The Cassandra Conspiracy (34 page)

Janet too had been thinking about the problem. Somehow they had to find out where the key areas were inside Camp David, and what the terrain was like around it. Janet got into the car, then refolded the newspaper, placing it on the front seat between her and Payton. “Why not try the paper?” she said as Payton pulled back onto the road.

“What paper?”

“
The Sun
. Over the years, it must have done some articles on Camp David. I mean it’s one of the most prestigious sites in the state. There’s got to be something in the files.”

Payton's face previously cast into a frown, turned into a grin. Janet had hit the nail square on the head. If they could get access to the paper’s morgue, they might come up with something.

“Today’s pretty much shot. We’ll go into Baltimore tomorrow and check it out.”

They returned to the motel. After dinner, they went to bed early, optimistic about their chances of obtaining the information they needed.

While the couple slept, Parker’s people were busy tracing their movements from the Washington airport motel. At 1800 G Street in Washington, tired Secret Service personnel feasted on home delivery pizzas as the agency broadened its sweep.

CHAPTER 37

October 26th

Early the next morning, Payton slipped the sawed-off shotgun under his jacket and carried it out to the car, where he stowed it on the floor behind the front seat. Although Payton had seemingly taken to having the gun around, Janet’s perspective was entirely different: it frightened her. Counterbalancing her apprehension of guns was her fear of dying at the hands of Charles Wingate. Somewhere between Maine and Massachusetts, she had decided that staying alive was far more important.

When they got to the paper’s main offices, the receptionist directed them to the morgue, which, appropriately, was located in the building’s basement. The morgue was their last hope in finding out what they desperately needed to know. Somehow, they had to make it work. Fortunately there was only one person other than the clerk in the room as Payton and Janet walked in, and he was adorned with several cameras–obviously one of the staff photographers.

Payton stepped up to the counter and smiled. “Good morning.”

The clerk looked up from whatever it was she was reading, “Good morning, sir.”

So far, so good, Payton thought.

“My associate,” he said, gesturing toward Janet, “and I are doing research for a book on
Presidential homes. So far, it’s been easy to get information about the White House and the personal residences of the Presidents, but we’re having trouble digging up information on Camp David. I was wondering, would it be possible to research the archives?”

“Mr. . . .?”

“Sharp,” Payton replied quickly with the first name that entered his mind.

“Mr. Sharp, the paper’s policy is not to allow the general public access to our files. I’m. . . ”.

If she said “sorry”, he knew the die would be cast. Payton had to make her believe that he and Janet deserved a special dispensation.

“Yes, I understand,” Payton interrupted, “but we’re not the general public. We’re doing research for a publication. I guess you could say we’re part of the working press.”

The other shoe fell with a resounding bang. “I’m really sorry,” the clerk said. “I’ve got to abide by the rules.” Disappointed, Payton and Janet headed for the door.

Once they got outside, Payton started to say something. Janet interrupted him. “Wait here a minute. I’ve got an idea.” Then she was off down the hall. Payton leaned against the wall, wondering what Janet was up to. Several minutes passed before he caught a glimpse of her at the far end of the hall.

“Come on,” she said. “I just made the acquaintance of that photographer we saw in there,” Janet said gesturing toward the morgue. “His name’s Peter Navarro, and I think he’s all but forgotten about around here. I’d lay odds he only gets those shooting assignments no one else wants. Therefore, he’s not a stickler for the paper’s rules.” Janet took Steve’s hand and led him down the hall, stopping in front of an unmarked door.

“I told him the same story you told the clerk, except I embellished it a little.”

Payton raised his eyebrows.

“Relax. I just told him that you were my boss and that if we didn’t come up with the shots we needed, I’d be on the unemployment line.”

“He bought that?” Payton asked.

“We’re about to find out.”

Once inside the photographer’s cubbyhole-sized office, Janet made the introductions. Peter Navarro seemed to be exactly as Janet had described him–a professional photographer neglected by the rest of the paper. Everywhere Payton looked, he saw glassine negative sleeves, contact sheets, and final prints.

