The Cassandra Conspiracy (43 page)

He was certain he could make it back to where he had stashed the car and get out of the area before the Secret Service had time to close all the roads. In the meantime the more confusion he created, the more time he’d have to escape. At least Payton and his woman friend would serve some purpose.

CHAPTER 51

Janet had heard the roar of Grant’s rifle just as Payton entered the cabin–and, a short time later, the shotgun blast. After the two reports, she heard nothing. With bated breath, she hoped and prayed that Payton had somehow gained the advantage.

In spite of Payton's instructions, Janet headed for the stairs. Gazing up, she tried to figure out what she was going to do–obey Payton’s instructions or find out what happened at the top of the tower.

Just as she was about to make her way up the tower, she saw someone fling open the cabin door. She watched as the man went around to the far side of the catwalk,
and then disappeared from view. Janet hesitated. Steve’s words echoed in her head. If he didn’t come back for her, she was to get out of there. Even when he had told her, Janet had known that she could never turn her back on the man she loved.

The rush of the three Checkmate teams Mary Neill had dispatched to the tower ended Janet’s predicament. While Janet was emerging from the woods, the cars encircled the tower base. Before they even came to a stop, the vehicles disgorged the agents. One saw her right away, and called out to the others.

As three agents covered Janet with their weapons, the first commanded, “Lady, keep your hands up where we can see them. Walk toward us, but don’t make any sudden moves.”

Obediently, she did what they had told her. When she got to a point halfway between the cars and the trees, the agent yelled, “Stop where you are. Now turn around and face the woods. Clasp your hands behind your head.”

Janet paused, unsure of what they wanted her to do first. Things were happening too fast. Where was Steve? 

Other agents were now covering the tower with their guns. One Secret Service agent had drawn some sort of submachine gun from a black nylon case. He was pointing it at the cabin.

“Don’t shoot. Steve’s up there,” Janet pleaded. She didn’t know what condition Payton was in–whether he was alive or dead–but she knew the agents would shoot first and ask questions later. The last thing she wanted to see was Payton appearing on the catwalk, a shotgun in his hand.

“Clasp your hands behind your head, Lady. Now turn around and face the woods,” the agent yelled, gesturing with his gun.

Janet turned around, then did what she was told. She stood there like that, waiting. Were they going to shoot her in the back?  No, she decided, these were the good guys.

“Drop to your knees,” the agent directed her harshly.

Janet went down on her knees. As she did so, she heard agents approach from the right and left. She felt her left hand being yanked down and behind her back, the cold steel of the handcuffs snapping around her wrist. The agent pulled her right hand down in the same fashion, securing it with the other handcuff.

“Let me explain–please, “ she begged as they dragged her to her feet.

“Lady, we don’t know what we’ve got here. This isn’t the time to explain anything. Just keep your mouth shut until we get the situation under control.”

“My boyfriend’s up there,” she said, looking at the top of the tower. “He tried to stop the sniper. I heard two shots. I think one came from the sniper, and the second was my boyfriend’s gun. You’ve got to help him.”

One of the agents did a quick pat down, after which they pushed her into one of the cars, slamming the door behind her. Not willing to risk anything happening to her, one of the agents remained at the car. Once Janet was in custody, the agent who had put her into the car radioed Camp David.

“Cactus, this is Horsepower Six. We have a female suspect who fits the description of Janet Phillips in custody. She’s indicated that there might be two men up there–both armed. Said she heard two shots. She thought one came from her friend’s gun. We’re going in.”

“Horsepower Six, Cactus. Message confirmed,” Camp David’s security command center replied.

Two agents covered the tower’s base, while the others ran up the stairs. When they reached the top, agents covered the left and right sides of the catwalk while the others entered the room.

There were obvious signs of a struggle:  furniture was overturned, glass broken, and the cabin in general disarray. They found Payton's body on the floor.

