The Cassandra Conspiracy (38 page)

CHAPTER 43

Payton and Janet ate lunch in the motel’s restaurant before returning to their room. After he double
-locked the door and closed the drapes, Payton turned on the television. The news was on, featuring a live report from Camp David.

He went over to the set, and turned up the volume. Arrayed in front of a temporary podium set up outside the gates of the
Presidential retreat, the press corps listened attentively to Daniel Varrick’s press secretary.

“There will be a
Presidential news conference tomorrow at 11
A.M.
on the Camp David golf green during which President Varrick will take questions about the administration’s new economic plan. Press corps members with White House accreditation are invited to attend. However, you will need your White House press passes for admittance, and the usual security procedures will be in effect. Tomorrow’s conference will be the first at Camp David since the Middle East Peace Conference was held here during President Carter’s administration. That concludes my comments.”

A flurry of hands shot up, as some of the reporters tried to get the press secretary to answer specific questions. He raised his hands, quieting the reporters. “Sorry, I’m not taking any questions at this time. Thank you.”

As soon as it was apparent that no further information would be forthcoming, Payton turned down the set. “That’s it, Janet. Wingate’s going to have Daniel Varrick killed tomorrow.”

Janet had digested the facts and reached the same conclusion. “Why are you being so damned stubborn? You’ve got enough to go to the Secret Service. Let them handle it.”

Payton shook his head emphatically. “Forget it. You saw Whitman’s reaction when I brought up Charles Wingate. Any benefit of the doubt he gave me when we first walked into his office melted away. Telling them we found a great spot for the sniper to use, and that the man Wingate hired to assassinate the President of the United States is going to be there tomorrow, is a waste of time.”

Payton sat
there, eyes fixed on the television, then went on. “I can see it plain as day–a repeat of President Kennedy’s funeral. Varrick will lie in state someplace important–you know, impressive–like the Capitol Rotunda. A flag-draped oak coffin will be guarded around the clock by a combination of Marines, Army, Special Forces, Air Force, and Navy personnel. All the spit and polish will be there as the mourners pass by.”

In her mind, Janet could see Payton's picture take shape as brushstroke after brushstroke hit the canvas.

“Then we’ll have the solemn state funeral–the procession to Arlington, the rider-less horse, the Air Force flyby in the missing man formation, followed by the interment. Of course, Ansel Darby will already be our new President. He’ll be there every step of the way–tailored Brooks Brothers suit, the consummate politician–shaking hands, a somber look on his face appropriate to the occasion. My God, if his speechwriters can get it together in time, he might even deliver the eulogy. Of course, a day later he’ll be on bended knees before the almighty Charles Wingate!” 

Although she didn’t like what she heard, Janet didn’t see any way to punch a hole in Payton's logic. “All right,” Janet said finally, “But don’t keep saying ‘I’ or ‘me’. We’re in this together, all the way. If you’re going to the tower, so am I.”

“I’d be a helluva lot happier if I knew you were safe here. I want you to stay in the room.”

Janet’s head snapped back and forth. “Absolutely not,” Janet told him in a voice loud enough to be heard next door. “You got me into this. We risked our lives at the farm, in London, and nearly every place in between. Tomorrow, either we’re together
, or I go to Camp David’s main gate and yell my head off. Make up your mind, but do it now.”

She had him cornered. He didn’t want her going, but he didn’t want her raising hell with the Secret Service. Tomorrow it would be hard enough trying to deal with the assassin. He didn’t need the Secret Service coming after him at the same time. “All right, you win. You’ll be with me tomorrow, but what I say goes as far as what we do when we get to the tower. Agreed?”

“Yes. So far you have managed to keep us alive. I’ll do whatever you want as long as I’m with you.”

“The rest of the afternoon, I want to spend getting ready. I need to come up with a plan of attack that won’t get us killed. Besides, I don’t want to be out driving around in that car. Someone’s sure to spot it.”

It was already too late.

CHAPTER 44

Mary Neill picked up the phone in the command post. “Neill here,” she said, wedging the handset between her head and her shoulder. She hoped that whoever was calling had some kind of lead on Payton. With her hands free, she uncapped a ballpoint pen and reached across the desk for a pad.

“Ms. Neill, this is Sheriff Cordrey in Thurmont. You have that “locate and track” bulletin out on a rental car?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He loved getting the jump on the high and mighty Secret Service.

“Yes, Sheriff, we do. Do you have a lead on it?”

Hiram Cordrey had served the Thurmont area as its chief law officer for nearly twenty years. During that time, things were pretty quiet unless the President was up at Camp David. Then all hell broke loose. The place might be a goddamned Presidential retreat, but whenever the man was there, Thurmont became a zoo.

God help them if the
President decided to attend church services in town instead of using the chapel at Camp David. There were roads to close, motorcades to deal with, and those damned Secret Service types with their tiny matching lapel pins, so condescending toward him and his deputies. It was as if the Feds thought that his people couldn’t find their asses with both hands. Besides, nothing ever happened. Occasionally, they did miss closing a side street, but that was no great shakes. Hell, if the old man stayed at his little mountain hideaway, there wouldn’t be any problems at all.