Pencil-thin and disheveled. Navarro was an unlikely bolt from the blue. Payton watched Janet work her feminine magic on Navarro. Finally, he broached the subject.

“You two’re doing research on Camp David?”

“Right,” Payton replied. “But the morgue clerk refused us access to the paper’s files. Some rule about our having to be employees.”

A big grin spread across Navarro’s face. “I’m an employee. Wait here, and I’ll be right back.” With that he was out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Payton looked at Janet. “All right, what did you promise him?”

“Just a date, but I did say when I’d call him.”

Ten minutes later, the photographer returned with a couple of folders. “This is everything we’ve got. Take your time, go through it, and anything you need copies of, I’ll take care of.”

Payton and Janet sat at a small table cluttered with glassine negative sleeves, filters, and film canisters.

Finally, they had struck gold. In front of them was an Aladdin’s cave of material on the
Presidential retreat. One article they found quickly drew Payton's attention. Whoever shot the pictures had included a small map showing the layout of Camp David. The diagram apparently hadn’t run because of space limitations, but it had been left in the file folder.

“Look at this,” Steve said, sliding the map out of the folder.

“It seems that most of the buildings are nestled along the access road,” Steve said tracing a line on the map. “There are trails going off in several directions. Here’s some sort of perimeter trail. It must be used by the guards, since it seems to follow the fence line.”

Payton paused for a minute. “Here’s the
President's lodge, Aspen. The front of the lodge seems to face out toward the mountains. The other cabins, probably for guests, are further away,” Steve said, pointing to the sketch.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m trying to think what I’d do if I were planning to assassinate the President.”

“Why?”

“This guy’s a pro. He’s not going to go to all this trouble on the off chance he might get a shot at the President. Oswald–if you believe the Warren Commission Report, which I don’t–knew the exact route of the motorcade. He knew exactly where he had to be to get a shot at Kennedy. And so did the second shooter behind the grassy knoll, the one that the government refuses to admit ever existed.

“
Now we have someone who has a direct pipeline into the White House. There’s no way Wingate’s going to take any chances, and the pro he hired won’t either. They know where Daniel Varrick is going to be on a given day at a given time. That’s when the hit will go down.”

“But Camp David’s a retreat, a place for the
President to rest. His schedule isn’t cast in concrete. Most likely he does exactly what he wants, when he wants. I’d be surprised if he even has to leave his lodge for meals. They’re probably served right there. It’d be impossible to predict where he’d be at any given time.”

“My point exactly. Wingate knows where the
President's going to be, and so does the man hired to kill him. If we could only figure out where that is. . . ”

“Maybe it’s a meeti
ng. You know, like those President Carter held during the Camp David peace talks.”

Payton picked up another file folder. “This one’s got the Camp David peace talk articles.”  He opened it and read the clips.

“Most meetings were held in one of the lodges. The only time that everyone met outside was for the final press conference.”

“Where was it?”

Payton flipped through the folders. “There doesn’t seem to be many places that can handle a group that large.”  He shuffled the folders around until he found the one containing the articles from the end of the conference.

“Press conferences were held near the golf course,”  Payton said. For the first time, he knew he had uncovered something of significance.

“That’s got to be it,” Janet said. “Wingate knows that President Varrick’s going to do something big–something that’s going to involve the press or some other large group.”

Payton thought about what Janet said. She had to be right. As one of the
President’s advisors, Wingate would certainly be aware of an event that would draw a large crowd. The attempt on President Varrick’s life would happen then.

“What we need now are photos of the golf course.”  If Payton could find out where the golf course was in relation to the rest of the
Presidential retreat, he’d have a rough idea where the sniper would be shooting from.

Payton flipped through the other articles on Camp David. Fin
ally he found one about former President George Bush.

“This one has pictures with it. Maybe there’s something we can use.”

