The Cyclops Conspiracy (48 page)

One laser was programmed for the trajectory of Fairing’s shot on 42, the second for Kader’s on 44. Only the two killers would be able to see the laser target. To Secret Service agents and everyone on the ground, everything would appear normal. Every few seconds, the motorized swivels would whir as the lasers readjusted themselves to the changing conditions.

Cooper would only activate the laser beam fifteen seconds before they planned to fire. Those were his terms. Fairing also had terms: after they had killed the infidel presidents, he intended to turn the gun on Cooper and blow his brains all over the wall.

As much as he wanted to, Fairing could not dwell on Cooper at the moment. A more serious issue loomed. The entire building had been put in lockdown. A Secret Service agent guarded the elevator and the stairwell forty feet from their door. He’d been there for nearly ninety minutes now.

Something had gone very wrong; Fairing’s chances for escape had just decreased significantly. He wasn’t supposed to die in this
condo; he was supposed to emerge from this mission as a hero to retake his Iraq from the infidels. But that destiny depended on escaping from this building after successfully dispatching the two American presidents. After his shot had been taken, Fairing would shoot Cooper, then take the stairs to the basement. In one of the storage closets, he’d retrieve the Newport News police uniform and the large pair of wire cutters that had been placed there four months ago. He would don the uniform and walk to the fence surrounding the towers. Hidden by the bushes and shrubs, he would cut a gap in the fencing, then walk across the street to the beach parking lot and the Crown Victoria waiting there for him.

There was one small piece of good news. The Secret Service had four teams searching for them. Three were canvassing the south tower. The wrong tower. Fairing and Cooper were in the north tower. The Americans had incorrectly assumed they would take the shot from the closer tower.

Had Jason Rodgers made it to the proper authorities and told them of their plan? Did they know where Fairing and Cooper were? Were they about to appear at the door?

It was too late to turn and run; they were committed. Not that he would have. Fairing sucked in several deep breaths, and his heart began to pound as he absorbed the possibility of his own death. He was ready to die if that was Allah’s will. But that commitment did not keep his palms from sweating.

Fairing had placed the call an hour ago. There were men who lived in the building and were available for such a contingency. They’d buy enough time for him and Jasmine to make their shots. Cooper wasn’t yet aware of the threat. Fairing wouldn’t tell him. He didn’t need the coward panicking.

Cooper stubbed out his cigarette, finished assembling Cyclops, and lifted a pair of binoculars to his face. To calm his nerves, Fairing checked his watch and recited verse sixty from sura eight, his favorite:

Against them make ready your strength to the utmost of your power, including steeds of war, to strike terror into the hearts of the enemies of
Allah…Whatever ye spend in the cause of Allah shall be repaid unto you, and ye shall not be treated unjustly.

* * *

From under the lead-lined tarpaulin, Jasmine Kader peered through another pair of high-powered binoculars. She had been in place since yesterday evening, atop the north drawbridge tower of the James River Bridge, a mile south of her brother’s location. She’d heard the thumping of the helicopter’s rotors above her two hours ago. The passengers had, no doubt, been inspecting the top of the structure.

Penrose Gatling Shipbuilders occupied a five-mile stretch of rusted, corrugated-rooftop warehouses and more modern buildings. The older structures housed dirty-fingernailed laborers who molded cold steel into sleek warships. The newer edifices designed and produced the ultramodern electronic communications and navigational systems for submarines and aircraft carriers.

After deflating the raft with a knife and sending it to the murky bottom, Kader had swum the three miles from the Carrollton shore to the north tower of the bridge. With her weapon disassembled in a watertight black bag strapped to her back, she’d climbed to the flat roof and slithered under the custom-made covering that she and Oliver had put in place two months ago.

