The Cyclops Conspiracy (45 page)

Broadhurst had dispatched a pair of agents to the Colonial, asking for Zanns and Fairing. A clerk had informed them neither was in, and he didn’t know where they were. The pharmacist on duty, a man named Billy Parks, said Fairing had left for Canada for a weekend getaway. He hadn’t been in touch with Zanns, and didn’t know where she was. On Palmer’s word, a sympathetic judge had issued four search warrants in under an hour.

Along with the squad of agents about to enter Zanns’s mansion, Broadhurst had dispatched three other teams. One was knocking on the door of Sam Fairing’s seventeenth-floor condo in the south Windsor Tower; a third team was at Dr. Jasmine Kader’s home; and a fourth was at her medical office. The searches had been synchronized to commence simultaneously.

* * *

The window beside the door was broken and had been pushed open. Broadhurst pounded on the door. “Federal agents,” he yelled. “Open up!”

When no one answered, Broadhurst lifted his radio. “We’re going in.”

The heavy oak door yielded to the heavy ram with one blow. The door frame had been previously splintered. Four agents rushed in, guns leveled, securing the first floor. The last two agents climbed the stairs to the second floor. The house appeared empty. They searched the grounds all the way to the water for an hour. A pier extended into the river, but the yacht and plane were missing. Broadhurst crumpled the search warrant, slammed it onto the grass, and marched back to the house.
As he was about to end the search, Broadhurst was summoned to the three-car garage. A stainless-steel room containing refrigerators, dental instruments, and medical-type tables had been discovered under a trapdoor. On the floor near one of the freezers was a severed human finger. Ninety minutes after entering, Broadhurst left with more questions than answers.

Back in the SUV, his cell phone rang. The agents had found Kader’s home deserted. Her office staff said she had left for a vacation in Hilton Head. Two minutes later, the phone rang again. In Fairing’s condo, the television was on, no one was home, and everything appeared to be in order. They’d found no evidence of weapons or documents indicating any type of plot.

He cursed under his breath. The phone rang a third time. Broadhurst did not recognize the number.

“Agent Broadhurst, my name is Peter Rodgers…”

Broadhurst stiffened. “Go on!”

“I have some information about tomorrow’s christening.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve been instructed to discuss this in person. This line isn’t secure.”

“I don’t have time for—where’s your brother?”

“Somewhere safe for the moment.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“That can be negotiated. Now be quiet and listen. I was told by the director of the presidential protection division through an intermediary to contact you. We need to get off this line so I can give you the message.”

“You’re not in an ideal negotiating position, Mr. Rodgers!”

“I was told to use the code word ‘Anaconda.’”

“Meet me in the lobby of the Omni in thirty minutes.”

Peter limped into the lobby of the Omni Hotel. A man dressed in a dark suit coat, neatly pressed white shirt, and dark sunglasses approached. He was three inches taller than the gun shop owner, broad-shouldered, with a square chin. His jaw muscles rippled with tension.

Peter put up a hand when Broadhurst was six feet away. “That’s far enough,” he said. “Are you Broadhurst?”

The agent nodded and flashed his badge.

“I want to let you know—” Peter lowered his voice so the smattering of guests and hotel staff did not hear him. “I have a weapon on me. But I have no intention of using it here.”

Two large agents approached the former marine from behind, each grabbing an arm. They forced him to the nearest wall with surprising ease. One conducted a pat down and removed the gun from his waistband. The pistol disappeared inside a suit coat.

Noticing Peter’s wounded leg, they then literally lifted him off his feet, carrying him to the elevator. On the fifth floor, Broadhurst slid a
magnetic key into the door of the room. Inside, Broadhurst nodded to the bed. Peter was deposited on it as Broadhurst moved in.

“How did you know about Anaconda?”

“It was given to me by a friend. His name’s Tom Johnson. He works counterfeit in the Secret Service.”

“If he works counterfeit, he wouldn’t have it.”

Peter opened his mouth, but Broadhurst cut him off. “Where’s your brother?”

“I don’t think I like your attitude.”

