The Cassandra Conspiracy (37 page)

CHAPTER 40

October 28th

By Saturday morning, Mary Neill had the requested data. On her desk were complete descriptions of all possible vehicles, including the one the couple had recently rented. She decided to place the emphasis on the rental, and back burner the Jaguar. The car would appear in her bulletin, but she’d ask the locals to concentrate on the rental. The ASAIC instructed her assistant to issue the alerts with special attention to the police agencies responsible for Thurmont and Frederick, and the one covering Pine Lakes.

.   .   .   .   .   .

The police and Secret Service weren’t the only ones looking for Janet Phillips and Payton. Bill Parker was seething over the royal screw-up south of Thurmont.

Their attempt at taking out the couple had been the biggest mistake since Custer said he had the Indians surrounded. Of course, there was nothing to link the two who died in the wreck to the Committee, Parker, or the Wingate estate. The car they had demolished had been stolen a few days earlier in downtown Philadelphia, and the men carried no identification on them. With absolutely nothing to go on, the police wouldn’t be able to identify the bodies much less connect them to the Pine Lakes operation, exactly the way that Parker wanted it.

Parker’s police contact alerted him as soon as the Secret Service bulletin came off the telex. The government’s strategy was evidenced by the distribution of the telexed message. It didn’t go to every police department in the country, or for that matter even on the East Coast. Its distribution was limited, but focused on the western Maryland area, a sign that the Service felt that Payton represented a threat to the safety of the President while Daniel Varrick was at Camp David. If the Secret Service was beating the bushes around Thurmont, then that was a fine place for Parker’s people to start.

Parker dispatched three cars, each with two of his best people. Their orders were simple–find Payton and the Phillips woman, and kill them. He couldn’t afford to let the couple fall into the government’s hands again. The second time, someone might believe them.

CHAPTER 41

October 30th

Lauren Woods cleared security at NSA’s Gatehouse 1 and turned down the corridor to the Headquarters Building. As she made her way past the entrance, the security guards tried in vain to get their minds off her tall, well
-proportioned figure and back on to their work.

At thirty
-seven, Lauren’s life had centered on her work. She was assigned to the office of Signals Intelligence Operations, the focal point of NSA operations. SIO, as it was called around the Fort Meade complex, was headed by the Deputy Director of Operations. He reports directly to the Director, National Security Agency, or DIRNSA.

Everything associated with the interception of signals, their subsequent decryption or cryptanalysis, and the final analysis of the clear
-text message is the responsibility of the DDO. All Special Intelligence Communications, or SPINTCOM, passes through Group W, the department responsible for the collection of signal intelligence, or SIGINT. Group W analysts assess the source of the signal and its type. Once the information had been source identified, it was passed to Lauren’s C Group, where the SPINTCOM is decoded.

The Secret Service’s Protective Intelligence Division maintains an ongoing relationship with the code breaking organization. Over the years, NSA intercepts ha
ve led to fallout Secret Service investigations against counterfeiting rings, computer hackers, phone phreaks, and of course would-be Presidential assassins.

Lauren made the turn into the main corridor and passed the long mural
on the wall. For an organization that reveled in its shroud of secrecy, she found it ironic that they would commission a mural showing its people engaged in various SIGINT activities.

The scenes depicted ranged from staff members monitoring telephone conversations to the collection of data from the satellite systems operated by NSA and the top secret National Reconnaissance Office, the organization that provided raw intelligence data siphoned up by the various satellite systems to the Central Intelligence Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, and of course, NSA.

When she reached the center of C Corridor, she cleared another security checkpoint before taking the escalator to the third floor. Each work area on the floor was a SCIF, or Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility, built to strict guidelines, which set forth the thickness of the walls and the type of construction. NSA’s guidelines addressed the types of sophisticated electronic filters required for all signal carrying lines entering or leaving the facility. Even the power lines coming into the SCIF were filtered. Her office, if you cared to call the secured area an office, was halfway down the wide corridor.