The covering consisted of three everyday, twenty-five-by-forty-foot blue tarps, stitched together by an expert sailmaker in the Caribbean a year ago. Kader had purchased the tarps at the local Home Depot and had flown them down with Oliver. Each ply was sewn together with lead-weighted strips ringing the perimeter and honeycombed throughout, ensuring the cloth would not ripple in the wind or be blown away. Sandwiched between the three tarps were two layers of waterproof Kevlar. Finally, it had been painted to exactly match the drab green drawbridge. Two months ago, in the small hours of the morning under a moonless sky, Kader and Oliver had ferried the covering to the
drawbridge in the Zodiac. Kader had strapped the covering, which weighed over a hundred pounds, to her back, then had hoisted it to the top with the strength of a champion climber and laid it out.

Three weeks earlier, Kader had climbed the structure in the dark, slipped beneath the tarp, and stayed there for twenty-four hours. Oliver had flown over with the float plane as the sun broke above the trees. Kader took up her position, while Oliver observed and videotaped from the plane. He made two passes, communicating by radio with her. From the sky, Oliver could barely see what he was looking for. And he knew it was there. The Americans would never find her. The tower would not be manned by the countersniper teams. It was beyond the effective range of a long-range sniper, or so they thought. But they would still inspect the area and see nothing more than the top of the structure. All this information about security procedures had been gleaned from their informant in Washington.

As she peered through the binoculars, Kader saw exactly what she’d expected. Everything was laid out as in the diagrams ferried to them through the dead drops. Prescriptions to signal the drops, and the resultant prescription bags left in their place as confirmation, were an archaic and cumbersome method. But the dead drops had worked. Lily had been right about the American government’s ability to intercept any kind of electronic communications. The mission’s secrecy, though challenged by Pettigrew and Rodgers, had not been compromised. Only four people knew exactly how the information had been transferred: Lily, Sam, herself, and the mole. Steven Cooper knew that they were receiving information from someone in Washington. But he didn’t know how or when the data was sent.

Because of the large white screen, Kader’s view was obscured. But she knew there were two decorated barges secured to the dry dock, lined with chairs facing the podium on the dais.

Kader swung the binoculars left. The eastern side of the dry dock would be opened to the general public in a few hours. The crowds were gathering, waiting for their chance to enter the grounds, aware
they were about to witness history. They would witness history, all right. It would be very different than advertised.

The drizzle was a minor inconvenience. The wind, though, concerned her. Steady at about ten knots with gusts to fifteen. At a distance of a mile and a quarter, a projectile could be carried off course by tens of feet. She would need all of her skill today. The shot had been practiced from this distance countless times in the strong North Carolina winds. Her skill would not let her down. Closing her eyes, she recited the same verse her brother was whispering as she unzipped the watertight bag and began assembling her rifle.

The driver of the first SUV flashed his badge to the attendant in the guardhouse. The swinging gate lifted, and the two vehicles proceeded to the entrance of the south Windsor Tower. Clay Broadhurst and the driver jumped out of the second vehicle. The remaining doors opened on cue. Jason and Peter were ushered inside and encircled by eight agents. In the lobby, the men gathered to hear Broadhurst’s instructions. “We’re looking for two people. Sam Fairing and Jasmine Kader. According to our witness”—Broadhurst pointed at Jason—“they are dark-skinned and of Middle Eastern descent. Other than that, we don’t know much about them. Jason Rodgers here knows what they look like. We’re going to knock on every door in both buildings, if need be, and ask the residents to submit to a search. He’ll identify them for us.” The special agent in charge passed out copies of the driver’s license photographs. “These are very poor likenesses, according to Mr. Rodgers here. If you run across anyone remotely similar, detain them and take them to the lobby.”

“That’s gonna take hours,” one agent said. “There are hundreds of units.”

“Two hundred and thirty, to be exact. I’ve obtained a listing of the condo units above the fourth floor that have a view of the dry dock area. These units provide the best vantage point. An agent is posted on every floor between the stairwells and elevators. The whole building is locked down. No one enters until further notice. If anyone currently in the building wishes to leave, they may. But they won’t be allowed back in until after the christening. Additionally, there are two-man teams stationed in both lobbies. Countersnipers are situated on the rooftops. Agents with field glasses are scanning the face of the towers, observing windows. We’ll find them.”

“Where did all these agents come from?” another one asked.

