The Cassandra Conspiracy (31 page)

“Stop trying to patronize me,” Payton said, biting his lip. “You don’t believe a word I’ve said.”

Whitman let the comment pass. “Let’s get back to Mark Albright’s murder. After you made it back to your hotel, did you or Ms. Phillips report this to the British authorities?” 

“No, it would only complicate matters. I decided that it was a better bet to get back here as soon as possible. The following day, I saw this article in the London paper.”  Payton handed Whitman the page he cut out reporting Mark Albright’s death.

Agent Whitman read the
London Times
story. “According to this, the local police feel that Mr. Albright was killed during  a robbery. All his valuables were taken. Why do you believe he was killed, to keep him quiet?”

“First of all, not all his valuables were stolen. The killer or killers wanted to make it look like a robbery, but that was only to mask their actual intent. Had it been a real holdup, they would have taken his passport too.”  Payton was certain that he had scored.

“You could be right or the robbers or robber could have overlooked the passport.” 

Their theories about the assassination plot fell like water off a duck’s back. Payton was crestfallen. He glanced over to Janet, but the look in her eyes told him that she couldn’t help him. Payton gave the agent a black look. Even a blind man could see that Whitman wasn’t about to initiate an investigation that would immediately sweep up such a distinguished financier as Charles Wingate.

Rising from behind the table, Agent Whitman said, “Well Mr. Payton, Ms. Phillips, I think we should call it a day. I’ll complete my report and pass it along. We’ll see what my supervisor wants to do next.”

As if there was ever any doubt in Whitman’s mind. The Service had always been a highly political organization. A new director had been named recently, and the first thing that he’d done was to get rid of senior managers who had been appointed by his predecessor.

Even Ted Spencer, Special Agent in Charge of the Intelligence Division, had been on the job less than six weeks. Whitman and his family had lived in the Washington suburbs for nearly twelve years. He didn’t want some nut case screwing things up to the point where one of the new powers-that-be decided Whitman should be running a field office in Idaho—or worse.

“Are you going back to Pine Lakes tonight or will you be staying over in Washington?”

They hadn’t discussed what they were going to do after meeting with the Secret Service. Payton knew of the airport motel, and figured that it would be as good a place to stay as any place else. “Tonight, we’ll be at the airport motel, over by National. If we decide to check out tomorrow, I’ll give you a call.”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you both for taking the time to come in. Like I said, we don’t dismiss threats against anyone we’re tasked with protecting. I’ll see you out.”

They left the Intelligence Division’s offices and took the elevator down to the lobby. The Secret Service’s lackluster response was a body blow to Payton's plans.

As soon as they exited the building, he said, “I watched Whitman’s reactions. He doesn’t believe for a minute that one of the
President's best friends is conspiring to kill him. He’s written the whole thing off as the ranting of a paranoid, overworked lawyer. Whitman will be the good little public servant, and write up his report. That way, he covers his butt, but the bottom line is that the Secret Service isn’t going to do a damned thing different from what they normally do.

“
You can rest assured that if anyone knows how they protect the President, it’s Charles Wingate, and he wouldn’t be spending all that money unless he had found a hole in their protective shield. He’s going to exploit that, and when he does, Ansel Darby will be our new President.”

“Who knows what Whitman will do?  Maybe he believed more of what you said than you think,” Janet retorted.

“Uh-uh. He doesn’t believe a word of it. Well, at least now I know how Cassandra felt,” Steve said.

“Who?” Janet asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Cassandra from Greek mythology–you know, the Trojan War. It was Cassandra who told her people to beware of the Trojan Horse. She warned them, just the way we warned the Secret Service. The Trojans didn’t buy Cassandra’s story any more than Whitman believed us,” Steve said, annoyed.

Payton had been counting on the Secret Service’s enthusiastic support, even if the organization had their doubts about Charles Wingate’s involvement. If they even gave him the benefit of the doubt, the increased security alone might put a crimp in Wingate’s plans.

As it was, they were nowhere. Remaining in Washington seemed pointless. They might draw some additional attention from the Secret Service, but they weren’t going to get anywhere with such a thinly supported story. After all, why anyone would believe that the President's best friend was planning his assassination? Wingate held all the aces.

“The Secret Service is going to let us sit here
while they finish doing their background checks. In the meantime, Wingate’s hired gun will go ahead with the assassination,” Steve said, disgusted at the turn of events.

“If the agency responsible for protecting the
President's content to sit back and do zilch, what can we possibly do?” Janet asked.

“I’m not sure, but you can bet we’re not going to sit here twiddling our thumbs just because Whitman’s content to keep his head in the sand. The assassination’s definitely going to take place at Camp David,” Payton stated firmly. “I think we
ought to move closer to the Presidential retreat. Maybe we can somehow put a crimp in Wingate’s plan.”

Janet thought about what Steve had said. He made plenty of sense. “We sure as hell better, because if we don’t we’ll be next. Wingate certainly won’t leave any loose ends hanging around. Remember what happened when Kennedy was assassinated?” Janet asked. “Anyone who even remotely knew anything about the plot died mysteriously.” 

Payton nodded, then added, “Even if the Secret Service foils the assassination attempt, but can’t tie it to Wingate, we’re in the soup. No matter how you cut it, we’re not out of this until the whole conspiracy is tied back to Charles Wingate. Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m beat. I need a shower and some sleep.”

They took Seventeenth Street to the Arlington Memorial Bridge, crossing over the Potomac. When they got to the motel, Payton parked the car along the side where the older rooms were.

