The Cassandra Conspiracy (28 page)

“The damned room’s bugged,” he whispered into Janet’s ear. “Don’t say a word,” Payton added. “Before he died, Mark told me who Wingate’s target is–Wingate’s going to assassinate
President Varrick.”

A shocked look swept over Janet’s face. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

“He is,” Payton said. “That explains the electronic mail message. Shangri-La’s the old name for Camp David, and five million’s a respectable amount for a Presidential assassination.”

Slowly the pieces of the ominous puzzle began to come together. The fog that clouded Payton's head since he’d first gotten the Email message was finally clearing. “I don’t have an inkling why the
President’s best friend would want him dead, but he does.”

“With Daniel Varrick dead, Vice
President Darby takes over the Oval Office,” Janet said.

“If that’s Wingate’s game plan, then Darby’s either one of his people or someone
that Wingate finds acceptable as President.”

“What are we going to do?”  The entire situation was beyond her wildest nightmares. “Wingate will destroy us.”

Payton pulled Janet toward him. “We’re going to make it through this. You’ve got to believe me. And we’re going to keep at Wingate’s heals until we stop the assassination. But first, we’ve got to get out of here. With any luck, we’ll be able to get seats on one of tomorrow’s flights to the States.”

“Then what?”

“Assuming there’s no change in Wingate’s schedule, we’ve got less than two weeks before the assassin strikes. It’s time to bring in the pros.” He was eager to raise the specter of an assassination attempt as soon as possible. “The Secret Service will know what to do,” he added as an afterthought. It sounded great, but Payton wasn’t even sure they could elude Wingate’s people.

Everything that had happened had drained Payton emotionally. He had run the gauntlet from abject fear and grief to the elation of surviving the attempt on his life. Not to mention the fact that Janet had gotten away unharmed. Her robe had become undone, and Payton could see her breasts between its folds. He reached over and gently undid the already loose tie. Then he slipped the robe from her shoulders.

Sensing his urgency, Janet fumbled with Steve’s belt.

Payton was unable to dam the emotional surge. He kissed Janet’s lips trying to be gentle, but knowing that he wasn’t. His mouth parted from hers,
and then traveled a course first to her neck, then down to her breasts.

“Do it, Steve,” Janet half whispered into his ear. “Do me.”

Payton's fingers found her ready. He leaned her over the pedestal sink, and then entered her. Payton moved back and forth–the pain from his fall be damned. Like a tidal wave crashing on to the shore, they climaxed together in one gigantic spasm–each fulfilled by the other.

Afterward Janet said, “Wingate could have heard that without the bugs.”

Payton shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares?”

.   .   .   .   .   .

Across the street in the office commandeered by Parker’s men, Payton's return was noted.

“Look who’s returned from the dead,” Parker’s team leader swore under his breath. “There’s always tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 28

October 23rd

As he drove along the narrow back road, John Grant looked for the weathered sign pointing to the abandoned quarry of some long forgotten sand and gravel company. He continued, but carefully kept an eye out for the road that would lead him to the quarry property.

Finally he spotted the sign warning trespassers to keep out. After a quick check in the rearview mirror, he turned onto the old gravel roadway. It led to the quarry’s main operation where the landscape was pockmarked with an array of gravel hillocks interspersed amongst obscene ravines where the once-sought-after minerals had already been quarried. Gullies, long since dry, had formed to sluice the runoff away.

Cognizant of the colonel's warnings, Grant had selected the site because it fulfilled his requirements. The temperature and humidity were approximately the same as they would be on November 1.

Grant found a suitable place to park, then got out of the car. Spent cartridges littered the ground, confirming his suspicion that others had used the old quarry for target practice. Most likely the neighbors were used to the sound of gunfire echoing from the quarry. Nonetheless, he hoped that no one would bother coming around to see what he was doing. There was nothing untoward save his choice of weapons. Not that any of the locals would even recognize the highly specialized sniper weapon for what it was. If someone did show up, he’d stash the sniper rifle, and plink with the Smith & Wesson.