“They’re Secret Service, FBI, and ATF from various field offices. Under the Patriot Act, each agency is required to cooperate with the service in the event of an emergency threatening the president’s life. Today qualifies. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. “What about those folks that don’t answer the door or aren’t home?”

“I’m getting to that,” Broadhurst replied. He motioned to two men standing a few feet away wearing Windsor Tower uniforms. “These men are employees of the towers. The condo association provides access to the residences in the event of an emergency, leaking pipes and such. We’ll gain access under that codicil. Each one of these men will be assigned to one of two teams of four agents. If no one answers, they’ll open the door with their passkey—”

Jason lifted his hand to get Broadhurst’s attention.“What is it?” the agent barked. Jason motioned for Broadhurst to join him for a private conversation. “Make it quick,” Broadhurst commanded.

“Agent, let me and my brother help in the search. You can break the teams in pairs and have four teams. We can stay with you. It’ll make things go a lot faster.”

Broadhurst had no intention of allowing two civilians anywhere near this operation for a truckload of reasons. “Not on your life! I can’t be responsible for two civilians—”

“Look at me,” Jason interrupted. “How much worse can it get? Besides, we want to see this through. Time’s not on your side.”

Broadhurst cracked a quick grin. “You’ve got balls, son. And, unfortunately, you’re right. Time
is
running out.”

Broadhurst and Jason returned to the group. “Change of plans. We’re breaking into four two-man teams. Take any suspicious persons to the function room in the lobby of each tower and hold them until I can bring the pharmacist to ID them.”

Broadhurst broke the agents into three two-man teams. Two more Windsor Tower employees were rounded up. The passkeys were divvied up between each team, and an employee was assigned to each. Broadhurst distributed the condo assignments, and then turned to Jason and Peter. “You two are with me. Keep up. If you slow me down, I’ll shoot you myself.”

* * *

Broadhurst, Jason, Peter, and a short, stocky man named Bill in a towers uniform, who carried a large ring laden with keys, rode the elevator to the twelfth floor of the south tower. Awkward silence and tension suffocated them. Broadhurst fidgeted with his earpiece. He popped two Tums into his mouth, and chewed furiously.

The elevator chimed. The doors swung open. Broadhurst exited, followed by Jason and Peter, who struggled to keep pace. The uniformed employee brought up the rear. Broadhurst led them to the first unit at the south end of the boomerang-shaped hallway. A three-inch
A
was mounted on the door.

Broadhurst waited a moment to allow Peter to catch up, the irritation evident on his face. Peter gimped to Jason’s side. The door rattled as the knuckles of his huge right hand connected with it.

* * *

A man dressed in a dark blue blazer, starched white button-down shirt and tan slacks, with a coiled earpiece snaking down his collar, approached the agent posted between the stairwell and the elevators on Fairing’s floor. A confused expression spread across the second man’s features.

“Broadhurst wants you on the thirteenth floor,” the impostor said.

“I never heard anything about that.” The man tapped his earpiece. The chatter had been constant all morning long. Frequent post changes were not uncommon to prevent boredom.

“Are you Four?” Each agent was identified by the number of the floor on which they were posted.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Well, I just heard him tell you he needs to you move to thirteen!”

“I better check.” The authentic agent started to bring his wrist to his mouth.

The impostor swung his weapon into place and fired a silenced round into the man’s chest. The assassin caught the man with one arm as he slumped. This was the lowest floor on which agents had been posted. The agents on the four floors above this one had been dispatched in the same way. Their bodies lay in the stairwells of each floor. The last thing this killer wanted was the cavalry coming to the rescue.

He dragged the body to a door and knocked three times. Steven Cooper opened up, saw the dead man, and his features twisted in shock and fear.

“Don’t just stand there, help me,” the impostor commanded.

The seats of the floating barge were filled with minor dignitaries, members of the armed services, especially the navy, Hope Sr.’s former branch, special guests, and friends from Hope’s World War Two days. The United State Fleet Forces Band belted out patriotic tunes and marches as the public filed onto the south side of the dry dock. Umbrellas and plastic ponchos dotted the crowd. The rain, unable to decide if it should fall as a pesky drizzle or a steady downpour, had lightened again.