by David Perry
But the prisoner held no illusions. The chances of success for any escape attempt would be slim.
No larger than a small bathroom, the inmate couldn’t even spread his arms out to full wing span. Three ten foot cinder-gray steel walls, painted a dull gray, surrounded him. In the fourth wall, the south wall, a solid steel door allowed the only entry and exit. This was his private, miniature hell.
The metal door was flanked by two vertical rectangular openings. Encased in the thick steel, filled with equally thick Plexiglas into which a thick wire mesh had been imbedded, the tall, narrow openings allowed him a view onto the small, exclusive prison unit housing him and four other captives.
The inmate sat on his metal cot, on the thin mattress, with his back against the cold concrete. His eyes studied the thin slit in the north wall, opposite the door. A single rectangular slash had been shaped into the concrete, allowing in the fading outside light, tantalizing its inhabitant with the sky beyond. As with the sidelights beside the door, the thick, rigid Plexiglas in the horizontal slit, no more than six inches high and a foot wide, was laden with wire. Notched at the nine-foot level, the Plexiglas and the miniscule dimensions of the frame precluded any normal-sized human from slipping through even if they could shatter the thick glass. As many times as he tried, he could not pull himself with his hands to reach the window and get a glimpse of the surrounding acreage.
It’s unusual, he told himself, for a window to be allowed in a cell for someone considered so dangerous. There was only one reason the designers of the prison would have allowed it. They wanted the prisoners to see what they were being deprived of each and every minute of the day. In was the cruelest of punishments.
Solitary confinement meant twenty-three hours a day in the cell. Only one hour in his own private exercise yard each day was allowed. And then only if the COs allowed it. The privilege could be revoked … and often was … for any variety of reasons. Bad weather, poor behavior, or a corrections officer with an attitude.
The prisoner had been housed in this facility for two and a half years. He’d attempted and failed to carry out his crime of high treason. Well, it would have been treason if he were a citizen of America. To him, it was an act of bravery and consequence that would have shaken the foundations of world politics. Despite their failure, it was a crime serious enough for him to be held without American due process, held without ever having seen an attorney, and without the possibility of being set free by normal legal channels. And no one would ever know about his transgressions or his imprisonment.
And those two facts irritated the hell out of him.
The man, sitting on his metal cot with his knees elevated, closed the book he was reading and contemplated his surroundings. In the thirty months since he’d begun his incarceration, the prisoner had become a voracious reader. Television, radio, and newspapers, all portals to the outside, were not allowed. His only mental stimulation was his own imagination and the well-worn pages of the prison library.
He read every work available to him, more than once.
Six months ago, he’d found the one work defining his plight, capturing its full travesty. It was the mythological fantasy of the mightiest smithy in Greek mythology, the tale of Brontes, a Cyclops, the forger of weapons for the gods.
As he turned the pages those many months ago, the prisoner realized that, though allegorical, it was his story. Since the words had registered with him, his purpose had been reinvigorated, redefined. He decided that day, six months earlier, that his quest must continue. He had to free himself from this Underground, the same way Brontes had done. He would forge the weapons that would be used in the ongoing war and—as Brontes had done—he would become a vital cog in the battle against the infidels.
The man adjusted the eye patch covering his devastated right eye. He had lost it in a struggle with a weaker human being, a lesser man, a man not anywhere close to him in talent. A mere pharmacist, a pill pusher who’d stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. A man who had thwarted their plan and bested him, causing him to spend his days in this eternal Underground.
It was on that day six months ago that the prisoner decided his mission was not over. He would need help, mind you, and the will to stay positive. He had to be ready if and when any plan to free him materialized. The matriarch of The Simoon, his matriarch, would send a message. He prayed each day that she would get word to him.
If and when his freedom was won, he would seek revenge in two ways. First, he would join his mother again and be at her side. And he would strike down the pharmacist, Jason Rodgers. Second, they would strike at the belly of the infidels again … and again, until they capitulated. This would be a blow more devastating and destructive than the attempts to kill the two pig presidents. He hadn’t been given details. He didn’t need them … yet. Sharif al-Faisal knew his mother would not rest until the United States was brought to its knees.
Al-Faisal lay back down on the metal cot and whispered a verse from his favorite surah. He tented the open book on his chest, placed both hands under his head, and looked up at the concrete ceiling. A sense of electric anticipation engulfed him, along with the serenity that accompanies dutiful preparation. The rest he would leave in Allah’s hands.
When the time came, he would be ready.
He had been known by two names in his life. He was Sharif al-Faisal Hussein, son to a murdered dictator, slated to become an Arab leader of world renown, charged with ridding the Middle East of American imperialism. That plan failed when the assassinations were thwarted.
The Americans knew him as the straight-laced assassin-pharmacist Sam Fairing, a talented sniper and warrior skilled in martial arts and all manner of weapons.
Both of those personas were gone, vanished like vapor.
That fateful day in his cell, after reading about Brontes, the prisoner had forgone both names. He told his guards months ago that he was to be known only by his one true identity, one that fit his purpose and his physical state.