“I don’t give a shit what you like or don’t like! Your brother is a suspect in a murder. When the local cops searched his house, they found classified documents about the christening. He is considered a threat to the president. Where is he?”

“He’s being framed. They murdered Jason’s ex and set him up. It’s the same group that’s trying to kill the presidents.”

“You and he are working together.”

“Only to get out of this friggin’ mess! You think we’re trying to kill the president? So the first place I run to is you?”

“How do you know the code—Anaconda?”

Peter let out a long breath. “I told you. Tom Johnson. He works for the Secret Service in the counterfeit division. We were in the same unit in the corps during Persian Gulf One.”

“How did
he
get it?”

“Someone gave it to him.”

“Who?”

“Woody Austin. Director of the presidential protection division.”

Broadhurst sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Peter continued, “Austin told Johnson the entire security network of the service—electronic, wireless, landlines—is compromised. He wanted me to deliver this message in person.”

“Why didn’t he send an agent down here, or someone at the Richmond or Norfolk field offices?”

“I don’t know. I was told he only trusts you. Evidently, the infiltration is significant.”

Broadhurst studied Peter, weighing his credibility. “What proof do you have of the assassination plot?”

Peter explained about the recording of Zanns and her cohorts. Broadhurst cut him off. “We know about it. But until I hear for myself, it’s just a fairytale. Where’s your brother now?”

“I’m not saying for the moment. He wants to stop this thing. But he doesn’t trust anyone, and I don’t blame him. He has a copy of the recording on a flash drive.”

“If you have it, why didn’t you bring it?”

“We’ll get to that.”

The steel in Broadhurst’s voice softened. “Can you talk him into coming in?”

“If I tell him it’s safe, he’ll come in. But we need a guarantee you won’t just turn him over to York County. The guys up there want his head on a platter.”

Broadhurst searched Peter’s eyes. Peter sensed an internal battle raging inside the man. “If he’s truly innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about from the law.”

Peter smirked. “Spare me the bullshit, will you! Jason’s wanted by the locals. What are you going to do to protect him?”

Broadhurst’s shoulders sagged. “Here’s the deal,” he began. “Your brother is still technically in custody. If he turns himself in, I’m required to hand him over to the locals. I don’t have much choice. We’d have to interrogate him in jail.”

“No can do, Agent,” Peter spat. “You guarantee his safety until after the christening, or Jason stays in hiding and you deal with these assassins yourself. You see, my brother is the only one who can help you. He’s the only one who can identify all the players.”

Broadhurst studied the former marine. “I can just waltz over to the Colonial and enlist the help of one of Zanns’s other employees.”

“What about Jasmine, the doctor? Do they know what she looks like?” Peter paused, then answered his own question. “I don’t think so!”

“What does your brother want?”

“Keep him, both of us for that matter, in your custody until this is over. We’ll deal with the locals later. Jason will assist you however he can to stop Zanns. Then later, after you hear the recording, you help to clear his name.”

“Can he identify Zanns and these other people?”

Peter nodded.

“And if I don’t?” Broadhurst asked.

“We don’t help you and the recording goes public.”

“My ass will be in a sling if I don’t turn your brother over immediately to the local cops.”

Peter held his hands up as if to say, “Oh, well.”

Broadhurst rubbed his chin. “I need to talk to this friend of yours in the counterfeit division.”

“Tell me what you know,” Broadhurst demanded over the phone.

Tom Johnson spoke calmly, but with determined emphasis. “I contacted Woody Austin after Sarge—I mean, Peter—told me about the recording and the code names.”

“Just like that? You took Peter Rodgers’s word for it?”

“I served in Iraq and Kuwait with him, Agent. The man saved my ass on two occasions.”

The statement hung there for a second before Johnson continued. “I told Austin there might be a problem. He already knew there was trouble. Don’t ask me how, but he did. He asked me to meet him at Union Station, away from the Executive Office Building. His orders were to get in touch with you through Peter outside normal channels. He said the service had been compromised.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, and he wouldn’t explain. I’ve met Austin on several occasions at a couple of functions. He didn’t seem himself. He looked stressed.”

“Go on.”

“He told me to pass on Anaconda through Peter.”

