The Cassandra Conspiracy (36 page)

Yalter was thinking about how he was going to get his boss to pay him off the books when he saw the two cars drag racing up the road. His rig wasn’t going fast, a little under forty. The asshole in his lane had plenty of time to give up the race, and pull over where he belonged. For some reason the other driver didn’t seem aware of the construction dump truck headed right for him. That didn’t make any sense. After all, the Kenworth was kind of hard to miss. Probably  a couple of dumb teenagers playing chicken. Yalter gave some thought to the air horn, but Christ, they had to see him!

Both drivers, still locked in mortal combat, were closing on the dump truck at over sixty miles an hour–ninety feet a second. Allowing for the dump truck’s speed, the sedan and the Kenworth were closing at nearly one hundred and fifty feet per second. There wasn’t much roadway left when the other driver finally saw the juggernaut bearing down on him.

The driver’s
reflexes were fast. Planning on slewing his car behind Janet’s until the road cleared, he stomped the brakes. But Janet anticipated his move, slamming on her brakes as soon as she saw him begin to slow. Her action kept the chase car firmly planted in the southbound lane, and on a head-on collision course with Yalter’s rig. The gunman forgot about the fleeing car. Payton no longer was the biggest problem facing him.

From Yalter’s perch high in the cab, he watched the accident unfold like a gigantic panorama. The car closing on him had nowhere to go. The shoulder along this section of the road was only a few feet wide, allowing no room to escape the inevitable. Conscious of his potentially shifting load, Yalter pumped his brakes, hoping to avoid a head on collision, but it was too little, too late. Carl Yalter reached for the air horn.

Yalter braced himself as the sedan plunged headlong into the front of the Kenworth. The car nosed down under the big truck’s front bumper, while its back took a short hop in the air as the car came to an abrupt rest. Steam from the blown radiator shrieked from the mangled front end. The car’s hood bent back to the front of where the windshield had been. As the car came to its final resting place, its trunk sprang open. Both doors jammed against the frame, which the crash had pushed back a good foot. Safety glass tinkled across the macadam.

As soon as everything stopped, Yalter sprinted from the truck’s cab. The sounds of breaking glass, tortured steel, and disintegrating body parts were gone, replaced by a deathly silence. Only the ticking noise of slowly cooling hot metal could be heard.

Yalter took a hard look at the passenger compartment. The carnage was horrific. Neither man had worn his seat belt. The driver, his face and chest covered with blood, seemed to be breathing, or at least Yalter could hear the wheezing sound of the driver’s blood-filled lungs trying to take in more air and failing. He might make it if the State Police medevac chopper got there fast enough, but Yalter wasn’t taking any bets.

At the time of impact, the passenger’s had head traveled forward to be greeted by the windshield. The dash as well as most of the interior was splashed in slowly congealing blood and gray matter. Sickened, Yalter turned away. There was no doubt in his mind that the guy was dead.

Carl Yalter looked up the road to see if the other car had stopped, but the other driver hadn’t bothered hanging around. Yalter wasn’t at all surprised. He wouldn’t have either. Yalter started back to the Kenworth’s cab and his CB radio, hoping the locals still monitored channel nine. His old lady would be bananas when he failed to show up in time for dinner. It was going to be a long night with the cops.

.   .   .   .   .   .

As soon as they had cleared the accident scene, Janet eased off the accelerator. Payton, wary of being spotted with the shotgun, put it back on the floor.

“Nice driving. Where did you learn that stunt?”

Janet’s stomach was churning. Her arms quivered from the fear that coursed through her body. She knew it easily could be them in the torn, twisted car. She struggled to get a grip on herself, but it was to no avail. Her head felt light and her knees began to shake. “Can you drive back to the motel?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Payton nodded. “Pull over up there,” he said, pointing to the side of the road.

As soon as the car came to a stop, Janet got out and slowly walked around to the passenger’s side. Payton eased behind the wheel. He thought about checking out the car, but knew what he’d find. The rear window was history. Amazingly the tires were all in one piece, and there were dents and holes from the shotgun pellets in the left rear side panel. At least the rental was still drivable.