The one-eyed prisoner had only one name now:
Cyclops.
And he would have his revenge!
Chapter 22
“The president personally thanked Rodgers for saving his life, Giles. How the hell can we let this happen? He is not a pawn.”
Broadhurst was more animated than he’d been in months. His body had summoned a reserve of energy he did not know he possessed, probably his last. He could feel his face flush as he directed his irritation at his boss in the SIOC Command Center.
“Clay, relax. I’ve conveyed your concerns to the president. I have his assurance that we will follow Rodgers and this Watcher fellow. And just for the record, Clay, everyone is a pawn if we need them to be. We will watch and wait to see if we can get a handle on what Hussein’s operation is. If he’s in danger, we’ll go in and get him.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Watch yourself, Special Agent! You still work for me … and the president.”
“You asked me to supervise this operation, Giles. I want assurances. Rodgers put his life on the line for his country. He’s a civilian. Grow a pair!”
Giles Doyle circled his desk. He towered over his best agent, now riddled with cancer.
“You listen to me you son of a bitch. I will not be talked to that way. You have been given an assignment. I expect you to carry it out.”
“Yes … sir,” Broadhurst mimicked. “But I’m telling you now that if it comes down to it. I will do whatever I can to assist that man. Is that clear?”
“You smug bastard. If you weren’t so sick, Clay, I’d cold cock you right now,” Doyle smirked.
“If I weren’t so sick, Director, believe me I’d do the same!”
Giles Doyle, the director of the Secret Service and a former army ranger, smiled. “I believe you are scheduled to brief the brass about what you know about Hussein, what happened in Newport News, and The Simoon. Get to work, Special Agent.”
“Can you read it?” Peter asked.<
br />
They stood side by side at the workbench inside the garage of Peter’s Smithfield home. Jason hunched over a microscope with his brother at his shoulder, demanding answers.
“Give me a minute,” Jason barked.
They had spent an hour at Chrissie’s trying to decipher the small mark on the back of one of the cards. Jason did not know which card it was, the one from Michael’s or Chrissie’s room. It didn’t really matter. They appeared identical.
Jason found a magnifying glass in a desk drawer and tried to read the miniscule writing. When that proved futile, Peter remembered that one of his daughters owned a microscope that had been relegated to the dusty recesses of the garage. They drove from Newport News and had huddled over the workbench for the last twenty minutes.
“How the hell do you know it means anything?”
“I don’t. But the marking doesn’t look random. It was placed on the card. You see how straight and perfect it is along the bottom edge. See?”
Jason held both cards up for his brother to examine.
“It’s not a pencil or pen mark. It’s microprinting like you see on currency. But really tiny.”
Jason placed the card under the microscope. “How the hell did you think of using the microscope?” Jason asked.
“Megan was caught up with science for many years. We bought her every kind of science kit we could find. I bought her this microscope three years ago. She would look at everything under it.”
Jason stood up. “This magnification is too low. Are there any other lenses?”
Peter went back to the box and returned with an assortment of lenses laid out in foam cutouts. Jason tried two stronger magnifications with no luck.
“Got a flashlight? The light under the stage is burned out.”
Peter rummaged around in his stack of clutter on the workbench and returned again with a mag lite.
“Shine it from underneath. I’m going to try this last magnification.”
Jason slid the lens into place as Peter pointed the flashlight up under the small card clipped to the stage
“Okay, that’s better,” Jason said.
“What’s it say?”
“Gimme a minute. Hold the light steady. I can barely make it out.”
Jason twisted the focusing ring on the stem of the device in a long arc. He then twisted in the opposite direction as he played a visual version of warmer-colder.
“Well?” Peter persisted.
“Almost there.”
Jason turned the ring back and forth in miniscule arcs, narrowing the focus.
“Holy shit!” Jason whispered. Jason removed the card and checked the second card. The micro printed message was the same.
“What does it say?”
“Let me see!” Peter pushed himself between Jason and the microscope. After a few seconds of adjustments, he exclaimed, “Son of a bitch!”
He read the words aloud:
Do not contact the police or the Feds or your son and girlfriend will die. … the password is … Vngnce …
“Summarize for everyone, Special Agent,” Giles Doyle, the director of the Secret Service began. “Explain what problems occurred two years ago in Newport News. Everyone here has been cleared to be read in on the details.”
Doyle turned to the handful of high-level attendees. “Special Agent Broadhurst has been working for the last two years to analyze, correct, and anticipate future issues when it comes to presidential protection and prevention of future incidents.”
Clay Broadhurst sat in the conference room overlooking the amphitheater that was the SIOC. The room was replete with large, wall-mounted screens and smaller desktop versions scattered throughout the space, along with secure phones, fax machines, and other high-tech devices. Agents sat at every terminal, monitoring their specific assignments. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall provided these top level government officials with a first-hand view of the FBI’s capability to monitor ongoing crises. Broadhurst sat front and center, at the head of the gleaming conference room table, staring down his audience. He had managed to swallow his anger and frustration over his earlier meeting with Doyle regarding Jason Rodgers.