The heavy gauge steel door leading to the SCIF had no identifying marks except a large red dot signifying that the work being performed inside the area was classified at a Top Secret Sensitive Compartmentalized Information level. The SCI designation meant that intelligence sources could be identified from the already Top Secret material.

Most of the NSA’s hush-hush projects received their own code name, identifying the project and the information the project developed. Lauren’s program was classified Top Secret Cutter. She had no idea where the suffix
Cutter
came from, and she knew better than to ask.

Lauren unclipped her ID badge from the beaded metal chain that hung around her neck, and slid it
into the computer-controlled card reader to the right of the door. A light on the front panel instructed her to enter her personal identification number, or PIN.

The computer matched her access level to the badge number and the PIN, then released the electronic lock and allowed her entry.
Then the computer recorded the time and date in the access file for the Cutter SCIF.

She walked through the cluster of rooms, where her team was still busy at work, and past the secured destruction area. As she made her way into her office, Lauren glanced over at the small access door leading to the classified waste disposal chute and shook her head.

Years earlier, NSA had installed a site-wide destruction facility for the tons of highly classified waste produced each day. Rumors had circulated that the Fort Meade facilities generated more than two hundred tons of material per week; she thought the number was low.

Each building had a complex network of vacuum driven chutes that routed the classified waste to a special building dedicated solely to its total destruction. Lauren was never sure if NSA burned, pulverized, or shredded the waste material. But she was confident that whatever the agency did, its highly sensitive information was gone forever.

The intercepts they had gotten from the Cutter source had proven to be a more challenging problem than first anticipated. Usually the “take”, as collected intelligence was called, from the old Red Block countries was encrypted with the most sophisticated encryption schemes.

These sometimes were either unbreakable or took NSA’s super-high
-speed Cray computers so long to complete the decrypt that the information had limited value by the time they got it into clear-text. The Cutter source indicated that the intercepts her team had been working so hard on consisted of encrypted telephone conversations and encrypted computer-to-computer transmissions of domestic origin. Since few U.S. organizations deployed sophisticated encryption equipment, she was perplexed about why they were having such a tough time breaking the codes.

As soon as she sat down in her chair, the gray ‘secure’ telephone on her desk rang. Lauren picked it up on the second ring.

“Lauren Woods speaking.”

“Lauren, Gene Goldberg here.”  Goldberg was the current DDO.

“What’s the status of the Cutter intercepts?” he asked, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries.

“We’re still working on them. We’ve been able to separate the landline intercepts from the computer stuff, but we’re still trying to break their codes,” Lauren replied, using her most professional tone.

“The White House has kicked the project up to Brick Bat level.”  No one had to tell her what that meant–Goldberg’s call had elevated her project to the highest possible priority.

She had been with the Agency for years, and had only come across a few Brick Bat projects. When the Soviet Union began breaking apart, all Red Block intercepts received the Brick Bat designation. Other than that, she couldn’t recall any other time the high-priority designation had been used. She had wanted increased responsibility, and it looked as if she’d gotten it. She had to expedite the cryptanalysis.

“I’m monitoring every aspect of the effort, Mr. Goldberg.”

“Do you need an overtime authorization for your people?”

“The team’s putting in heavy hours, and I don’t want to chance burning someone out. So, for the time being, I’d like to pass on formal OT.”

“If you change your mind, let me know. I assume that you’re getting the computer time you need?” In the 140,000-square-foot basement of the Operations Building, state
-of-the-art, high-speed digital computers went about their tasks twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Half the time, they were dedicated to breaking the codes and ciphers used by other nations to protect their voice and digital communications. The balance of the time, the computers generated the codes required to protect the U.S. government’s sensitive military and diplomatic communications. Extra computer time was difficult to come by, a priority nearly impossible.

“So far, we haven’t had any problems in that respect either.”  Getting time on the Crays was always a battle. The Brick Bat priority wouldn’t hurt her chances of getting additional time if they needed it. Lauren thought about the most diplomatic way for her to convey the urgency of her requests to those who scheduled the various projects on the Crays. Of course, she could have used the Brick Bat priority herself, but she’d ruffle a few less feathers if it came out of Goldberg’s office.