Janet sat ashen
-faced as they headed back to the motel. After Payton parked the car, she got out and closed her door. Not uttering a word, Janet walked into the room. Payton followed, unsure whether he should hold her or let her emotions run their course. He wanted to give her the support she needed, but he didn’t want to crowd her.

“I’m tired of all this,” she blurted out as he closed the door. “I’m sick of the killing. I’m fed up running like a scared rabbit, and I’ve had enough of this. . .” Janet waved her hands in the air as she searched for the word she wanted. “. . . conspiracy.”  She put particular emphasis on
conspiracy
.  “I’m so fed up with it all,” Janet said as she sat on the side of the bed. Payton held her as tears welled up in her eyes.

“This will all be over soon. Hang in there. I won’t let anything happen to you. I love you.”  There, he’d said it. His words surprised Janet, but they shocked him. More so because in his heart he knew them to be true.

Janet sobbed, clutching at Payton as if by holding him tightly, she could somehow drive the danger away. Her face was still white, and her hands were trembling. Tears streamed down her cheeks. A few minutes later, she let him go and went into the bathroom. Payton watched from the doorway as she threw cold water on her face.

“You did what you had to do,” he said. A feeble attempt at allaying her guilt. “Those guys were trying to kill us. I’d have done the same thing if I had been driving. You couldn’t let them win, Janet. You just couldn’t.”

She didn’t answer right away. “I guess I never was in a situation where I had to defend myself like that. When it occurred to me that maybe I could keep them in the left lane, I figured they’d veer off the road or stop.”  She paused for a few seconds. “I was scared, and I wanted them to crash into that dump truck–anything to get away. And that’s exactly what happened. I didn’t plan it, but thank God we made it.” Janet paused and looked into Payton's eyes. “Does that make any sense?”

“It does to me. I expected to be the first and only one of us to take a life, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I bought the shotgun figuring that if it came down to us or them, I’d use it. What you did, you did for both of us. If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, we’d be splattered all over the road, or laying alongside it with a couple of bullets in us.”

Payton didn’t say, “instead of those two”, but it was implied. A shiver ran up her spine.

Slowly, Janet pulled herself together. Dropping the towel, she walked over to where Steve
stood propped against the doorframe. Gently, as if stroking a young kitten, he put his arms around her. Slowly her trembling stopped. As she regained her composure, she took Payton by the hand and led him toward the bed.

CHAPTER 39

After stopping for some coffee and doughnuts, Janet and Steve drove back to where they had parked the last time they looked for Camp David. Payton turned the car around so that the driver’s side with its pattern of holes faced the woods and was not visible from the road. He slipped the now filled canteen over his shoulder, but left the shotgun. There was no sense in taking it; he didn’t expect to run into any trouble.

They took off into the woods, going in the general direction he’d staked out after seeing the photographs. Neither of them spoke as Payton, leading the way, did the best he could to keep the branches and thorn bushes from whipping back into Janet’s path. Off to their left, a buck, startled by them, crashed through the dense underbrush.

“What was that?” Janet called to Payton.

“Must have been a deer,” Payton replied trying to get his heart rate back to normal. “For a minute I thought we had company.”

“Me too,” Janet seconded. “That deer scared the hell out of me.”

“From the looks of things, the feeling was mutual. He really took off. We’d better move along.”

Now that they were oriented, it took less than an hour to find Camp David’s outer perimeter. Janet walked up to the chain-link fence.

“Don’t touch it,” Payton called out. Janet immediately dropped her outstretched hand. “I doubt it’s electrified, but it’s probably alarmed.”

He turned, facing away from the compound. “Whatever we’re looking for, it won’t be in there. Let’s follow the general run of the fence, but look for something to our right. We’ll move around the perimeter to the point marked on the map. Then we’ll shift position, moving farther away from the fence and retrace our steps.”

Whatever Steve said, it probably made sense–just not to her. Besides, she had no idea how they were going to find whatever was in the blowup. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “you lead, I’ll follow.”