It was standard procedure to handcuff the suspect whether he was alive or dead, and the agents were going to stick to the book. They slapped the cuffs on Payton. One agent recovered the sawed
-off shotgun from under the table, where it had been kicked during the struggle with Grant. Another frisked Payton to make certain he didn’t have any other weapons. They checked Payton's body, but there were no signs of trauma other than a few bruises still turning blue, proof the man had been in a fight.

On the ground, the rest of the team located Agents Norwood and Talley. Neither showed any signs of trauma. Both were unconscious.

The team leader radioed Camp David. “Cactus, this is Horsepower Six. We’ve secured the tower and have two suspects in custody, a male and a female. The male suspect’s out cold, but he fits the description of Steven Payton. Champion Two appear to have been drugged, but otherwise seem to be all right. Request instructions.”

Mary Neill was still calling the shots; Allen Thiesse remained with the
President. “Horsepower Six, this is Horsepower Two. Leave one team at the tower to secure the crime scene. We’ll supplement them from here. Keep the two suspects apart, and transport them to Cactus as soon as relief arrives. I’m also sending in a medic unit for Champion Two.”  The Checkmate detail member acknowledged the directive.

A second agent slipped behind the wheel of the car Janet was in while the agent originally assigned to guard her opened the rear door and got in. Janet lay back against the seat, listening to her own breathing, and trying desperately to calm herself. Everything was a blur as the car sped down the road away from the tower and away from Steve.

CHAPTER 52

As soon as the support teams reached the tower, they hustled Payton into one of the government cars. W
hen they got to Camp David, the agents half-carried, half-dragged Payton into an unused cabin, then manhandled him into a chair.

Slowly
Payton came out of his drug induced stupor. His mind tried feebly to make the rest of his body function again, but something prevented it. As he sat there, it seemed as if he had just come out of general anesthesia. The first of his senses to return was his hearing. Men were talking–about him. Where was Janet?  Was she all right?  Or had she too fallen victim to Wingate’s assassin? He went in and out of consciousness, not yet all back, but definitely not gone. The bitterness in his mouth signaled the return of his sense of taste.

Payton opened his eyes, unsure what he’d see, or even if he could see. Slowly light areas and dark areas danced in front of his eyes, but nothing distinct and recognizable. Everything gradually became more defined, but Payton's vision remained blurred. Very slowly, the blurs took on definitive shapes as his eyes regained their acuity. People were moving. Janet wasn’t in the room.

In the next few minutes, Payton's body began to return to normal. He felt as if he’d been run over by a steamroller. Everything was sluggish, out of kilter. He didn’t want to move; he didn’t want to get up. His arms ached, and there was a pain in his shoulder. Every part of him hurt.

Payton groaned and looked around. Why couldn’t he move his hands?  What was wrong?
His arms and hands refused to function. Slowly, he realized that he was bound. Why was he handcuffed?  Why did he hurt everywhere? The sniper-did they get him?  Where was he? Where was Janet? Payton struggled to move. He couldn’t. The two guards held him securely.

The last thing Payton recalled was the pain in his chest, of trying to breathe when his lungs refused to work. He didn’t remember being knocked unconscious, but he still hurt where the assassin had hit him in the chest and he was sore all over. Payton's head was one big migraine. He couldn’t focus his eyes on the scene in front of him, but he knew that the sniper wasn’t there.

“Where’s Janet?” he yelled at the agents.

When no one bothered answering him, he attempted to get to his feet, only to be shoved back into the chair.

“Where’s Janet?” he stammered, insistent upon an answer.

One of the agents took pity on him and said, “If by Janet you mean the blonde we found at the bottom of the tower, she’s fine. She’s in custody too. Now just keep quiet.”

“Is the President all right?”

“What do you care, you son of a bitch?” another agent asked menacingly.

“Please, I need to know. Is President Varrick all right?” Payton pleaded still unsure if he had somehow managed to foil the assassination attempt.

“He’s shaken, but fine. Now keep your fucking mouth shut!”