“You might say that, young lady.”  Mary Neill bit her tongue. She knew the locals weren’t too happy about their frequent presence in the area, but that went with the territory. Every time she assigned one of her people to liaison duties with the locals, the agent ended up walking around talking to himself for a week afterward. She waited for Cordrey to continue.

“We’ve got a location on the vehicle,” he said, not telling her where it was, but making her ask him. All right, she could play his game.

“Where’s the car, Sheriff?” Mary asked, tapping her pen on the pad as she tried to keep her anger under control.

“It’s parked in the rear of a motel right down here in Thurmont,” Cordrey answered, proudly. “As a matter of fact, it’s not far from where you’re standin’.

And, we’re do’in exactly what you said. We’ve got it staked out, but it ain’t going anywhere. My deputies haven’t seen anyone near the vehicle in question since they spotted it during one of their routine patrols of the area.”  Cordrey dragged out his pronunciation of
vehicle
adding an ersatz Southern twang.

“Thanks for calling, Sheriff. I need to talk to my people. Then I’ll get back with you. In the meantime, would you please keep your deputies in position?”  She had to check with Allen Thiesse and see what action he wanted to take.

“Sure can, young lady. The Thurmont sheriff’s office is always eager to help all you up there at Camp David.”  He hung up the phone.

Mary Neill called Thiesse, and he listened intently while she explained the situation.

“We don’t have anything to hold Payton on, and as much as I’d like to pick him up, we’d be violating his civil rights. On the other hand, I don’t have any intentions of losing track of him again.” Thiesse paused while he thought about his options.

“With the press conference tomorrow, it’ll be bedlam up here. We’ll need every agent we’ve got. I don’t want to tie up two of our people keeping track of Payton unless he does something
off the wall.

Let the locals handle it for now. Call Sheriff Cordrey back. Request that his deputies keep watch on the car. If they’re in a marked patrol car, have them switch to an unmarked unit. See if the sheriff can verify that Payton and Phillips are in their room, and find out what the room number is. If Payton makes a move out of the motel, have him continue surveillance but notify us ASAP. Tell the watch commander to alert either you or me to any calls coming from the Thurmont sheriff’s office immediately.”

Thiesse received the acknowledgment from his ASAIC, and went back to checking the manpower loading needed for the press conference. It was nearly five o’clock and he had all the loose ends tied up, or so he thought.

.   .   .   .   .   .

A Mutt and Jeff combination, both deputies were taking it easy. Providing support to the U.S. Secret Service was a breeze.

Normally, they’d be pulling radar duty on Route 15 or 550, and compared to traffic patrol, this surveillance stuff was a piece of cake. Of course they were on their third cup of coffee, and God only knows how many doughnuts they had devoured. A stakeout was usually a boring job, but it had its good points. They could sit in one place, didn’t have to write any tickets, and no one at HQ cared what they were doing. It wasn’t like cooping behind Thurmont High. No sleeping on the job today.

Even the weather was cooperating. The rays of late-afternoon sun filtered through the rear window of the unmarked car keeping them warm. And to top it off, they were getting overtime pay!

The Sheriff’s office had already called the motel
, and verified the “suspects’ ”room number–113. The deputies even knew that the suspects ate in the motel’s restaurant. Sheriff Cordrey told his men not to bother calling in unless the suspects left the motel property, but that didn’t include going to the restaurant.

Deputy Jenks turned up the volume of the two
-way police radio. It wouldn’t do to miss a call from Sheriff Cordrey. The old man was probably pissed as hell having to pay them for drinking coffee and eating doughnuts on what should have been a Secret Service stakeout.

A little after six, the deputies watched as the couple left the room, obviously heading toward the restaurant. They checked the time, and wrote it down on the surveillance log. Dinner. No problem; everything was A
-Ok.

It must have been about seven when Jenks kicked back, then reached into the bag for another doughnut. While his partner fixed his fourth cup of coffee, Jenks gingerly bit into the cream filled pastry. Horror-struck, he watched as a glob of creamy goo dripped off the donut and landed on his lap.

Jenks wasn’t sure when he noticed the presence of two well-dressed men. They had appeared out of nowhere. One guy was standing next to the passenger side of the car, the other right alongside the driver’s door. First Jenks thought the Secret Service had arrived and was going to take over the surveillance, but that was before he saw the guns. Both men were carrying odd-looking semiautomatic pistols–with long cylindrical barrels.

Both deputies fumbled for their sidearms, but their efforts were a waste of time. Even if they could have gotten their weapons out, the two men were standing to the rear of the respective side windows. In fact, both men were exactly where the deputies had been taught to stand when they were writing traffic tickets, behind the front seat with their bodies angled toward the car so that neither the passenger nor the driver could get a shot off. Each gun coughed quietly three times.

The twenty-two caliber hollow point rounds traveled three to four inches inside each of the deputy’s heads before exploding into countless fragments, a fair number of which penetrated their victim’s brains. Both of the killers reached into the car, and checked the pulse of the man whose life he had just ended. Then they walked over to the door marked 113.

.   .   .   .   .   .