The motel had a main multistory building and a block of older rooms in a U-shaped array along the side of the main building. He didn’t want to be in the tower, preferring the easy access of the first floor rooms. After he parked the car, he turned to Janet. “We’ll take two rooms. One I’ll put under my name, and the other we’ll pay cash for and list under your mother’s maiden name.”

Janet didn’t see why Steve was going to all this trouble. “Why two?” she asked.

“I don’t want us to be sitting ducks. If Wingate’s people are scouring the hotels and motels looking for us, and they find out we’re here, we’re dead. We’ll take the two rooms, make sure that they’re interconnecting, but only use the one in your name. That way, if Whitman calls us, we’ll hear the phone.”

The clerk thought their request odd. Most of the couples who rented rooms  were lovers on an assignation. They used one room, not two, and then only for a few hours, or at most overnight. Payton told the man not to volunteer that they had taken a second room, sealing his request with a hundred dollar bill. The money was more than the clerk made the entire day, and there was little doubt in Payton's mind that he would cooperate if anyone showed up.

As soon as they got to the rooms, Payton unlocked the connecting doors. He went back out to the car and brought in the shotgun, careful to keep it covered. He put the Remington on the bed, and the boxes of shells on the nightstand.

Janet started laughing. “Here we are, back from London, international travelers, and what do we have to show for our trip?  One twelve gauge sawed
-off shotgun–no clothes, no souvenirs–just a gun!”

Even Payton had to admit that under any other circumstances, this whole scene seemed ludicrous. “I guess we’d better find a drugstore, not to mention a place where we can pick up some clothes.”

Payton lifted the side of the mattress from the queen-size bed, and shoved the shotgun in the middle of the bed between the box spring and the mattress. He started to smooth out the blanket and spread so the maid wouldn’t wonder why it was disheveled, but Janet walked over, stripped the spread off the bed, and rumpled the blanket and sheet.

Seeing a surprised look on Payton's face she said, “Now if the maid comes in to drop off towels, she’ll think that we made good use of the bed like their other customers. There’s no sense in disappointing the old woman.”

Payton put the shells in the closet, and grabbed his jacket as he and Janet headed out again.

.   .   .   .   .   .

When Ross Whitman got back to his office, he found Ted Spencer waiting for him. The senior agent was sitting at Whitman’s desk, perusing the report that Whitman had filed after getting rid of Payton. “What’s that all about?” the senior agent asked as Whitman sat at his desk.

“I’ve been with the Division for four years now, and I guess that I’ve seen them all, but this guy takes the cake.” 

During his assignment with the Intelligence Division, Whitman had interviewed people who posed a threat to the safety of the President. Many of them walked the streets, free, while others remained in various mental wards. Some interviewees had told Whitman that they were on a mission for God. Others had heard voices.

By now, Whitman knew how to categorize each story that he heard. He put Payton in the one set aside for those people who posed no threat to the
President, but were certain that someone else was. The agent spent the next fifteen minutes describing the hour spent with Payton and Janet Phillips. Whitman summarized his evaluation.

“I can’t believe that Payton thought one of the
President's oldest friends was plotting to assassinate him.”

“You’re still going to file a report on it, aren’t you?” Spencer asked. Any agent who conducted an interview such as the one Whitman had had with Payton was required to file a mental-evaluation report. Depending upon its recommendations, the interviewee could be released or held for a three-day psychiatric evaluation at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington.

The procedures called for a comprehensive written report filed within a day of the incident, and the new boy on the block wasn’t about to put his career on the line no matter what.

“Sure, but it’s a waste of time,” Whitman said. “We can’t arrest him or the woman since neither of them directly threatened the
President. Besides, I don’t think he’s certifiably nuts.” 

“Run Payton's name through the computers and see if the Bureau or the Agency has something on him.” 

Both organizations provided intelligence data to the Secret Service whenever an ongoing operation or investigation uncovered information that could affect the safety of the President. When the Secret Service first made it known they were interested in this kind of information, they couldn’t get their hands on enough material.

But after the flow of facts reached gigantic proportions, the Service established guidelines to filter the data being forwarded to them for analysis and possible investigatory action.

During the Nixon era, there were tens of thousands of names in the Secret Service’s files. Some of those people posed a real threat to the President, while others were there for political reasons. Since the mid-seventies, the list had been pared down to only those people who posed a true threat to the President.

“Better also get a telex off to London, and see what the Metropolitan Police have on the Albright murder.”

“Will do. I’ll also check to see if Payton or the Phillips woman show up on our list of quarterlies.” The quarterlies is the list of several hundred potential assassins whom the Service keeps close tabs on. Whenever the President visits a city, the quarterlies in the area are located and checked out.

“What about alerting Allen Thiesse at PPD?”

“Not unless you want us to be the laughingstock of the Service. PPD’s on distribution for all of our reports. If they read it and have any questions, fine. They’ll call. Otherwise, I think we should keep away from this one.”

“All right, but I want to see what the locals can dig up on Payton and the Phillips woman. Send out a standard inquiry to the Maryland State Police, Baltimore PD, and whatever local or county department covers Pine Lakes. Who knows, they might have a history of problems with this guy. Do we know how to reach him if we need him?”

“Sure. He’s staying over at the airport motel near National. I’ll get those inquiries out first thing Monday morning.”

“Better do it tonight. I’d rather be in the process of doing some investigatory work on this one if anyone gets around to asking about it.” 

The SAIC got up and walked out of Whitman’s office. Halfway out the door, he stopped. “Oh, and Ross, have a nice weekend.”

Ross Whitman wanted to get out of Washington before rush hour, but that wasn’t going to happen. He picked up his phone to call his wife to let her know that he’d be home late–again.