The Cyclops Conspiracy (34 page)

It was all about context. If he could remember the circumstances in which he’d seen these names, he could open the right mental file and snatch the information. He examined every avenue of his life. Work, pharmacy school, friends, anyone who may have mentioned the words. Nothing jogged his memory.

Stretched out on the bed, he thought of Michael, just as he did whenever work at the pharmacy threatened to overwhelm him. Michael represented pure innocence, pure peace. He closed his eyes and flipped through a cerebral slide show. Michael on the pitcher’s mound; Michael banging out a beat loud enough to wake long-dead revolutionary war heroes buried in Yorktown; Michael on his bike trying to catch up to his buddies in the neighborhood; the innocent smile spreading across his face as he told one of his inane jokes; the incessant questions; Michael sitting in front of the computer surfing the web for baseball statistics and YouTube videos…

Torpedo and Thunderbolt.

He shook his head. The names kept jumping into his mind, crashing the calming party like an uninvited guest. Several more deep, cleansing breaths, and he started the show again—

Again the words, the sounds and syllables filled his mind, shutting out his son.

“Damn,” he said loudly. A passing guard shot him a curious look.

Michael reappeared. Jason prayed he was out of danger. Jason wanted desperately to talk to his son. Knowing that it was impossible at the moment made the desire even greater.

Michael’s angelic face smiled at his father. The boy was sitting in front of the computer, as Jason looked at what Michael had pulled up.

As with his dream about Jasmine, he would never know why the image flashed to him at that moment. The mind had its own agenda. It was a memory that held no special significance. Until now.

A book of codes, encryption codes. The kind used during warfare to keep the enemy from stealing them. The same kind of Nazi codes the Allies had broken during World War Two to help win the war. Michael was writing a report on these codes and the code breakers of Bletchley Park in England.

He’d asked if he could use the computer to Google the subject.

Michael had searched on several variations of the word “code.” Jason had happened by as he typed the word “codename” into the
search engine. A list of web sites loaded. Michael clicked on the first link. Being a ten-year-old, he’d quickly forgot his homework and began reading. There, on the screen, was the list.

Deacon

Lancer

Volunteer

Rawhide

Timberwolf

Torpedo

Tumbler

Thunderbolt

Pass Key

Searchlight

Beside each codename was a name corresponding to the person to whom it referred. Jason sat bolt upright as if a spring had released.

“Son of a bitch!” Beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead and upper lip. He brushed away the moisture with a trembling hand.

Deacon—Jimmy Carter

Lancer—JFK

Volunteer—LBJ

Rawhide—Ronald Reagan

Timberwolf—George H. W. Bush

Torpedo—Jacob R. Hope

Tumbler—George W. Bush

Thunderbolt—Gary Hope

Pass Key—Gerald Ford

Searchlight—Richard Nixon

The White House Signal Corps assigned codenames to the presidents. Codenames used by the Secret Service. Torpedo and Thunderbolt were the monikers for presidents Hope, father and son—42 and 44. The news shows, the aircraft carrier. Penrose Gatling Shipbuilders was hosting the christening of the
Hope
on Saturday.

What day is it?

Thursday. Today was Thursday. No. It was Friday morning.

The christening was tomorrow! Twenty-four hours!

Sam Fairing’s request to take off Saturday, October 7. It was the first request he’d made of Jason after he’d taken the new job. The seventh was Saturday, the day of the christening. Peter and he had talked about taking the kids to the ceremony. Both presidents were going to be in attendance.

Jason swung his feet onto the floor. “Holy shit!” he said out loud. “It’s the presidents! It’s the damn presidents!”

Christine drove past the mansion twice, scanning the grounds. She saw nothing unusual; if she’d been out for a leisurely drive, she would have taken no special notice of the place except for its architectural beauty. But Christine had an agenda this morning. She was measuring her plan of attack. It was a simple, straightforward strategy.

Parking her Chrysler 300 down the street, she walked back, her gait determined but unhurried. Her heart pounded inside her chest like a blacksmith’s hammer. Sweat trickled down her back toward the revolver nestled inside the waistband of her jeans. Her hands flexed and relaxed with each step.