“I assume your office will notify Tech Support that we’re working on a
Brick Bat project, sir.”

“I’ll make sure Cutter has all the access time you need, Lauren. Stay with it, and let me know as soon as you get a breakthrough.”  The line clicked off before she could say good
-bye.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Wednesday
served as a recovery and planning day for Payton and Janet. By staying in Thurmont, they were firmly planted on the hot seat. Wingate’s people had to have zeroed in on the Thurmont-Frederick area by now. If Payton moved out of Thurmont, he’d end up too far from Camp David. They’d have to stay put and keep their heads down until they pinpointed the date and time of the assassination.

“I’m going to move the car out back behind the motel,” Steve said pulling on his jacket. “It’s a dead giveaway if someone spots it.”

Janet was reading a magazine she’d bought at a local bookstore, and nodded her assent.

CHAPTER 42

October 31st

Thiesse replaced his telephone handset in its cradle. The Secret Service’s White House office, official designation W-16, had informed him that President Varrick would be leaving for Camp David in under an hour.

The Marine helicopters, part of Marine Helicopter Squadron 1 based across the Potomac River at Anacostia, were already on their way in. Whenever the
President used one of the Sikorsky VH-3D Sea Kings, two additional craft served as decoys and carried the extensive counter-sniper and countermeasures equipment used to protect Marine One against surface-to-air missile attacks from both heat-seeking and radar-guided missiles. The two other helicopters provided the umbrella of protection, even if they were only going to Camp David.

Thiesse picked up his phone and punched the button connecting him directly to Mary Neill’s office. As soon as his SAIC answered, Thiesse said,  “Mary, I just hung up with W
-16. Cutter’s leaving for Camp David in less than an hour. Get the rest of the team assembled, and I’ll meet you at the South Lawn entrance.” 

After Neill acknowledged his orders, Allen Thiesse slipped on his holstered Sig Sauer. With the gun in place, he donned his suit jacket and headed for the door.

Although it was no surprise that the President was going up to the retreat, Thiesse had thought they’d be leaving later in the afternoon. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. The President must be behind in the preparations for his speech, and felt that getting up to the retreat as soon as possible was the best course of action. After five years of running the detail, Allen was confident his people would be ready to go with time to spare.

.   .   .   .   .   .

As usual, Thiesse would be traveling with the President, and now waited, along with the rest of the protection detail, at the South Lawn door. PPD made it a practice of forming up inside the building they were leaving, and that included the White House.

“Good morning, Mr.
President,” Allen said when President Varrick got out of the elevator. The President wore khakis and a casual shirt. With no press around to shoot his departure, he could skip the obligatory coat and tie.

“Good morning, Allen. Everybody ready for another weekend in the country?” Daniel Varrick asked, looking around at his escort.

“Yes sir, we are.”

The
President started toward the exit. He stopped and turned to Thiesse. “Know why I like Camp David?” he asked.

Before Allen could answer him, Daniel Varrick said, “It’s the only place where you all let me walk ten yards ahead of you.” 

Thiesse laughed at the President’s joke, but what he said was true. Camp David was also the only place in the world where the President of the United States was so secure that PPD didn’t have to dog his every step.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road. There’s a lot to do before tomorrow.”

As senior agent, Thiesse called the diamond formation–one of several that the agents formed around the President. Thiesse hit his push-to-talk button, “Cutter’s moving.”  With President Varrick in the middle, they left the sanctuary of the White House.

Marine One already sat parked on the South Lawn, its h
uge blades now motionless. The major who commanded the flight had, as usual, landed the big helicopter right on the two red landing pads. Thiesse often joked about how close he got the bird to the white lines marking the center of each pad. It appeared that he had set the Sea King down on target again.