As long as Janet was all right, Payton was content. He’d cooperate with the authorities and do whatever they asked of him, even if that meant he had to be quiet when he had so much to tell them.

The agents fully intended to read Payton his rights, but they weren’t going to take any chances on a bungled arrest. As long as Payton could plead that he wasn’t in his right senses when they Mirandized him, the agents were going to hold off questioning him.

Three agents watched every breath he took even though he remained manacled. With agents assigned to guard Payton, and others securing the tower area, Mary Neill instructed the rest of her people to begin collecting evidence.

Like the agents assigned to her, Mary Neill was carefully following the procedures set out by the Service. She had already talked to her boss. They had decided that they would try to get whatever information they could out of Payton before interrogating Janet Phillips. Since Ross Whitman had had previous contact with Payton, Thiesse wanted him to lead the interrogation team.

When Whitman entered the cabin, Payton acknowledged the agent. Ross Whitman asked one of the other agents to change Payton's handcuffs so that he was cuffed in the front and not behind his back as he had been when they secured for transport to Camp David. Whitman then set up two small reel-to-reel tape recorders; the microphones were on the table in front of where Payton was seated.

“Before we go any further, I’m going to read you your rights,” Whitman said with unbridled contempt. Whitman had seriously miscalculated the threat posed by Payton. When it came time to place the responsibility, he’d be at the head of the list. At least there weren’t going to be any foul
-ups in this interrogation–no mistakes that would later have the U.S. attorney breathing fire down his neck. Everything would be by the book. Although if he had his way, he would have hanged Payton from the nearest tree.

“I know my rights.”  Payton said testily. “Or did you forget I’m an attorney?”

The agent didn’t answer the retort, but removed a small card from his ID case, and began. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish. You can decide at any time to stop the questioning and not answer any questions or make any statements. Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?”

Frustrated with the lack of progress, Payton said, “Of course.” 

“Do you wish to talk to us now?”

“Let’s get on with it,” Payton said testily. The hum from the tape reco
rders suddenly became the only sound in the room.

“For the record, my name is Ross Whitman. I am a special agent with the United States Secret Service assigned to the Protective Intelligence Division.” Whitman read the date, time, location, and other particulars into the record and then turned his attention to Payton. “Mr. Payton, why did you attempt to assassinate the
President?”

Payton jumped from the chair only to be grabbed by the two agents hovering behind him. “Are you crazy?  I didn’t do any such thing. I tried to stop it!”

“Mr. Payton, you are aware that someone did attempt to shoot the President of the United States this morning, are you not?”

“It wasn’t me,” Payton snapped back.

Whitman moved quickly to nail what he was certain was a lie. “We found you in the exact spot the sniper used.”

“I was there, but I didn’t try to kill
President Varrick!”

“Where did you hide the rifle,” the agent demanded.

“I never fired a rifle. I had a shotgun that went off when I tried to stop the sniper. But that’s it,” Payton said adamantly.

Payton looked at Ross Whitman and then around the room at the other agents. No one believed him. They actually thought he had tried to kill the
President.

“Look, you’ve got to believe me. What I told you in Washington was true. There was going to be an assassination attempt, but Wingate was behind it from the start. I only tried to stop it. Janet and I figured out that the fire tower was the best place to shoot from. I got there just as Wingate’s hired assassin fired. We fought, and obviously he won.”  It was a cool day, but the cabin was suddenly getting warmer. Payton began to perspire.

“Could I have a glass of water?” Payton asked. None of the agents moved a muscle.

“Things will go a lot easier for you if you cooperate. You tried to kill the
President, and we know that you and Ms. Phillips were involved in the murder of those two deputies in Thurmont.” 

“What?” Payton exclaimed.