Standing across the divided roadway of Riverside Drive, she studied the redbrick mansion. Two cars were parked in the circular drive. She recognized Zanns’s blue Mercedes, but the green, expensive sports car was a make unknown to her. Beyond the vehicles, the granite, circular steps led to the high-columned portico.

She reached under her leather jacket and checked the Colt one last time.
Fitting
, she thought. Her father’s gun would be the weapon
used to end the bitch’s life. Lily Zanns probably hadn’t committed the deed. The woman lived atop the food chain. She wouldn’t have soiled her precious, manicured hands. But Lily Zanns’s fingerprints were all over her father’s murder. The recording proved it.

Christine had looked upon the elegant matriarch as her father’s savior. Zanns had ripped Daddy from the drooling jaws of his self-made financial ruin. Her cunning business sense and uncompromising deftness had seemed magical, inimitable. Though reviled by Thomas Pettigrew, she always carried herself—in Christine’s eyes, anyway—with grace and tact. That supposedly generous person had orchestrated her father’s demise and then paid for the funeral, feigning love and empathy. The deep respect Christine once felt had transformed into a raw, festering hatred in the time it took for her to hear Zanns’s words on the recording. During that brief span, she had determined she would kill Lily Zanns. That was why she’d refused Jason’s request to flee.

Christine took two steps into the street…

The blaring wail of a car horn interrupted her trance, stopping her cold. She jumped at the screech of locked rubber. The sedan’s front bumper stopped inches short of her left knee. The driver screamed profanities from behind the safety glass.

Christine looked at him, disoriented and unfocused. She composed herself and staggered across the street. As the car drove off, she tugged down on her jacket with both hands, took a deep breath, and marched up the drive. On the portico, she peered inside the tall, shuttered windows, but saw little past the thick drapes. She removed the revolver and checked the load again. She wasn’t an expert marksman, but her father had shown her the basics. Shielding the gun from view, she advanced to the eleven-foot, ornately carved door.

She drew in two long, deep breaths, expelling them slowly.

It wasn’t enough to simply kill her. She wanted to see the look in Zanns’s eyes when she realized Christine was avenging her father.

Gun pressed against her thigh, she closed her eyes and whispered a short prayer asking for God and her father’s forgiveness. The irony
was not lost on her. She was praying for strength to kill another human being. She whispered, “I love you, Daddy.”

She pressed the door chime and moved the gun into position.

* * *

Jason heard the keys sliding into the lock of his cell door. The guard stood beside a tattooed man in handcuffs. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in body art. His bald head and forehead were covered by a flowing, black-and-green dragon with three drops of blood dripping from its jaws. The lowest droplet was situated between the man’s eyes.

Jason sat up on his elbows and watched the guard remove the cuffs. Then he saw something that left a twinge in his gut. Tattoo Man smiled discreetly at the guard, who winked back at him. Then the guard locked them in the cell designed for only one human being.

* * *

The door swung open.

The tall, swarthy manservant peered into Christine’s eyes and then the barrel of the Colt. Even though she was the one holding the weapon, Christine swallowed hard. The revolver trembled in her petite hands. Oliver’s demeanor showed no more alarm than if she’d been a door-to-door salesman.

“Can I help you, miss?” His eyes darted about, assessing the situation.

Christine cocked the hammer and deepened her voice. “I want to see Lily. Now!”

Oliver contemplated the quaking barrel. “As you wish.”

Christine flicked the weapon twice. Oliver backed in, his eyes never leaving her.

“Move away from the door! Stay where I can see you!”

Oliver retreated farther into the mansion.

Christine stepped inside, backing into the door until it latched. She never once averted her gaze from the enormous man.

Zanns appeared from the study in a silk green sari, holding a cup and saucer. She noticed Christine and froze. The dark tea spilled, staining the white carpet. Zanns glanced at Oliver, then back to Christine. “Well, well, my child. What brings you to my humble abode—with a gun no less? Have we done something to offend you?”

Christine twitched the gun with more bravado. “Get over there, next to him!”

Zanns placed the cup on an ornate end table and moved beside her employee.