After he was satisfied that he was alone, Grant began to set up his makeshift shooting range. The colonel's instructions had been specific:  first find out how the high powered rifle handles with the standard load, then with the special frangible rounds. To sight in the sniper rifle, he needed at least fifteen hundred yards–line of sight.

Grant hammered a stake into the ground near the side of the road, then reset the trip odometer on the car, driving in the direction that held the most promise of having the greatest unobstructed distance. He clocked the odometer at half a mile, and then at the three-quarter-mile point. At nine tenths of a mile, he stopped the car and drove a second stake into the sand and gravel surface. He was at his anticipated range. To be on the safe side, Grant fine
-tuned the distance with the laser rangefinder.

The site was perfect, less than twenty yards from a substantial sand hill left by the quarry workers when they ceased operations. It would make a more than adequate backstop, easily stopping the heavy bullet.

He took out a shovel and dug two holes approximately two feet deep and three feet apart. From the trunk, Grant pulled two two-by-fours and placed one in each hole. He then shoveled the sand and gravel mixture back into the holes. Also from the Jeep, he removed a half sheet of plywood, four feet in width. This he nailed between the two-by-fours. Finally, Grant stapled the man-sized silhouette targets to the plywood framework. He secured the hatch, and then drove back to where he had driven the first stake.

Grant parked the Jeep across his intended direction of fire and carefully spread a blanket across the hood of the car. Next he took out a telescope that he had bought from a local hobby store. He needed a way to determine the accuracy of his shooting while he sighted in the sniper
-scope. A regular spotting scope wouldn’t handle the distance, but the telescope would do fine. Grant slipped the sniper rifle from its case and placed it on the hood of the Jeep. He removed the snap on plastic caps that protected both ends of the sniper-scope.

Months of planning, preceded by years of field experience, were about to come together. Confident that he could hit the target, Grant twisted the rifle bolt, drawing it back and opening the breech. From the box of standard fifty caliber ammunition he removed a single cartridge. Careful not to get any dirt or grit into the rifle’s action, Grant placed the bullet in the breech,
and then pushed the bolt home. He put on the ear protectors and picked up the rifle.

With its two spring-loaded front legs fully extended, so that the rifle rested on the hood of the Jeep, Grant pointed the gun downrange directly at the plywood backstop. The suppressor on the front of the rifle would ensure that although the shot would not
sound anything like a twenty-two, it would be a helluva lot quieter than it would without the suppressor.

Before taking his first shot he wanted to get the feel of the weapon. Grant struggled to draw a bead on the silhouette. As he had anticipated, even a slight movement pulled him off the target. Under pressure, he’d need more time to set up the shot.

Grant took a breath, held it, and then brought the crosshairs down on to the left-hand target. At the maximum range, the silhouette target wasn’t large enough to fill the scope. He aimed for the center of mass, placing the graticule directly over the heart. He quartered the silhouette, placing an equal amount of the target in each of the four quadrants surrounding the center point.

Letting the bipod legs handle the weight, he began the breathing exercise he had learned in Vietnam. Ever so carefully, Grant squeezed the trigger. The fifty caliber rifle report echoed through the quarry as the bullet began its nearly mile-long journey.

Grant pulled the bolt back, ejecting the spent shell. He left the gun on the Jeep’s hood and checked the target through the spotting scope. Then he repeated the procedure five times until he was certain his shots were hitting low. From his gunsmith’s tool kit, he selected a slotted-head screwdriver of the appropriate size, and turned the scope’s elevation screw two clicks. He reloaded the gun and fired again. This shot went high, as did the five more rounds Grant cranked through the gun.

Careful not to over compensate, he readjusted the elevation screw by one click, then reloaded. The fifty caliber round hit the target, drilling a hole in the center of the chest area, a fatal shot. With the gun sighted in, Grant fired twenty more steel-jacketed bullets, testing the gun and his ability to handle it. On each shot, he did everything by the book, from his breathing to the squeezing of the trigger. It was as if each practice round was the real thing.

