The Cassandra Conspiracy (32 page)

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Bill Parker had limited respect for the electronic systems arrayed all over what used to be his living room. If he had to depend on someone or something other than himself, he’d rather it be human intelligence and sheer force, rather than the morass of data these
so-called electronic marvels produced.

This time things were different; Payton and the Phillips woman had left his human assets standing by the side of the road. First his people blew the surveillance on the farm, allowing the couple to get out of the country. Then they got taken again by Payton's fake-out in London. Granted his London team had managed to keep Mark Albright from ever meeting with Payton, but that was it.

Meanwhile, the Wizard had a line on the couple. He was busy at work monitoring the telex traffic between Washington and the various local police agencies. Parker also had feelers out to his contacts in several police departments, so that if they missed any telex transmittals, at least they wouldn’t be totally blindsided again. One way or the other, he’d find out where they were staying, and finish the job his men had bungled in London.

CHAPTER 33

Parker figured that at any moment, Wingate’s patience would, once and for all, dissipate. Each morning, he hoped to have good news for his boss, and each day his hopes were dashed. On Saturday, Parker’s phone rang. It was Wingate, and he wanted to meet.

As Parker walked into the library, Wingate gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Since I haven’t heard anything but bad news or no news at all, I suppose you still haven’t found Payton and the Phillips woman,”  Wingate said, tapping his pencil impatiently on his desk pad.

Parker knew better than to beat around the bush. “We’re still working it, but we don’t have a single lead yet.”  Parker kept his voice professional, neither proffering apologies nor trying to defend his position.

“Payton has been a thorn in our side since he came to Pine Lakes,” Wingate said,  “I don’t have any idea how this small-time lawyer got wind of what we’ve got in store for President Varrick, but he’s managed to outsmart us. . . ”

Parker knew that meant him in particular.

“. . . from the start. It’s time to put an end to Payton's meddling. I want him found, and I mean found

I want him and his girlfriend taken out. I don’t care if it looks like an accident or not–just get it done. By the time this week’s over, there are going to be enough bodies lying around that two more aren’t
going to make a helluva lot of difference. Is that clear?” The veins in Wingate’s forehead and neck stood out like highways on a map. Wingate was losing it.

“Yes, sir.”  Parker left the mansion and headed back to the guesthouse. He’d gotten his marching orders.

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When Parker returned to his office he found the computers down and the Wizard waiting for him.

“Where’s everybody?” Parker asked, ready to jump all over the man. “Why are the machines off?”

“Because we know where they are,” the Wizard replied laconically.

“Where?”

“They’re at the motel near Washington National–the one near the Pentagon.”

“How did you find them?” Parker asked wanting to know if this information came by way of deduction or fact.

“The Secret Service is doing a background check on Payton. They were kind enough to request information from several local police departments. We got the message the same time they did,” the Wizard said, smiling his Cheshire cat smile.

Parker made a quick note. He turned to the Wizard. “Good work. Don’t tear down the computers until we’re sure we won’t need them again. I want you to stick around in case I need you, but you don’t have to hang around here. There’s enough to do on the estate to entertain yourself. I’ll call you if I want you.”

As the Wizard beat his retreat, Parker was already busy on the phone.

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The two were the best there was in their given field. Where others failed, they succeeded. In days gone by, notches on their gun handles would have been a measure of their success.  At this late hour they hit no traffic, making good time getting to the airport motel.

They pulled their car into the motel parking lot, and found a space close to the exit. The two men wanted to be able to get out of there fast if anything went awry.

The motel’s units mapped out a rectangular parking lot. At each corner, sodium vapor lamps cast a reddish hue over the yellow-striped asphalt lot. An additional light stood at the intersection of the two lines of rooms.

In spite of the lights, shadows rippled across the front of the motel. As the men made their way from the car, the sound of jets taking off from nearby Washington National Airport echoed through the darkness.

They were not going to underestimate Payton. He could be armed, and the last thing they wanted was to make themselves perfect targets silhouetted in the doorway of the lighted parking lot.

The outside lights had to go, and they had to go quietly. The team’s junior member took out a Ruger Mark II target pistol that had been worked over by one of the commercial firms engaged in providing suppressed or, as they were sometimes referred to as, silenced, weapons. To ensure that there was no crack from the bullet’s breaking the sound barrier, they had loaded the gun with subsonic Dynamit Nobel twenty-two caliber bullets. In the right hands, the Ruger could punch holes in the center ring of the standard twenty
-five yard slow fire pistol target all day long.

The man checked to make sure no one was about before sighting in the first of the parking lot lamps. He squeezed the trigger.

The light flared once, then went dark. In succession, he took out each of the remaining four lights. None of the room lights came on, nor did anyone bother trying to see what was going on in the parking lot. They were ready to deal with Payton.