“It’s the code we use to communicate a threat to the president.”

“Austin said people were going to die. It was personal. The man was a wreck. I think he
was
under duress. He said so in so many words.”

“So now you’re a goddamned psychiatrist!”

There was no animosity in Johnson’s response. “No, just a trained agent.”

“I need to speak with Woody.”

“No can do, Special Agent,” said Johnson.

“Why not?”

“He was found dead outside his Watergate apartment this morning. Apparent suicide. Jumped off his balcony.”

Jason had been checking the parking lot every three minutes and was wearing a path into the already-threadbare carpet. He peeked through the drapes, not liking what he saw. A female police officer was taking way too much interest in the stolen Lincoln. She was back in the cruiser, talking into the radio.

Jason whispered several curses. They shouldn’t have left the car parked so close to Jensen’s apartment. It was a huge—and potentially crippling—oversight.

His mug shot was probably digitally flying to every police force in the area, maybe the state. Armed and dangerous, an alleged murderer, his capture would be priority one. It was only a matter of time before this officer called in for backup and they started knocking on doors. He figured he had fifteen, thirty minutes, tops.

The desire to run was overwhelming. Jason jogged to the rear of the apartment, opened the back door and took one step onto the patio.

Lurking in the reeds, halfway between the adjacent neighborhood and Jensen’s apartment, was the killer from the hospital, still wearing his windbreaker. The man brought his weapon up for a shot.

* * *

“Where’s your brother now?” Broadhurst asked as he escorted Peter to Barbara Jensen’s Honda Accord.

After his conversation with Tom Johnson, Broadhurst had phoned a colleague in the Executive Office Building, where the Secret Service was headquartered, asking to speak with Woody Austin. The agent on the other end of the line confirmed that Woody Austin had apparently jumped to his death from his tenth-floor balcony.

“What about me and my brother?” Peter demanded. “We want protection.”

“You’ve got it. Now, where is he?”

“He’s at the apartments behind the mall,” Peter replied.

“We’ll take my car. Let’s go!”

Broadhurst had received what little data the intelligence division had on the three people Peter Rodgers was accusing. Lily Zanns, Sam Fairing, and Jasmine Kader were ghosts. The search had turned up nothing except driver’s license data, vehicle registration, and Social Security numbers. Zanns and Fairing had never filed a tax return. He had photographs of the three of them from the Virginia DMV, but they were of poor quality and relatively old. He couldn’t even be sure it was actually them. The employees of the medical practice and the Colonial could identify them easily, but rounding up those people could take hours. Hours that Broadhurst didn’t have. There was one person intimately familiar with all three, according to Peter Rodgers: his brother, Jason. Broadhurst punched the accelerator. The SUV lurched forward, fishtailing around a corner as Peter gave directions.

* * *

Jason’s eyes never left the crouching man as he backpedaled and slammed the door shut. A round thudded into wood. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and rammed it through the window, smashing glass, making as much noise as possible. He aimed it at the killer. Alerted by the noise, the assassin saw the gun protruding through the jagged glass. He dropped into the cover of the tall grass. Jason held his fire. The report would attract the attention of the police officer out front. The assassin’s progress had been halted for the moment. The killer would pause, knowing his quarry was armed. Jason backed deeper into the apartment, breathing heavily.

In addition to the killer waiting beyond the back door, no doubt equally dangerous accomplices lurked out front. Not to mention that the police officer would soon be joined by an army of cops who wanted him for murder, kidnapping, and auto theft. But if he were to surrender to the cops, Jason wasn’t confident they could protect him. He’d already been in jail once and had nearly ended up on a cold slab. Surrendering, to either party, was out of the question.

His mind working frantically, he cycled through several options, discarding them as quickly as they revealed themselves. Then the rudiments of a plan took shape.

Before he and Jenny had saved enough money to buy the house in Running Man, Jason had lived in an apartment complex similar to this one. Like this one, their apartment was old and had been built long before fire codes had been updated. There were still a few in the area. The rents were cheap and the walls thin, not separated by concrete firewalls. The blaring music coming from the apartment next door sounded like it was
inside
Barbara Jensen’s place.