Thiesse barely looked over his left shoulder, yet he knew that the crash truck was in its customary position on the mansion’s driveway. Every time Marine One landed or took off, the truck and its contingent of flame-retardant-suited firemen were ready to go. Parked in front of the fire truck were the Service’s alternative limousine, and the Chevy Suburban, their armor
-plated war wagon. Thiesse ran down his mental checklist. Everything was normal; everything looked secure.

Off in the distance, Thiesse saw the tourists who watched the
Presidential comings and goings from the fence near the Washington Monument. He wondered if they came to see a glimpse of their President as he left on one of his frequent trips, or if a sense of the macabre drew them to the South Lawn fence.

While the entourage walked the short distance to the waiting chopper, officers of the Secret Service’s Uniformed Division fanned out on the grass facing the White House. Others stood at strategic points, watching the tourists off in the distance. Carefully positioned closed circuit television cameras silently monitored the
President's departure, relaying the flow of images across the complex to the control center in the basement of the Executive Office Building, where other UD officers watched for anything untoward. Meanwhile, plainclothes agents flanked the Sikorsky as Thiesse’s group reached the helicopter’s steps.

The Sea King had two sets of steps, one in the front of the ship behind the cockpit and one amidships. Both were down. Normally the
President and his senior staff boarded at the front, while the other staffers and the protection detail went aboard at the rear stairwell. Since President Varrick was flying to Camp David alone, Thiesse would be riding in the forward cabin with him.

The Marine sergeant at the foot of the front steps snapped to attention and saluted h
is commander-in-chief. President Varrick took the salute, and walked up the steps to the forward cabin.

As Daniel Varrick reached the top step, he stopped and turned around. Thiesse had already signaled his people to board the helicopter. When the
President stopped, Thiesse started to recall his team, but something made him pause.

He watched as Daniel Varrick gazed at the magnificent edifice that had been his home for the last five years. It appeared as if the
President were taking a last look at the White House.

The SAIC brought his microphone up to his mouth, ready to pass the word to his team that there was a delay, when the
President turned to him. “Don’t worry, Allen. I’m not changing my mind. As I was walking up the steps, the thought hit me that I should take a good look at this place. I don’t know why. One of those funny feelings you get–you know, like déjà vu...” 

The
President of the United States turned and stepped up and into the cabin. Thiesse followed him, taking the seat all the way to the rear–the one always reserved for the agent accompanying the first family. Thiesse glanced at the miniature oxygen bottles that would provide a critical three minutes of air if the Sea King went down over water. The oxygen canisters, along with intensified water rescue training, were the result of a helicopter crash off the shore of Key West when Nixon was in office. Although the President wasn’t on board at the time, one Secret Service agent died–trapped in the upside down helicopter.

Thiesse adjusted the headphones that allowed him to listen to the communications from Marine One’s cockpit. The
President looked preoccupied, and Thiesse didn’t want to intrude. Finally the naval officer carrying the omnipresent “football” boarded the flight.

With everyone on board, one of the Marines closed the front cabin door. As soon as the cockpit’s instrument paneled showed that the doors were secure, the pilot started the engines, and the big craft rumbled to life.

The downdraft coming from the main rotor atop the Sikorsky buffeted the agents and Uniformed Division officers on the ground as the ship slowly rose from the landing pad. The rear landing gear, compressed by the weight of the helicopter, straightened as the helicopter became airborne.

The Sea King, call sign Nighthawk when the
President wasn’t on board, instantly changed its call sign to Marine One. Like a giant insect, the helicopter turned slowly to face the White House before the pilot swung the craft around toward the Washington Monument, and climbed in a westerly pattern to rendezvous with the other two Sea Kings that completed the Presidential party.

Inside the cockpit, the copilot, a Marine captain, flipped the switches arming the infrared countermeasures system. Nitrogen flowed from its storage tank into the sensor head, chilling it and thereby increasing the system’s overall sensitivity to any heat source.

The electro-optic pod suspended from the Sikorsky’s belly began its three-hundred-and-sixty degree sweep of the ground below the copter, looking for anything resembling a missile launch. In the other two helicopters, specially trained aircrews powered up additional countermeasures equipment.