He put the Ruger back in its case in the trunk of the car. The small caliber handgun was fine for plinking lights or close
-in work, but it would never do the job they needed done.

Both men removed nine millimeter Ingram MAC
-10 submachine guns from the trunk. They screwed the suppressors to the barrels of both weapons, and pulled the slides back to their cocked position. With the selector switch set to full automatic, the guns were ready.

Loaded with subsonic nine millimeter rounds, the suppressed weaponry probably wouldn’t be heard in the next room. At over six hundred rounds per minute however, the gun put out a lethal hail of lead.

When they located Payton's room, they carefully picked the lock. The chain provided a false sense of security. Even latched, it would never withstand the force of a full grown man throwing himself against the door. They opened the door a crack. Unable to see in the dark, one of the men slid a knife along the gap between the door and the jamb. The chain was off.

Both men had a long history of counterterrorist experience. One of them would go in low, covering the room and sighting their target. The other would stay clear of any possible return fire, ready to provide supporting fire.

On cue, the support man kicked the door open, making sure that it swung out of his partner’s way. As soon as the door opened, the other team member jumped into the room, assuming a crouched position with the MAC-10 ready to go. His partner covered the right side of the room from the left of the entrance. It was quiet. Nothing moved, and there was no return fire.

Slowly, the two men eased in. While one man scanned the interior, his partner turned on the lights at the switch near the doorway. They were too late. The room was empty, although in need of maid service. They closed the door, and checked out the connecting room door. It was closed and locked, apparently from both sides.

Finally they rifled the trash for anything that might give Parker an idea of where the couple had gone. Again, they found nothing. Turning off the lights, they pulled the door shut. Keeping the MACs under their coats, they walked back to their car. They’d call Parker from there. He wouldn’t be having a good night.

CHAPTER 34

October 26th

The Secret Service prides itself on its effective worldwide communications capabilities. Designed by the White House Communications Agency, the same group that ensures that the
President and vice President can communicate from anywhere in the world, the system uses a Department of Defense satellite system giving the Service full coverage in the continental United States.

Even the paging system used by the senior agents was special. Their pagers could be set to beep or vibrate upon receipt of a properly coded signal. It wasn’t uncommon to see an agent suddenly get up from a meeting and head for a telephone even though no characteristic beeping sound was heard. It was that system that reached out for Ted Spencer mid-morning on Sunday.

When Spencer called in,  Ross Whitman answered the phone. “What’s up, Ross?” Spencer asked, annoyed at being called away from brunch with his wife and their friends.

“Payton's flown the coop, sir,” Agent Whitman answered, his tone completely professional, although he was unsure what the ramifications of his statement would be.

“We tried to get in touch with him this morning–to make sure he was still there. When I didn’t get an answer at his room, I sent two agents over to the motel. He and Janet Phillips were gone. The room had been paid for in advance, but they had apparently left.”

Whitman had tossed Spencer a hot one. If he sounded the alarm and made a big deal with the  guys at PPD only to find that Payton was a harmless crank, he’d be the laughingstock of the Service. If, on the other hand, Payton was a threat to the
President and Spencer delayed taking action, then he could kiss his career good-bye. Spencer’s ambition included assuming the directorship one day not too far in the future. A critical mistake in judgment now would cut short his chances.

Whitman had said his piece. Now it was up to Spencer to decide what to do. That’s why the SAIC got paid the big bucks. If Spencer hesitated, Whitman would back up his conclusions with a written memo. He had been an agent long enough to know how to cover his ass. So did Spencer.

“Put Payton's name in the computer and notify the guys over at PPD. Then alert the security teams at Bandbox and Cactus.”  The senior agent used the call signs of  the Uniformed Division at the White House and the security contingent at Camp David.

“I’ll get on it right away. What level should I assign to Payton?” Whitman asked his boss. The Secret Service used to assign potential threats to the safety of the
President to a single list called the quarterlies. Over the years, it had become necessary to discriminate between types of threats, so the Service ranked them from one to three. Class Three was the highest. It would be interesting to see what Spencer, the consummate bureaucrat, would do.

“Make Payton a Class Two.”

“Anything else?” Whitman asked.

“No. If something else comes up, page me.” 

Whitman hung up the phone. It was going to be a busy Sunday.

CHAPTER 35

The STU-III secure telephone in the command center rang twice before the officer of the day answered it. He spoke a few words into the phone, then looked around for his CO.

“Captain Cantrell, there’s an urgent call for you from Blackboard.”  Cantrell wondered what the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division wanted. As Cantrell looked up from reviewing an assignment roster, the OD added, “An Agent Whitman’s holding for you, sir. Says its got to do with a protective intelligence matter.”