As dusk turned into night, Janet and Payton finished their dinner and paid the check. They were leaving the restaurant when Payton saw two men come from a car parked at the side of the building and walk toward their room. Abruptly Payton shoved Janet up against the front of the motel. They were behind a large soda machine and couldn’t be seen from their room entrance. As Payton put his hand across Janet’s mouth, her eyes grew wide with fear.

“Keep quiet. Two men are going toward the room. Stay put until I find out what’s goin
g on,” Steve said in a low voice.

He looked around the side of the machine, careful not to make any sudden move that would draw their attention. Both men wore suits, and could have been Secret Service agents. They were right outside their door. He saw them knock; then when no one responded, they kicked in the door. Payton was sure they had guns out. From the bulbous shape of the gun barrels and the fact that they hadn’t announced themselves, these guys definitely weren’t Secret Service agents. Payton's heart sank
: Wingate’s men.

Unless he could make it to the car, they were dead. The killers already knew they weren’t in the room, but their car was still there. He took Janet’s hand, keeping her close to the motel’s façade as they inched their way back toward the restaurant. Quickly they crossed in front of the building. When they got to the far side of the motel, Steve said, “We’ve got company.” From the look on his face, Janet didn’t need to ask who. “I’m going to get the car and bring it around here. When I pull up, get in the back, and stay down on the floor. Got it?”

Janet nodded her head in understanding. Before she could ask any questions, Payton had moved off around the back of the restaurant to where he had left the car. Once behind the building, Payton sprinted along the rear of the motel and ducked down alongside the rental car. He reached into his pants for the keys. For a minute, he couldn’t remember if he had taken them with him when they left the room for dinner. Nothing. Payton quickly checked his other pocket; they were there. He unlocked the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. Everything depended on starting the car without the two killers hearing the engine turn over.

Payton turned the ignition switch. As soon as the engine came to life, he eased the transmission into drive, keeping a wary eye on the corner of the building. Once clear of the room, Payton eased the car down the alley, turning the corner near the restaurant.

Janet was waiting for him, and got in as soon as the car stopped. Before she could completely close the door, Payton headed for the street. He made furtive glances at the rearview mirror, his foot down hard on the accelerator trying to put distance between them and Wingate’s men. He didn’t know where he was going. They were out of places to hide.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Maggie Carter had been working for the motel’s restaurant for nearly six months. For the past few weeks she had been amused by Deputy Jenks’ overtures as he tried to get up the nerve to ask her out. She figured that he and his partner were on some kind of stakeout, but knew better than to ask him why he had been parked in their lot all day. No matter. By now, the deputies would appreciate a fresh thermos of coffee. She had just brewed a fresh pot–black and strong the way they liked it.

She waited until the last customer was finishing his dessert. Then Maggie put on her jacket. The fall air was turning colder, and she didn’t want to catch cold. Picking up the thermos, she added a few doughnuts and some napkins to the tray and went out the front door.

When she stepped outside, she saw that Jenks’ car was still there. She thought that they might object to her coming over, but there didn’t seem to be anything going on. Besides, Jenks would get a charge out of her visiting him while he was on the job. She walked down the sidewalk in front of the rental units, past the soda machine toward the unmarked car.

As she approached, something seemed out of place. The car was dark, but then that was no surprise. After all, the deputies were on a stakeout. As she got closer, the occasional police call in
terrupted the evening’s tranquility. Still there was no movement in the car. They couldn’t be asleep, not on an important surveillance–could they? 

As she came closer, she noticed that the windows were down, the engine off. It might be fall in the Catoctins, but the nights seemed more like winter. Goose bumps ran up her arms. Jenks and his partner must really be cold by now, she thought as she neared the police car.

Maggie Carter was only ten feet from the passenger’s door, and neither man was bothering to look at her. In fact, they didn’t move at all. An eerie feeling in the pit of her stomach warned her away, but she continued, unable to go back to the safety of the cafe. Then fear grabbed her full force. When she saw the dark blood on the side of Jenks’ head, Maggie Carter dropped the tray and screamed. She was still screaming when the first emergency units arrived minutes later.

.   .   .   .   .   .

“Just what the hell have you gotten us into, Agent Neill?” Sheriff Cordrey hollered into the phone.

Mary Neill, trying to rein in her temper, asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve got two men down, and some kind of de...ranged killer running around my town thanks to you people,” the sheriff bellowed. Although Agent Neill couldn’t see him, his face and his neck had already turned beet red, as they did whenever the sheriff’s blood pressure shot through the ceiling. From the sound of things, it was off the scale.

“The ones on the Payton surveillance?”

“Of course the ones watching Payton. Who do you think I mean, the school crossing guards?”

“Where are Payton and the Phillips woman, Sheriff?”

“Who the hell knows. But you can bet your ass I’m gonna find them.”

“What happened down there?”

“What happened?” Cordrey roared into the mouthpiece. “You Feds are the smart ones. You tell me.

I sent two men on what you called a routine surveillance, and your man Payton gunned them down. Killed them both in cold blood. They’re sitting there watching the room, just like you asked, and someone comes up and puts three shots in each man’s head–just as neat as you please. That’s what happened, you stupid bitch!”