President
Varrick glanced down at his watch. In less than thirty minutes, they’d be at Camp David. The flight was so short there wasn’t enough time to do any work. That was all right too. He’d been fine-tuning his economic plan for weeks. It was almost, but not quite, where he wanted it. By tomorrow, he’d have it ready to go. Meanwhile he could sit back and enjoy the flight. The weather was clear, and Varrick gazed out the window as the nation’s capital slipped away beneath him.

Varrick’s thoughts went back to tomorrow’s news conference. He knew Congress would be all over his revamped economic plan, and that big business would initiate an intensive lobbying effort against it.

As President, his job was to lead the nation through the good times and bad. It was time to balance the scales. After the news conference, the White House would launch one of its famous lobbying efforts tailored to win over the hearts and minds of the senators and congressmen voting on the legislation. Finally, he’d be able to take the time to trace the tenuous threads uncovered by the various law enforcement and intelligence agencies. If an ultra-secret organization did in fact exist, Varrick was confident that the government’s combined resources could unearth it and its shadowy leadership.

As they made their approach into Camp David, the other two helicopters veered off for their return flight to Anacostia Naval Station. Slowly Marine One’s pilot brought the big chopper down on the mark. As soon as one of the Marines opened the bulkhead door, Daniel Varrick gathered up his briefcase and stepped out into the sunlight.

The President acknowledged the Marine’s salute as the Secret Service detail formed up around him. Usually he was chauffeured to Aspen Lodge by one of the camp’s ubiquitous golf carts, but not today. “Let’s skip the limo,” he said to Allen Thiesse. As Thiesse waved the golf cart driver off, Daniel Varrick handed his briefcase to an aide.

Thiesse mashed the push
-to-talk button on his transceiver. “Cactus, this is Horsepower One. Cutter’s walking to Aspen. Say status.”

“Status is green. Repeat, status is green.”  Everything at Camp David was secure.

With the three agents following behind, the President of the United States–sans the usual Secret Service cordon–walked up the road toward the Presidential lodge. In more easy-going times, Varrick could spend the entire weekend hiking along Camp David’s trails.

The walk from the helicopter pad to the California-style lodge in the middle of Camp David would take a few minutes, but he needed time to thi
nk. It was sure good to be out of the Washington rat race and back up in the mountains. He walked up to the front of the lodge, past the stone patio, and went inside.

The
President's cabin had low ceilings with wood beams running the length of the cabin. The fireplace, with its wood mantel, stood at one end of the great room. A large picture window afforded him a scenic view of the surrounding mountains. Several sofas, one of which faced the picture window, wooden tables, and easy chairs made up most of the room’s furnishings. Off to one side of the lodge was the President’s bedroom, a large pantry on the other.

The
President's aide had followed him into the lodge, and now watched as Daniel Varrick placed his briefcase on his desk. “Is there anything that you need, Mr. President?”

“Nope. Everything’s right here,” he said, patting the top of the case. “If something comes up, I’ll call you. In the meantime, why don’t you take a walk?
It’s beautiful up here this time of the year.”

“Yes, Mr.
President,” the aide said as he headed for the door.

.   .   .   .   .   .

With the President safely tucked away, Allen Thiesse and Mary Neill crossed the road to the Secret Service’s command post. As they sat down, Allen poured himself and his assistant a cup of coffee. Neill had worked with Thiesse long enough to know his moods, and her boss had something he wanted to talk about.

“The more that I think about this Payton character, the less I like it. He and his woman friend are probably in the area, but so far they’ve eluded us. Better update their status to Class Three.”  Thiesse said, referring to the hot list of people who posed a substantial threat to the safety of the
President of the United States.

Mary Neill put her coffee cup down. “I still think Payton believes his assassination theory. At best, he’s a kook, and at worse, he could be right.”

“If he had overheard a conversation, I might be inclined to agree with you,” Thiesse said. “But all this hocus-pocus stuff with UniNet’s on-line computer system– I just don’t know. Either way the President's news conference is tomorrow, and our security’s got to be airtight.”