“Last evening, two deputies assigned to conduct surveillance on the motel where you and Ms. Phillips were staying were gunned down. Directly after the shooting, you and Ms. Phillips fled the scene,” Whitman stated accusingly. “Witnesses identified you from your descriptions, others got the tag number of your rental car, and the waitress who found the bodies stated that you were seen leaving the restaurant at the approximate time the shootings took place. Do you care to comment, or are all these people wrong?”

“We had nothing to do with that either,” Payton said firmly. He might have had a chance of convincing the agents that he didn’t take the shot at
President Varrick. They knew the shotgun wasn’t the assassin’s weapon, and they obviously hadn’t found the high-powered rifle. Unless they came up with the gun, the Secret Service had a glaring gap in their logic. That had to be obvious to the more astute members of the organization, whoever and wherever they were.

But the murder of the two deputies was an entirely different matter. Payton knew those deaths had to be attributable to Wingate, but proving it was another story. He and Janet had been there. If the deputies had been killed while watching Payton's room as Whitman said, he and Janet were the logical suspects. And they could only vouch for each other.

“You and Ms. Phillips have been all over the place since our meeting last Friday. Right behind you we find two slain police officers, and then we have an assassination attempt on the President. You gave me a scenario last week–something out of the Twilight Zone–then you almost made it happen exactly like you first predicted.”  Whitman wanted Payton to realize the gravity of his situation. He waited a few more seconds before continuing.

His whole story appeared to be an unsubstantiated fabrication. Janet’s testimony was all but useless since the agents believed that she was also part of the assassination attempt. Whitman painted a very black picture of his part in the alleged conspiracy, which now extended to two more deaths; both of which were of law enforcement officers. And Agent Whitman wasn’t done with him, at least not yet.

“And what are we to believe is the truth?  That you got some sort of electronic mail message that detailed Charles Wingate’s plans to murder his best friend?  Then you and Ms. Phillips somehow managed to find the sniper and you got into a fight with him. Then you’d have us believe that he knocked you out and left the area while every Secret Service agent and law enforcement officer in the state is out looking for anyone who’s even remotely suspicious. You really expect us to swallow that crap?” Whitman asked incredulously.

Payton saw the futility of his situation; their minds were made up. Whitman was certain that he and Janet were behind the assassination attempt, and nothing he said could change the agent’s mind. He opted to remain silent and not rise to Whitman’s taunt.

“What did you do with the rifle?  Did you give it to Ms. Phillips so she could hide it?  Come on, where did you stash it?  Sooner or later, we’re going to find it.”

The Secret Service had already begun a trace search on the Remington 870 that Payton had purchased in Maine. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms directed the National Firearms Tracing Center to trace the serial number of the Remington recovered by the agents at the scene. The Center contacted Remington Arms, who verified that the shotgun had been shipped to its dealer in Maine.

The latter confirmed the sale to Payton. They were also able to determine that Payton had not bought any other guns through legitimate sources, which left the mystery of the sniper rifle still up in the air.

The Secret Service knew that Payton could have bought the gun through any one of a dozen possible sources where there would be no official records, so the fact that there wasn’t a record of the purchase didn’t rule Payton out as a suspect.

“I never had any gun other than the shotgun. When I got into the cabin, the man I saw in the restaurant was there with a telescopic rifle pointed out the window. If it’s not there now, then he took it with him.” His defense was being shot to ribbons; he had nothing with which to parry Whitman’s argument.

During his career Payton had prepared many cases. As such, he knew what would sell and what wouldn’t. He also knew how much circumstantial evidence the prosecution had to put forth before a jury would return a guilty verdict. He knew the kind of case the prosecutor had to lay out before the jury would forget all the stuff about  “beyond a reasonable doubt” and convict the defendant. If he could have chosen the side that he’d be on, Payton would have picked the prosecution.

Agent Whitman shook his head, and then pulled the microphone closer. “Steven Payton, I am charging you with attempted murder in that you conspired with one Janet Phillips to assassinate the President of the United States.”

Payton looked around at the other agents. From the look on their faces, each already had him indicted, tried, and found guilty.