“You killed my father!”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Shut up!” Christine raised the gun higher, aiming between Zanns’s perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “Don’t—don’t you dare—lie to me. I know the truth!”

“Ms. Christine, you must put the gun down. Then we can talk.”

A single tear streaked down Christine’s cheek. She dared not wipe it away. The Colt was too heavy for her to hold with only one hand.

“Stop! Stop with the lies. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. We know about the murders!”

“I did not kill your father, Ms. Christine—”

When the gun went off, it sounded like a clap of thunder. Chunks of plaster rained down. Oliver and Zanns ducked reflexively. The recoil jolted Christine backward.

Zanns and Oliver stood erect again. Christine releveled the weapon as a coil of smoke escaped the barrel. “I know about his so-called accident. I don’t know how you did it, but
you…you
had him killed.”

“What makes you think that I would do something so vile? Your father was a good man. He had a drinking problem—”

Another shot rang out. A tall vase behind Zanns disintegrated.

“Shut up!”

Oliver took another step in her direction.

“I want to hear you say it!”

“Say what, my child?”

“That you murdered my father and Douglas Winstead. You’re responsible for their deaths—their murders!”

It lasted only an instant. Zanns’s eyes displayed a nanosecond of alarm at the mention of Winstead’s name. Her stoicism returned instantly.

“It’s all on tape. The phony prescriptions. I’ve seen the files and heard the recording. And we know you’re planning on killing again. Two more men are scheduled to die. You won’t succeed—”

Oliver was a step and a dive away. As if she were reading his mind, Christine pointed the gun at him. Oliver held up his hands in surrender. Two facts registered in her frantically working mind. First, she noticed the missing pinky fingers on each hand. Her eyes moved lower. He wore a pullover with short sleeves. His arms were exposed. Christine recognized the small tattoo etched into the skin of his forearm. “You! It was you in my father’s house that day!”

Everything made sense now. Oliver was the same height as the attacker. The skin filling the eyeholes of the mask was bronzed. Then there was the tattoo.

Waves of rage pummeled her, washing away any remnant of self-control. Tears welled and spilled down her face. Christine jerked the gun back and forth between Zanns and Oliver. “It stops right here, right now!”

As she waved the weapon between her two captives, frantic pounding rattled the front door. Voices shouted, demanding entry. It was the police.

Tattoo Man had been eyeing him for thirty minutes—him, and the camera mounted in the corner just under the ceiling. His body was like an NFL linebacker’s. Hard sinew rippled the decorated skin. Chemically enhanced workouts, Jason thought. The man would never pass a piss test.

Jason focused on the ceiling again. How had he ended up here? He felt like he was strapped in an out-of-control carnival ride that was rapidly gaining speed and on the verge of flying apart.

The audio recording made in the small hours of this morning confirmed an assassination was being planned in twenty-four hours. Jacob R. Hope, number 42, and Gary Hope, number 44, were targets. A multitude of scenarios real and imagined played out on an endless loop in his head.

He toyed again with the idea of calling Detective Baxter and laying everything out for him. But he rejected it, again. Baxter believed he was a killer. Lily Zanns and her cabal had framed Jason
and tidily shrink-wrapped it for the police. Baxter thought Jason was concocting stories to save his own skin. Even as Jason spoke the words, they sounded incredible.

Peter would know what to do. His brother would arrive this morning with the lawyer, and they’d explain about the assassination. There was still time to prevent the attack. Waterhouse should have contacted the police by now. They would take the information to someone at the Secret Service, and Zanns’s plans would be squelched.

What was the name of the Secret Service agent at the shipyard?

Jason checked Tattoo Man, meeting and holding his gaze. The man glanced at the camera again, then back at Jason. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. He shifted, shuffling his boots on the cold, concrete floor.

Two things about the man bothered Jason. First, his skin. Second, his presence. The jail was not crowded, and he was sure they had room for this human art collection elsewhere. Jason could handle himself well. His skill and training in Tae Kwon Doe had prepared him for any conceivable threat. Nonetheless, he’d give this massive wall of brawn and bone a wide berth.