The Cassandra Conspiracy (2 page)

When the cars pulled up in front of the office building housing the far
-flung cocaine empire, Ortega’s bodyguards threw open their doors and began their routine check of the area. Armed with Uzis, they scanned the tops of the surrounding buildings and the windows overlooking the busy thoroughfare searching for snipers while Ortega remained safely in the limousine until his chief of security signaled the “all clear”. Only then would the drug lord exit the Rolls and walk, flanked by his security men, into the lobby of the building. Each man covered his assigned area ready to react to any threat aimed at Ortega.

In a hotel room, three stories up and across the Calle San Cristobal from where Ortega sat in air conditioned comfort, the Norte Americano also waited for the all clear signal. In his hand he held a small radio transmitter. Unlike the unit he had used earlier that morning, this masterpiece of electronic technology did not communicate with a sophisticated computer. It had one function, and one function alone:  vermin extermination. A small yellow light on the control panel blinked on and off, signaling that Ortega was within range. From where the American sat, he had a clear view of the building across the street and its entrance. He was careful not to move the curtains that shielded him from Ortega’s bodyguards. If the sicarios spooked, he’d be back to square one.

Señor Ortega’s cocaine empire had finally garnered the full attention of the Committee. While the United States government spent billions to stanch the flow of the cartel’s cocaine, the Committee decided to take more drastic action. The American was the first, possibly not the last, but definitely the most crucial, step in putting Ortega out of business.

With the coast was clear, Ortega’s chief of security gestured to the driver, who hurried to open the rear door. Quickly he stepped aside, allowing his patrón to leave the vehicle. At the same time, two bodyguards rushed to open the twin glass doors leading into the lobby. Inside, on either side of the main entrance, Ortega had posted two men who provided for his security and complemented his personal detachment during the day. As it did every morning, the security ballet was going as planned.

Ortega had spent a million dollars on one of the most elaborate electronic security systems in the world. State-of-the-art sensors protected the building’s entire perimeter along with key areas such as Ortega’s office suite. Balanced magnetic switches secured each exterior door so that anyone opening any of these doors would immediately trigger the alarm. The system was so advanced that even sophisticated attempts at defeating it would alert the guards. Only the system computer could disarm zones in the building, and Ortega’s people were in total control of it. Ortega thought it somewhat ironic that the product of an American firm should protect the one man the United States government wanted to get its hands on so badly. Asi
’
es la vida, such is life.

His path secure, Ortega entered the lobby, catching his receptionist’s broad smile. Like most of the people working for Ortega, the young woman held him in both awe and fear. The size of his empire, all constructed on a foundation of
la merca
–cocaine–staggered the imagination. She knew Ortega owned houses throughout Colombia and in other South American countries where he was safe from extradition. Private planes exclusively for his use waited at various airports, and a fleet of fancy foreign cars were at his beck and call. She had heard of wild all-night parties thrown on his hundred-and-fifty-foot oceangoing yacht. Orgies where beautiful women, caviar, the best champagne, and of course the ubiquitous white powder were served up to Ortega’s guests.

Across the street, the American finished counting and pressed the pushbutton. The remote transmitter sent a coded signal to the steel box hidden in the confines of the reception desk. The receiver’s microprocessor decoded the signal, matched it to the code stored in its memory, and released the solenoid. Once free, the spring
-loaded hammer detonated the primer of the twelve-gauge shotgun shell sending fifteen pieces of buckshot on their deadly journey.

The girl was about to wish the patrón a good morning when a deafening roar permeated the lobby. First she thought it was a bomb, but she felt no pain and neither smoke nor debris filled the room. Then she knew–it was a gunshot.

Ortega caught the deadly blast square in the chest. He staggered, clutching his paunch. Blood spurted from several holes, some low, others in his chest. His white dress shirt sprouted crimson flowers as blood seeped through the material.

As Ortega crumbled to the floor, his bodyguards, unsure of where the shot came from, split off, covering all directions. Those in the lobby pointed their weapons at the receptionist, as she sat in stunned silence. They were sure the shot came from behind the desk, yet the girl sat there apparently too shaken to move. Her hands were empty; the bodyguards held their fire.

Out on the street, Ortega’s guards searched the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one ran down the street, and there were no movements in any of the windows over the Calle San Cristobal. Inside his headquarters, a spreading pool of blood started underneath Ortega’s lifeless body and dribbled across the Italian marble floor.

The American released his finger from the transmitter, and snatched up his pouch. Quickly, he glanced around the room, making sure that he had not left any trace of his presence. Then he checked the hall. So far Ortega’s henchmen hadn’t put it together, but it wouldn’t be long before they did. He left the room and went down the back stairs, heading for the rear entrance. His phantomlike movements would draw no attention to his departure. He would be well on his way back to the States before a real search for Ortega’s executioner began.

Ortega had been a careful man. His only mistake had been the acquisition of his ultramodern Steiner Aeronautics security system–and the Committee controlled Steiner Aeronautics.

.   .   .   .

September 11

A few blocks from city hall, he parked the car,
and then eased his six-foot two-inch frame out from behind the wheel. He had chosen the sedan because of its size. He knew that he’d be putting countless miles on it, and he wanted to be comfortable. He fished a quarter from his pocket and fed the parking meter.

The nineteen thirties-style two-story building had seen better days, its façade old and cracking. He climbed the crazed concrete steps to the main entrance, where the two leaded glass doors had not yet given way to more contemporary replacements, and went inside.

