The Cyclops Conspiracy by David Perry Page A

official—and more ominous—trouble. The leader approached Jason. He was tall and wide-shouldered with a blond crew cut. Dark sunglasses obscured his undoubtedly penetrating eyes.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Jason.”
    “Jason what?”
    “Jason Rodgers.”
    “What were you taking pictures of?”
    Deciding it was time to come clean, he said, “Just getting some shots of the crane and the ship.”
    “I see,” he said. “Put him in the car.” With a nod, the man motioned to his colleagues to move in. Two men grabbed Jason’s arm, while the third confiscated the camera. Within minutes, he was escorted into a nameless, faceless building among the maze ofPenrose Gatling buildings. Three floors up, Jason sat at a table in a small interrogation room.
    The leader and two new men entered. Acid began to churn in Jason’s stomach. The blond leader now deferred to a new, equally fish-faced man. His demeanor did not instill Jason with new confidence. The agent removed his dark blazer and hung it on the back of a chair. Next the dark glasses were laid on the table, revealing crystal-green eyes. One of those coiled cords dripped from his left ear and disappeared down his shirt collar. Jason swallowed a mouthful of bile.
    “Jason Rodgers?” the man said.
    He nodded. “Yes. I guess I’m in some kind of trouble?”
    The man snorted and glanced at his colleagues. “You could say that. Why are you taking pictures of the shipyard and the aircraft carrier?”
    Not wanting to throw Lily under the bus, he lied, “For…for the hell of it.” A child caught with his hand in his mother’s change purse would have sounded more convincing.
    “For the hell of it?” He rubbed his chin. “You sure stepped in it just for shits and giggles, Mr. Rodgers. I need to see ID.” Jason fished out his driver’s license. The new leader left. Several minutes later, he returned holding two sheets of paper. “Jason,” the man said, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Do you know it’s illegal to photograph the shipyard?”
    “I do now.”
    “Where do you work? And what do you do there?”
    “I work for the Colonial Pharmacy. I’m a pharmacist.” Jason squirreled up some courage and asked, “Who are you?”
    The man locked eyes with Jason. He pulled out a leather badge case and flipped it open. “I’m Special Agent Clay Broadhurst of the United States Secret Service.”
    The camera was brought into the room like an incriminating weapon, the 80 mm lens still attached. “It’s clean, except for the photos,” the agent announced.
    Broadhurst examined the camera and switched it on. He scrolled the through the photos. “Why are you taking pictures of empty lots and old buildings, Jason?”
    Before he could answer, another agent returned with several cans of soda and placed them on the table. “Where are my manners, Jason? Would you like something to drink?” said Broadhurst.
    Jason declined, barely able to shake his head.
    “So were you about to tell us why you’re taking pictures of empty lots?”
    Jason’s mouth and throat felt like the Mojave. “Maybe I would like something to drink,” he whispered.
    Broadhurst slid him a can of Coke, and Jason popped it. The acidy drink hurt going down.
    Jason cleared his throat. “I’m looking for sites for a new pharmacy.”
    “A new pharmacy?” Broadhurst smirked.
    He nodded
    “In this part of town? You’re a long way from home, chief.”
    Jason nodded again, weakly.
    “That’s lame,” another agent said. “Why don’t you save us a lot of time and tell us what you really doing down here?”
    “That’s the truth,” Jason declared.
    Broadhurst sighed, shaking his head. “Here’s the situation. You were on shipyard property taking these photographs. That’s trespassing. You were photographing a Navy aircraft carrier. That could be considered espionage. Spies did the very same thing just before they bombed Pearl Harbor!” Broadhurst let that statement settle for a moment. “I