They tracked the fence line for nearly half a mile before Payton decided they had gone too far. “Let’s move further away from the fence and try again.”  They reversed direction and headed back toward their start point. They saw nothing but trees.

“By the time today’s over, I’ll never want to see another tree again,” Janet muttered.

They moved away from the fence, reversing direction a second time. In spite of their efforts, nothing appeared to be a suitable hide for the sniper. By now Payton was getting fed up. “Let’s stop for a few minutes,” he said, sitting down against a tree.

Janet’s back was toward Camp David, while Payton sat facing her. As she handed Payton the canteen, she looked up.

“What’s that,” she exclaimed, pointing to something high over Payton's shoulder.

Payton's heart skipped a beat as he felt the adrenaline shoot through him. He whirled around praying that no one was coming up on them. “What?  I don’t see anything.”

“No, look. It’s some kind of structure.”  Rather than try to talk Payton into looking where she was pointing, Janet got up and started walking out of the brush. Payton followed behind her. Rising from the treeline, approximately forty feet away, stood the supporting legs of a fire tower.

Payton was so flabbergasted, he could only stare. When he got his senses back, he pulled Janet down to her knees. “Let’s not announce our visit,” he whispered. “Unless we’re way off course, this is what we saw in the blowups yesterday.”

“But aren’t we too far from Camp David for this tower to be of use to the sniper?”

“Normally yes, but there are some incredibly long-range sniper rifles capable of making the shot.”  Payton had told her about the fifty caliber rifles the marines had tested in Vietnam and their ability to hit a target from over a mile away.

Payton pulled out the map and folded it so that the area designated as restricted was face up. Carefully, he plotted their course from the road to the retreat’s north side. According to the map, they were on an eighteen hundred foot elevation line.

“If the sniper’s using a fifty caliber rifle, the tower’s got to be within range. From there, he’d have a commanding view of the area, and my guess is that since the tower’s higher than the tree line, a good view of at least part of Camp David. It’s got to be a good two hundred feet high. If we’re at eighteen hundred feet, add two hundred more feet, and the tower’s well above Camp David’s elevation. He fires, walks down the steps, and is out of here before anyone figures out what happened.”

“What about the forest ranger?” Janet asked wondering how that could affect the sniper’s plans.

“There’d be one dead forest ranger. This is much too big to let a park ranger get in the way. There’s too much money involved. The sniper’s getting paid five million for the hit. What’s another body or two along the way?”

Janet realized that under the circumstances, her question was stupid. Of course it wouldn’t make any difference who got killed as long as the
President died too. Wingate already had chalked up two kills.

“Come on. There’s got to be a road leading to the tower. I want to find where it goes.” 

Payton circled the tower’s base. As expected, he found an unpaved road, which had to go from the main route to the tower. They hiked along the fire tower’s road, but remained in the woods until they were out of sight of anyone who might be in the cabin atop the tower.

At that point, Payton decided they couldn’t get into too much trouble if they were found walking down the road–as long as they weren’t discovered by Wingate’s men or the Secret Service.

When they reached the county road, Payton was pretty sure that he’d remember the intersection if he were driving. To be sure, he marked it, tying his handkerchief to a small tree branch. Then they retraced their steps back to where they had left the car.

Eager to verify the location of the fire road, Payton drove around until he saw his ‘flag’. With the hide pinpointed, they had all the facts except what they needed the most, the time of the assassination.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Allen Thiesse was in his office when his second in command, Mary Neill, knocked and then walked into the room. “Good morning, boss,” she said, a cup of coffee in her hand.

Special Agent Neill had been with the Secret Service almost as long as Thiesse. Originally assigned to the New York office, she later did a stint in Training Division. When the voters put Daniel Varrick into the Oval Office, Mary Neill came on board as part of the PPD team. Thiesse found her to be someone whom he could always count on. She never complained about the hours or the travel, knowing both were part of her job. During the first term of the Varrick administration, she performed flawlessly, handling the myriad of problems the detail dealt with on a daily basis. At the beginning of the second term, Thiesse promoted her to Assistant Special Agent in Charge, ASAIC of PPD.