“Thank you, Director,” he replied. “I will address two topics today. First I want to look at the deficiencies of the security apparatus at the shipyard in Newport News. And second, now, that we know Hussein did not die on the yacht, I will give you a profile of this madwoman and what we think her next moves will be.”
Broadhurst cleared his throat and wiped his lips with a white handkerchief. He scanned the ten faces sitting around the table. “Before you is a three-page report outlining the failings that resulted in the near-deaths of two presidents, maybe more …”
“We’ve read the report, Clay,” the director of the National Security Agency interrupted. “Just give us a quick summary. We all know how hard you’ve worked on this since the event.”
“Yes sir. In short, we had a major infiltration in the Secret Service, the CIA, and possibly other agencies inside the federal government. Delilah Hussein’s organization was—and may still be—far-flung, with assets all over the world, inside the federal government, and on the ground in Newport News. Her team had apparently planned this operation for several years, all along financed by a phony front organization called Cooper Venture Capital.
“Hussein purchased a local, independent pharmacy under the alias Lily Zanns as a base for her headquarters, and used Cooper Venture to funnel money through the pharmacy, pay her operatives, and finance the operation. Two of the major players were her son, Sam Fairing, a pharmacist, aka Sharif al-Faisal, and her daughter, Jasmine Kader, a physician. Both children were highly trained assassins. Kader is dead and Fairing was apprehended in the condo tower north of the shipyard with the help of the pharmacist named Rodgers. In fact, Jason Rodgers and his brother, Peter, are the only reason that we avoided a tragedy like Dealey Plaza.
“I interviewed Fairing three months after he was captured. He explained much of the operation to me … after some intense interrogation, of course. He was set up in Windsor Towers in a fourth-floor condo with a perfect view and sniping position for a shot on the christening. The daughter, Kader, aka Jazan Hussein, was perched atop the James River Bridge north tower under a tarp. Both shots were to have been taken from a mile away and to be placed through the protective white canvass we had deployed to block an attempt at such a shot.
“How were they able to even attempt such shots if the white canvass was obscuring the view?” George McNamara, the director of the FBI demanded.
“That, sir, was the million-dollar question,” Broadhurst replied. “During the interview, Faisal informed me that information was being retrieved from a dead drop near the James River whenever key data was available. That data included the seating arrangements of the dignitaries on the pier that day, including the exact locations of both presidents. Two moles hired by Woody Austin, the former and late director of the Presidential Protection Division, had access to that highly classified information. Austin left a note explaining that he had been blackmailed into hiring the moles. This note was left before he jumped to his death from the Watergate East Apartments. That information allowed the snipers to know the precise locations of the intended targets. That was the most crucial breach.
“Those two moles have been apprehended. The mastermind of the infiltration of the governmental operation, a man codenamed Hammon, is still at large,” Broadhurst said, stopping. He turned his attention to the director of the CIA’s Clandestine Operations, John Beck.
“Special Agent Broadhurst is correct,” Beck said. “We have a suspect under surveillance and are close to finalizing his arrest.”
“How were they going to make the shots?” a voice interrupted. “You still haven’t explained that.”
Broadhurst nodded. “Yes, sorry. Hussein and her two snipers purchased a device they called Cyclops. We are still trying to track down the maker of the device. It was a dual laser system hardwired to a laptop that ca
lculated wind direction, distances, rain, air temperature and humidity, and the curvature of the earth. These parameters were updated every two seconds and fed to the lasers mounted on motorized stands that would realign two target reticles, one for each sniper, onto the white screen we had deployed. The sights were invisible to our team of agents because they were visible only by using infrared scopes mounted on their Barrett fifty caliber sniper rifles. They were to have used these constantly updated reticles to know where to place their shots through the white canvass.
“The snipers, Fairing and Kader, perfected and practiced their skills at a covert site in northern North Carolina called the Camp. Oliver, Delilah Hussein’s manservant, flew them down using the float plane. The same float plane, as we now know, that eventually carried Hussein and Oliver to a rendezvous somewhere on the ocean east of North Carolina.”
“What about the changes to protocol for protection of the president going forward?” Giles Doyle, the director of the Secret Service asked.
“The Service has revamped all of its presidential protection procedures,” Broadhurst continued, “including expanding the ring of protection to a mile and a half out for all presidential events. The Towers that day were fully examined and searched. All windows were scanned by agents looking for open windows. No possible breaches were found. Fairing, the sniper in the north Windsor Tower had cut two three-inch holes into the window glass that morning and was to fire through one hole while the Cyclops painted the dual infrared targets on the white screen. The rifle was disassembled and stored in another condo in the south tower until it was needed.
“It is my conclusion, despite the near failure in Newport News, that our on-the-ground security precautions were adequate. The failure came from up the chain and the infiltration of the Service and the CIA. Nonetheless, we have enhanced security and the changes have already been implemented.”