This was not his first trip. He had been there a week before, so he knew exactly how to reach his destination. He took the first left past the front corridor and walked down the hall to the Records Office, his footsteps echoed his coming. The local area was famous for its rock quarries, and he wondered if the marble for the floor had come from one of them. He entered the office, and then waited patiently for the young lady behind the counter to take notice of his arrival.

The wood counter ran from the entrance all the way to the far wall. Three oak benches with ornately carved armrests stood empty along the front wall to his left. Given the size of the town and the surrounding county, he wondered what, if anything, could possibly fill the place with people. Behind the counter, row after row of file cabinets and steel shelving held the birth, marriage, and death records of the county’s inhabitants. From the date chiseled into the cornerstone, there was little doubt that those records dated back to the First World War, and quite possibly to the late eighteen hundreds when the township was first incorporated.

The bastion guarding the town’s history was a woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She had meticulously applied her makeup; a light shade of lipstick provided additional color. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a neat bun. She wore a two-piece professional looking suit with a white silk blouse. Eager to be of service, she rose quickly from her desk. She was exactly as he had expected. He knew that she had taken over the responsibilities of maintaining the town’s records after the spinster, who had held the job for some thirty-odd years had retired less than a month ago. Unconsciously, she smoothed her skirt over her knees then headed toward him.

He was a good-looking man, with sharp, angular features. His dark hair had been neatly brushed back. From a distance, she thought that he might be a bit overweight. Upon second glance, there didn’t appear to be an ounce of fat on the man.

“May I help you?” she asked. Other than routine requests from her neighbors, this was her first real customer. She could smell his cologne over her lightly scented perfume. It smelled masculine, arrogant, possibly intoxicating.

“Good morning. I’d like a copy of my birth certificate,” he said.

This was her first month in her new position as records clerk. When she took over the job, there was so little time for orientation she found herself constantly referring to the list of procedures developed by her predecessor. Those tasks that she had to do every week or so, like recording a birth, marriage, or death, she had down pat. This, however, was something new, and she wasn’t about to mess it up–not so early in her career.

As she looked at his face, her eyes locked on to his gaze. Embarrassed, she tried to break the lock between her eyes and his, but she was powerless to do so. His eyes pierced her heart like a dagger. Just before her dilemma became uncomfortable, the stranger smiled profusely. Shaken, she wanted to get back to business.

Returning his smile, she asked, “Do you have any identification?”

He reached into his wallet and removed his Virginia driver's license, handing it
over. “This is all I've got,” he answered smoothly. She detected a note of concern in his voice. “It’ll be fine, sir. When were you born?”

“Nineteen fifty
-six, September 22 to be exact.” He flashed his big smile at her again. He needed to put her at ease.

“I’ll take care of this right now,” she said taking the driver’s license back to the Xerox machine. The scent of his cologne followed her back to her desk. Too bad he wasn’t from the area. The available men in town, some of whom she had dated, were content to live life from one Friday night to the next as long as they had a case of beer in the fridge for the weekend.

She glanced at the license, John Grant, no middle initial. She removed a large, bound book from the voluminous tomes that filled the floor to ceiling shelves on one side of the room. She paged through it, quickly locating the record of birth. From her desk drawer she took an official birth certificate form, and placed it in her typewriter. She glanced over at the counter, hoping that he wasn’t watching her. The stranger had turned and moved over to near the front window. No longer on edge, her fingers found the appropriate keys. Fortunately, other than filling in routine information such as the date of birth, place of birth, and parents’ names, there really wasn’t much to do. She finished typing, removed the form from the typewriter, got up, and walked back to the counter.

“Here you go. That’ll be twenty
-five dollars,” she said handing him the certificate and an envelope, conscious of the touch when his hand met hers.

He removed two
ten-dollar bills and a five from his wallet, and then passed them across the counter.  “Thanks a lot for the help.”

Smiling, he left the office and made his way back down the musty corridors of the town hall, and out into the sunshine. He walked up the street to his car, got in, and backed out of the parking space. Once out of town, he followed the road signs directing him back to Interstate 81, entered the highway taking the southbound ramp, and merged back into the stream of obscure cars and equally anonymous souls.

.   .   .   .

The church, designed in 1704, was patterned after an old Bohemian one. Its well
-pointed brick façade had withstood the ravages of time and the weather, owing to the care the church received from its parishioners. The church spire stood directly over the oval main entrance, and served as a constant reminder to the members of the parish to live their lives in concert with the Lord’s commandments.

The twin white doors in front opened directly into the nave, where two aisles led through the chancel and up to the sanctuary trisecting the rows of pews. Along the middle of one exterior wall, a brick chimney rose over a fireplace. Long ago abandoned in favor of a modern oil
-fired furnace, the hearth no longer provided heat to those kneeling in prayer.

On both sides of the church, large, arched windows, framed by black shutters, accentuated the period architecture. During the hot summer months, the windows remained open during Sunday services. Other than the occasional chirp of a bird, only the prayers of the congregation permeated the surrounding hills and valleys.

On the church’s south side, surrounded by a three-foot-high stonewall, stood the cemetery. Less a bulwark than a symbolic boundary line, the wall delineated the world of the living from that of the dead. Gravestones dating back to the mid-seventeen hundreds stood in a pattern long ago sacrificed in favor of the best use of the limited space. Some were quite large, commensurate with their owner’s pocketbooks, while others were more modest. Most of the headstones were chiseled from granite brought from local quarries. The names of the dearly departed along with the dates of their passage on earth were etched deeply into the stone–as if the depth of the inscription could somehow reflect the family’s pain.