In spite of her rigorous travel and work schedule, Mary Neill found time to keep herself in excellent physical condition. Her five-foot-nine-inch frame carried little excess weight. Her dark brown hair was cut to shoulder length, and she dressed conservatively, befitting her rank.

The woman who sat across the desk was a frequent visitor to the Training Center. In her free time, Neill honed her hand-to-hand combat techniques. While most agents assigned to PPD had difficulty finding the time to re-qualify on the range, Mary Neill made it a practice to shoot at least every other week. Her scores consistently placed her in the top five percent of the agents. Thiesse was sure she was the best shot with a handgun among those assigned to the protection details.

“What’s going on this fine fall morning?” Thiesse asked her as she settled into the chair, crossing her legs.

“Not much, just more of the usual. I see you’ve been reading the latest reports from Intelligence Division.”

“ID’s more than a little concerned about this Payton
character,” Thiesse said tapping the report on his desk. He had read the report on Payton's interview. There was always someone who knew that the President's life was in imminent danger. These characters walked in off the street every week. Most of the time they were rejects from St. Elizabeth’s or some other area mental hospital. Nonetheless, PPD couldn’t discount any information that suggested the President's life was in danger, regardless of how bizarre the story or the source.

“Ross Whitman thinks that Payton might be more dangerous than they first thought. He told him to take a motel room in the area and stay put. Whitman planned to place both Payton and his girl friend under routine surveillance the next day.

By the time the team got to the motel, they were gone, and Payton hadn’t bothered to leave any forwarding address. Since then, we’ve gotten nothing new on the their whereabouts. ID’s decided to pass this one over to us.”

Thiesse leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “I don’t like this one bit. Something about it doesn’t seem right. When someone deviates from what the shrinks in ID say is the norm, we’ve got problems. Better find Payton and Phillips. Once you do, let’s stay on them. The
President's been shuttling between the White House and Camp David frequently, and I don’t see that changing. In fact, the powers-that-be are thinking about having the next press conference up in western Maryland. We can’t have a nutcase walking around un-chaperoned.”

Before she had even walked into Thiesse’s office, Mary Neill realized how large a problem Payton presented to PPD.

“I’ve already contacted Maryland DMV, and we have the details on Payton's car. They might have rented a car, so I’ll have someone get on that right away. Once I get all the pertinent information together, I’ll send a bulletin out to the local law enforcement agencies asking them to keep a watch out on the vehicles. If they locate the car, we’ll have them sit on it.”

“Fine, go ahead. But remember we only want to know where they are. We don’t want the locals getting too enthusiastic and violating anyone’s civil rights.” 

The Secret Service had recently gotten a new director, appointed by the secretary of the treasury. Less than three months in place, and he was already under fire because “the President's Praetorian Guards”, as the press termed the agents, had delayed the reporters’ departure while others spirited the President away during a recent trip to Texas.

“Concentrate on the Pine Lakes area, and also both Frederick and Thurmont. If they’re not in the immediate area, then at least we don’t have any major concerns for now.”

“You really think Payton's planning to assassinate the President?”

Thiesse shrugged. “I’m not sure. I suppose it’s conceivable that what he told ID is true–or maybe he really believes it’s true. Either way, that doesn’t make him an assassin. On the other hand, Payton could be off his rocker. He hallucinates an assassination, then does everything he can to make it happen.”

“I’ll alert the field offices, but locating him is going to be worse than finding a queen bee in the middle of a hive of angry drones,” Neill said.

“I’d be a lot happier if this picture weren’t clouded by Payton's disappearance. In the meantime, an ounce of prevention...”

Mary Neill left her boss. When she got back to her office, she picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Intelligence Division. When she reached her party, Mary Neill outlined the information they needed regarding the title searches and rental car investigations. She stressed the need for immediacy in both investigations. She wanted to be certain that when the Baltimore field office got the inquiry from ID, there wouldn’t be dogging it. Now she could only sit back and wait for the results.