By the time he was satisfied that he could put his shots on the target, sweat streamed from his forehead. He had been at this for two hours, meticulously setting up each shot, then checking his accuracy. It was time to find out what would happen if, for some reason, he had to rush the shot.

First he loaded the weapon and rested it on the Jeep’s hood. Then he counted to three, picked up the rifle, aimed, and fired, allowing himself only three seconds to get the shot off. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to hit the target when pressed for time. He had to make the first shot count.

Having seen the damage that the frangible rounds did on the pork, he had no doubt of their effect on flesh and bone. But Grant needed to confirm that the custom made ammunition would follow the same trajectory as the regular fifty caliber bullets he had used to sight in the gun.

He loaded the explosive round into the weapon’s chamber, and snugged the gun against his shoulder. Selecting the second silhouette, he centered the crosshairs on the chest area, exhaled slowly, and squeezed off the shot. The half
-inch hole from the high caliber bullet appeared in stark contrast to the rest of the black target, and it was right where it was supposed to be.

The gun would perform flawlessly. Grant carefully replaced it in its case, dismantled the telescope, and put all the gear back in the Jeep. With the equipment stowed, he retrieved the spent brass, taking care to account for each shot that he fired. Grant drove downrange and dismantled the target.

He placed the plywood and two-by-fours back into the Jeep, to be disposed of in some anonymous dumpster on his way back to the motel. With his handkerchief, Grant carefully wiped the expended shells clean of fingerprints. If he had thought that the gun would ever turn up, he would have punched the primers from the shell casings. Forensic science had found a way to match the firing pin’s indentations to the gun that had fired it. But without a gun for comparison purposes, the casings were useless.

Grant tossed the spent brass into the holes that had supported the target, and shoveled the dirt back in. When he had finished, there was no trace left of his visit.

He covered the rifle case with a blanket, and then pulled the cargo area cover over the back part of the Jeep. Grant left the quarry and headed back toward Route 40. The final element in his preparations was now in place.

CHAPTER 29

The next morning when Payton reached the lobby, he found the two hotel phones already in use. He took a seat in one of the velvet covered Queen Anne chairs and picked up a copy of the morning paper that had been left on the nearby coffee table.

London was a city virtually devoid of street crime, with one of the lowest murder rates in Europe. Mark Albright’s homicide would never go unreported. He had only gotten past the international news section when he spotted the story.

London Metropolitan Police found the body of Mark Albright, the son of the late American farm equipment magnate Grover Albright, and managing director of Worldwide Agricultural Products, in the
Wapping Underground Station.

Metropolitan Police pathologists believe that death was attributable to a puncture wound, most likely from a sharp pointed
object. Identification was made from a U.S. passport found on the tracks near the victim’s body. The victim’s valuables were missing, leading police authorities to conclude that robbery was the motive behind the attack.

Grover Albright was recently killed in a car bomb explosion, and U.S. authorities have been unsuccessful in determining either the motive for the crime or the identity of the perpetrators. Worldwide Agricultural Products has been
plagued by numerous labor problems over the past year, and the police are looking into the senior Albright’s death to see if there are any connections. The investigation by the Metropolitan Police is continuing.

Payton stared at the text of the article before him, then folded the paper and placed it back on the table. If only he could figure out the tie between Charles Wingate and Grover Albright. What if there were other industrialists, men like Wingate and Albright, who
the actions of President Varrick somehow threatened? Grover Albright had to be one of them–one who, for whatever reason, drew Wingate’s wrath and was summarily executed.

Maybe big money really did flock together, and there were other interests in play. Could there be a secret cabal in America so strong they wouldn’t stop at killing the
President of the United States?  And if such a group did exist, why hadn’t they come under the suspicion of the government before?  Was it possible they controlled enough of the government for their longevity to be absolutely secured? 

It all fit. In fact as Payton worked through the possible permutations, it was the only explanation that made sense. To anyone else, though, it was all conjecture.

