“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.
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 calculated 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.”
Broadhurst slumped in his wheelchair. Giles Doyle noticed this. “Thank you, Agent Broadhurst. You have worked tirelessly for two years. Your work here is essential to the current operation. Everyone can read the report. If there are questions, I will answer them later.” Doyle addressed his colleagues sitting around the conference room: “Clay is still recovering. He needs a break. We will adjourn for thirty minutes. When we return, he will explain that Hussein is most likely going to attempt another strike on the United States and why this is so.”
The password, Vngnce, a Twitterized version of Vengeance, unlocked the message on the cell phone Hutton had given to Jason. The message, short and to the point, sent a torrent of fear and panic through him.
I have Michael and Christine … Unless you do exactly as instructed they will die … First, find a second cell phone at these coordinates and follow the instructions … Do not go to the authorities.
Jason rubbed his forehead. His hand shook as it stroked the skin.
“Are you shitting me?” he whispered. “Hutton was right! They’re back!”
“We don’t know that, Jason. This could be from anyone.”
“In short,” Broadhurst explained to the reassembled group in the SIOC conference room, “Delilah Hussein has all the classic symptoms of a megalomaniac with a streak of narcissism. This diagnosis was determined using the limited information gathered from sources in Iraq during Saddam Hussein’s rule and witnesses to his affair with Delilah Hussein.
“The FBI and CIA profilers have concluded that the megalomaniacal and narcissistic tendencies are derived from a traumatic event that took place in Delilah’s childhood.”
“How did you come by this information about her childhood,” asked the director of Homeland Security.
The CIA man Beck fielded the question. “We had operatives in place in Iraq who were able to piece together some data from eyewitnesses, bodyguards, and servants who had witnessed Delilah spending time with Saddam over the years. They overheard her telling the dictator her woeful story. Sorry, Clay, please continue.”
“Thank you, sir. When Delilah Hussein was ten years old, she lived with her parents, Henri and Imane, near Babil. They were murdered. Delilah found them upon her return from school. Evidently, she fled the house, thinking she would be next.
“She ended up as a servant and concubine for another family. The parents treated her cruelly. The husband beat and raped her sometimes for hours on end. This treatment lasted for at least a year. She managed to escape by killing the mother and father.
“Delilah wandered the desert for hours and was found by a cleric, a man named Ahmed, who took her in, clothed her, and treated her kindly. Ahmed was a confidant of Saddam Hussein. Eventually, Delilah was introduced to Saddam. And he took her as a concubine, siring two children through her. Sharif al-Faisal, aka Sam Fairing, and Jazan Hussein, aka Jasmine Kader.
“The kindness of the cleric apparently did not rub off on Delilah Hussein. Instead, her megalomania and narcissism had inculcated her as a result of the rapes and beatings, along with witnessing the excesses and brutality of Saddam. She freed herself from the brutal conditions, but they had instilled in her a sense of omnipotence, fearlessness, and grandiosity. Seeing Saddam’s grip on his nation and the riches he’d acquired imprinted the narcissistic tendencies on her psyche. She developed a sense of invincibility. The narcissism drives her need for revenge. When Saddam was toppled and executed, Delilah used her influence and resources to form a secret group called The Simoon.
“Evidently, she has had an ultra-secret plan to take down America since Saddam was toppled and has been plotting to attack America with the same intensity and vengeance seen with bin Laden.
“There has been chatter in electronic transmissions from our sources in the Middle East hinting at another attack, Syria to be exact. But we have not been able to pin down the target of the attack or her location since finding out she is still alive.”
“And you think she will not stop until she gets her revenge?” the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency asked.
“That’s correct, sir. In fact, we are now watching the pharmacist, as we feel that her need to avenge herself and her family for the pharmacist’s heroic actions will also be a key to this operation.”
“Do you recognize it?” Peter inquired.
“Absolutely. This is where it all started for me almost three years ago. Come on.”
The afternoon sun had dipped behind a large bank of dark clouds, dropping the temperature. The wind kicked up and buffeted the Hummer. They exited the vehicle and both men walked up the slope toward the gravesite. Jason knew exactly where he was going, leading the way to a terraced garden of grave sites at Peninsula Memorial Park
When Jason stopped short, Peter glanced down at the marker. “Is this her father?”
Jason nodded, silently reading the inscription on the ornate headstone:
Thomas Pettigrew
Loving Father and Husband
The date of death read September 14, almost three years ago.
Jason found himself being pulled into the past, recalling the large contingent of graveside mourners on the Tuesday following Pettigrew’s death, and laying eyes on Chrissie for the first time in more than a decade. His heart had raced in his chest then and was doing so now … but for very different reasons.
Peter broke through Jason’s trance. “If this is her doing, that bitch has a flair for the dramatic.”
“I don’t see any cell phone anywhere. Check the flowers, will you?”
Peter knelt by the headstone and pawed around the pot of fresh flowers. Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced around the grounds. To the north, situated among a copse of trees, was a fifteen foot white marble statue of Jesus kneeling and praying with arms raised and outstretched. The quiet scene and the sunlight-and-shadow dappled sculpture felt too calm, too serene. To his right lay rolling acres of cemetery dotted with granite and marble memorials. Despite the placid surroundings, Jason could feel a torrent of evil simmering like the calm before a storm. A green canopy had been erected over an open grave 150 yards to the south, surrounded by mourners seated and standing. A preacher, Bible splayed and dripping over his hands, read passages.
Jason studied the scene and shuddered. Being here once again sent tremors of malevolent sensations through him.