He found shots of Bush getting ready to putt, shots of him stroking the ball, and photos of the President talking to the others gathered around him at the golf course. After looking at all the pictures, nothing caught his eye. He was about to replace the photographs into the file folder when he saw an eight by eleven acetate sheet. It held six rows of thirty-five-millimeter negatives, six frames to a strip. In all there were thirty-six different shots, representing the entire roll of film shot on that day. Payton perused them carefully.

“What’s so interesting?” Janet asked.

“The shots the paper used were cropped from these negatives. I . . . .”

“What do you mean cropped?”

“The shot the editor uses is of out of proportion to the photographer’s film. The dimensions of a thirty-five millimeter negative are an inch by an inch and a half. If the size of the photo when it’s printed is something other than one and a half to one, then something was cropped out of it. I’m counting on seeing more of the surrounding scenery when I look at the whole negative. There might also be other pictures that might be of use to us,” Payton said.

He picked the negs up and walked over to where Peter Navarro was busy sorting thirty
-five millimeter transparencies.

“Would it be possible to get some prints of these?” Payton asked handing the negatives to Navarro.

Navarro held the sleeve up to the light. “Sure. I can do them myself, but not until after lunch.”

“That’ll be fine. When do you want us back here?” Payton asked glancing at his watch. “Oh, and by the way, print them full frame.”

Navarro nodded. “Try me around four. Even if something comes up, I’ll have them done by then.”

They thanked him, then headed back to the car.

After they got outside, Janet asked him, “What are we going to do until they’re ready?”

The closest point of refuge was Payton's condominium. But if Wingate didn’t have the place bugged, it would definitely be under full time surveillance. Payton was pretty certain no one knew about his sailboat, which he kept just north of Baltimore in Middle River. “We could take in a movie, or if you want, ride out to where my boat’s docked.” 

“It’s a nice day. Let’s go out to the boat.” 

Along the way to the marina, they stopped at a nearby convenience store. Payton went in and bought four containers of coffee and a bag of doughnuts. A few minutes later, he pulled into the marina’s parking lot.

The couple walked along the pier until they reached the slip. Payton pulled the boat closer to the wharf so it would be easier for Janet to step onto the deck. Once aboard, he unlocked the hatch, and they stepped down into the cabin.

“This place has all the comforts of home,” Janet said surveying the interior.

“She sleeps four comfortably, but can handle six if they’re good friends. Most of the time, though, I’m alone, and I rarely spend nights on board anymore.”

Janet took the coffee and doughnuts from the bag. She fixed Payton's coffee the way he liked it, cream and sugar, and then added creamer to her coffee and curled up on the bunk. The cool Fall air sent a chill through Janet, and she shuddered briefly.

“What’s wrong?” Payton asked.

“Nothing, just a chill.” Janet drank some more coffee. “The coffee’ll warm me up.”

Payton put his cup in one of the bulkhead racks. Then he put his arm around Janet and drew her closer to him. He kissed her slowly, easing the tensions of the past weeks.

Since they had left London, the two of them had been on the run, or too tired to even consider making love. Now, with waves lapping and the gentle roll of the boat, they found themselves tearing off their clothes in an urgent effort to get closer–to become one.

Their lovemaking began as a hurried, passionate striving. But they soon realized there was no need to rush it. They were safe, at least for the moment.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Across the parking lot, in the secluded cover of a small copse of trees, the driver of a nondescript sedan put down his binoculars and picked up the car phone. He entered a sequence of keystrokes recalling a stored telephone number from the phone’s memory, then pressed the Send key and waited until the call was answered.

“Mr. Parker, they’re at the boat, arrived a few minutes ago. I waited until I was sure it was them before calling you. What do you want me to do?”

Until now, Parker’s attempts at locating Payton since he checked out of the D.C. motel had been fruitless. His decision to keep watch over Payton's sloop had been made at the last minute, and it had paid off handsomely. “Keep them under surveillance, and let me know if they make a move. Did they bring any supplies on board?”

“No, they were carrying a couple of small paper bags, but it doesn’t look like they’re going to be doing any sailing. They’ve been below decks for about a half hour.”