Unfortunately, Payton couldn’t tie Wingate to either of the Albrights. He couldn’t prove that the assassin met with Wingate, or for that matter, anyone else from Wingate Farms. By now, the bugs in Janet’s house were long gone, probably removed soon after they left the States. Grover Albright’s death didn’t point any fingers at Wingate, and Mark Albright’s was apparently at the hands of some street hood. It was all nice and neat. Even the attempt on Payton's life was totally unsubstantiated. There had been no witnesses.

For a second, a glimmer of hope surfaced–he’d forgotten about Janet. Then, as quickly as the
flash from a strobe light, it disappeared. Janet had barely caught a glimpse of the surveillance car Payton had run off the road, and wasn’t with him when Wingate’s hired killer shoved him in front of the subway.

To anyone else, it would look as if she were playing off his paranoia. If Wingate somehow managed to stop them before they got to the authorities, he stood a damned good chance of getting away with the assassination. And one thing was for sure–he’d pull out all the stops to keep them from reaching the States.

As soon as the phones were free, Payton put a call to the airlines. Most of the U. S. flights departed by midday, and Payton wanted to make certain that he and Janet were on the next available flight.

Payton jotted down all the flights leaving Heathrow for the eastern United States. As a second thought, he checked the flights to the major Canadian cities:  Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec. He had an idea that just might throw Wingate’s men off their trail.

After he got the flight information, he called the second airline on his list, and booked two seats to Dulles Airport. Payton was counting on Wingate’s far-flung operation to catch the two reservations. Too bad he had no intention of boarding that flight. As he left the lobby, Payton picked up the
London Times
from the table where he’d left it.

On his way back, Payton stopped at the reception desk. When he returned to the room, he motioned Janet into the hall. Whoever handled electronic surveillance for the opposition knew what they were doing, and Payton wasn’t about to take any chances of having his plans compromised. “This was in today’s paper,” he said, showing her the article on Albright’s murder. “Wingate’s people  are no longer concerned about how obvious their so
-called accidents appear. As soon as they get the chance, we’ll be next.”

“How are we going to give Wingate’s men the slip?” Janet asked softly.

“I think it’s time we go trolling”

“Trolling?... Who’s the bait?”

“We are. Get the things that we’ve got to take with us together. Nothing goes that we can’t conceal in our clothes. Make sure you’ve got your passport, the traveler’s checks, and any other essentials. Leave everything else.”

Silently, they opened the door to the room.

Janet stuffed her passport, money, wallet, and enough cosmetics and other necessities to get her through the next day or so into her pockets and her purse. She made a quick check of the bathroom. Then she took Payton's hand and they left.

             
To anyone else, particularly any man, it would seem they were only going out for the day. With a London street map clearly visible in his hand, Payton led Janet out of the hotel and across the street to the Underground station. In spite of the fact that his heart told him to jump in the first available taxi, and yell for the driver to make tracks for Heathrow, Payton was casual in his movements. He appeared alert, but not panicked.

When the couple left the hotel, the watcher across Knightsbridge radioed to Parker’s man down on the street. “They’re on the move. Stay with them.” Two clicks of the push
-to-talk button acknowledged the message.

Meanwhile, Payton was counting on a couple of things, and he prayed to God they’d work. First, he doubted that anyone expected them to make a break so quickly after Albright’s death. Doing the unexpected had worked in Pine Lakes. He prayed it would do so again.

Second, he doubted that the surveillance team had communications comparable to what they had in the States. The Brits license their radio frequencies as rigidly as the FCC. It would be too risky to set up an operation in a foreign country, and then get caught because your radio transmitters interfered with some taxi’s. At best they’d be using low-powered walkie-talkies, and low power units wouldn’t do very well underground among all that concrete and steel.

Lastly, he was counting on them to panic and search the immediate area. If they jumped to the obvious conclusion, they wouldn’t suspect that Payton was headed for Heathrow Airport. If all that worked, they might get back to the States alive.

Payton looked behind them. Among the typical group of people using the Tubes, no single individual stood out. Payton swore quietly under his breath. Since they had first left the farm, everything Payton did was to shake off anyone tailing them. Now when he wanted Wingate’s man to follow them, no one was in sight.

