s the least you can do after leaving me with numbnuts in there.”

“Deal,” Jason said, not sure he would ever be able to relay any of his story. “And Barbara, we also need to borrow your car.”

Barbara frowned. “Boy, I guess you really
do
trust me. You’re gonna owe me big time.” She reached into her lab jacket one more time and handed over the whole key chain. “I’ll catch a ride home with Carol.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Jason said sheepishly. “Can I use your cell phone?”

“You need me to change your diapers too?”

Broadhurst and the driver exited the lead vehicle of the four-sedan convoy, jogging up the granite steps. Six more Secret Service agents materialized from the trailing two vehicles. They fanned out, moving alongside the enormous house, guns drawn. A final pair joined Broadhurst on the portico.

Preparations for tomorrow’s christening were complete. Everything was taken care of, except, that is, for the unresolved issue of Jason Rodgers and now Lily Zanns. Detective John Palmer’s phone call two hours ago had launched Broadhurst’s anxiety into the ionosphere. The Newport News cop had quickly outlined the prescription scam, insurance fraud, and the alleged recording of Lily Zanns and her quartet of killers. Broadhurst’s stomach began to fold in on itself as Palmer ticked off each item. The death of the previous owner, Thomas Pettigrew, the murders of a patient named Douglas Winstead and of a private investigator—they were all connected, Palmer said. His interview with Peter Rodgers had occurred three hours ago, and could not as yet be verified. Broadhurst told him to burn a copy of
the recording of Zanns as soon as Palmer got his hands on it. The file was already out in cyberspace. The last thing he needed was for it to be replicated and distributed to all corners of the World Wide Web. Until he had evidence to the contrary, Broadhurst was treating the story as if it were gospel.