Cantrell was the epitome of the perfect marine, ramrod straight and raring to go. Strikingly handsome, he had bright green eyes that never missed a move.

Cantrell walked over to the encrypted telephone and took the handset from the OD. “Captain Cantrell speaking.”

With the other divisions briefed about Payton, Ross Whitman needed to let Cantrell’s Marines in on what was going on.

“Good morning, Captain. This is Ross Whitman at B
lackboard. We need to go secure.”  Something was brewing.

Whitman inserted, then turned his personal activation key in the telephone’s front panel. When Captain Cantrell did the same, the STU
-III read the keys’ classification codes. Both keys were encoded for the same classification level. The front panel display flashed TOP SECRET.

As soon as the line was secure, Agent Whitman briefed the Marine officer on what they had on Steven Payton and Janet Phillips. He explained that the Secret Service now considered Payton a threat to the
President, and that Camp David had come up in during the interview.

“I presume although you haven’t been officially notified yet, that you expect Cutter to be here sometime this week?” Whitman asked, using the
President's code name.

“We’re aw
are that Cutter has been using Aspen to prepare his economic program,” Cantrell said referring to the President's lodge. 

“I don’t know that he’ll be up there this week, but it’s a safe bet to assume you’ll be seeing more of him as he finalizes his plans. Better brief your men and
keep a close eye peeled for Payton and his girlfriend. We’ll send up their photographs by secure fax later today.”

Once the conversation ended, Captain Cantrell switched off the STU
-III, and pocketed his key. He turned to the Marine sergeant handling base communications, and said, “Contact Lieutenant Damoni. Ask him to meet me here ASAP.” 

Cantrell left his office to find Lieutenant Michael Damoni waiting for him. Damoni saluted as his CO approached. Unlike his CO, Damoni was not a man whose chosen profession anyone would guess had he not been in uniform. Soft-spoken and with a gentle manner, Damoni was well respected by the men in his company.

Cantrell said, “At ease, Lieutenant. Let’s walk.” They left the security building near the main gate, and started down the access road.

“Secret Service intelligence has issued an alert that includes us here at Camp David. It seems they’ve run across what could be a plot to assassinate the
President.”

Damoni was paying careful attention to everything his CO said. He was relatively new to Camp David’s Marine detachment. Unlike Cantrell, Damoni had made his way up through the ranks, bridging the gap between the enlisted and officer corps by taking on Officers Candidate School. Mike Damoni’s acceptance into the rigorous course was proof of his value to the Corps.

The lieutenant served as Cantrell’s principal liaison to all the enlisted personnel assigned to the base. The detachment normally ran at peak efficiency. When the occasional problem arose, however, Cantrell had learned that his lieutenant was quick to get it resolved.

As they
passed Sycamore Lodge, a smaller stone cabin located a few hundred yards down on the left side of the road, Cantrell briefed his lieutenant on the information given to him by Agent Whitman. “I’m not sure where all this is going. We’ve had a lot of these incidents over the years, and so far, other than an occasional protester, things have been quiet up here. Nonetheless, we’d better put out a hundred and ten percent for the next few weeks.”

Cantrell had wrapped up his briefing by the time that the two men neared Walnut Lodge. “If the Service gets more information pointing to trouble up here, they’ll be all over the place. Remind your men that, as usual, we’re working closely with them. I’ve also noticed that the main gate detail is getting a little lax in checking visitor IDs. Better post orders reminding the detail to verify each visitor’s identity against the photos sent up by the White House.

“The President plans to use Aspen to finalize his economic program, so I expect we’ll see more of him from now until he goes public. Remind the patrols to be particularly alert when President Varrick is on site, but I don’t want them so tight that they get too tense.”  Damoni remembered the time that a Marine response team scared the crap out of a Secret Service agent who was guarding the President on a late night walk.

“I’ll get on it immediately,” Lieutenant Damoni said. “Anything else, skipper?”

“No. That should hold it for now. I’ll keep you posted as we get additional information.”

They parted as Lieutenant Damoni walked back toward his cubicle in the security cabin. Normally Camp David was quiet, except when the
President came up for the weekend or had visiting dignitaries staying over. Cantrell preferred it that way. He didn’t like knowing that there might be someone out there intent upon assassinating the President of the United States. He had crack troops at David, more than just pretty faces. If push came to shove, they’d do their jobs efficiently.

Cantrell hiked over to the one-hole golf course Dwight Eisenhower had installed when he was
President. Since George Bush had left office, the course hadn’t been used much. Bill Clinton had preferred the fancy courses in southern California.

Nonetheless, the view across the mountains was spectacular. Even the early morning mist shrouding the mountain peaks still hadn’t burnt off yet. Cantrell took a deep breath. The air was cold and crisp. In a few short weeks, the cold, stark winter would be upon them.