Seconds later, another man came down the steps. From the way his eyes searched the lower level and the speed with which he shot down the steps, Payton knew he was the one they were waiting for.

Payton chuckled to himself as the man skidded to a stop less than fifteen feet from where they stood, then checked his watch hoping to mask the fact that he had almost run right into them. After regaining his composure, he went over to a vacant ticket machine. Okay, you son-of-a-bitch, I got you, Payton thought. Now stay with me a little bit longer.

The man assigned to
track Payton was well dressed. He wore a suit and a tan Burberry topcoat. In spite of the weather, he evidently took pains in his selection of clothes. As their shadow fumbled around for change, Payton saw the earphone in the man’s left ear. It could have been a hearing aid, but Payton was betting on an earphone connected to a two-way transceiver.

According to the electronic sign, the next train due to arrive would be heading across town and away from the airport, perfect for what Payton had in mind.

Steve turned to Janet and said, “Follow me.”  There wasn’t time for explanations.

He and Janet made their way to the platform and waited patiently with the other passengers for the train’s arrival.

A few minutes later, the train pulled into the station. When it came to a stop, Payton led Janet on board, taking seats directly opposite the open rear door. The man in the Burberry followed them.

Payton watched, catching an occasional glimpse, as Wingate’s man started back to where they were seated. Come on you son
-of-a-bitch, Payton thought, there’s a nice seat three up from us. Take it, he willed the operative.

Unfortunately, the man’s faux pas in the station must have made him cautious. Instead of sitting close to them, he stopped and turned around. Payton watched as he moved closer toward the front of the car–and nearer to the other door. Damn!

Finally, their watcher took a seat facing them, but only one away from the car’s front door. Payton's heart sank–it would never work now. Fate had intervened again. He snatched another look forward. Some old biddy, shopping bag clutched tightly in her hand, had moved over directly between where the operative was sitting and the door. Payton chuckled to himself.

“When I say ‘go’, we’re going through that door as fast as we can. Got it?”

Janet nodded her head. Payton's hand deceivingly rested on her arm above her elbow.

Before she realized it, Payton yanked her through the now
-closing door. It didn’t look as if her coattail was going to make it. Visions of her being pulled under the train flashed through her mind, but there she was standing on the platform as the train made its way out of the station.

Payton saw Wingate’s man scrambling to get out. When he couldn’t beat the already closing doors, he looked around trying to decide what to do. With any luck, he wouldn’t think about using the radio until the car was halfway down the tunnel.

“Come on. We don’t have much time. As soon as he gets to the next station, they’ll be on to us,” Payton said, guiding Janet over to the next platform. The sign on the arriving train’s engine said “Heathrow”. They took it.

Forty
-five minutes after leaving the hotel, Payton and Janet were at Terminal 2, the International Departures terminal. Their reservations were on a British Air flight to Washington’s Dulles International Airport, but Payton had other plans. Their only chance to stay alive was to continue doing the unexpected. No sense changing now.

They walked over to the Air Canada ticket counter, where Payton bought two first-class one
-way tickets to Quebec. Not wanting to leave an electronic trail for Wingate to follow, he paid cash for the tickets.

The fact that neither of them had any check
-in or carry on luggage raised some eyebrows, but airport security concerned itself more with baggage without passengers than with passengers without baggage. Payton told the woman at the ticket counter that their luggage would be sent on later.

It was now nearly eleven o’clock, and their flight took off in slightly more than an hour. Although people waiting to board one flight or another jammed the departure a
rea, Payton didn’t want to chance being spotted standing around. Rather than wait for their flight to be called, he led Janet over to the immigration area.

By clearing immigration, and getting processed through security, they could
get over to the departure gate and avoid having to wait in the crowded terminal. Payton figured that they would have a lesser chance of being spotted at the departure gate than they would have had in the terminal.

After they were cleared through security
, they walked to Air Canada’s departure gate. Payton found two seats in the corner, where they waited quietly until the flight boarded. On schedule, Air Canada Flight 1207 took off from Heathrow bound for Quebec.