The Cassandra Conspiracy (4 page)

As the
President sipped his coffee, Wingate asked, “So what urgent matter of state made you decide to drag me in here on a moment’s notice?”

The lightheartedness evaporated from Daniel Varrick’s face. “There’s something going on, and I want your input.” The
President placed his cup on the table, and then removed a stack of documents from a leather briefcase next to the couch. Each report was spiral bound, and topped with a red cover with the words “Top Secret” prominently displayed. Red hash marks flashed around the outer edges.

“These were generated by various federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies–FBI, CIA, Defense Intelligence Agency, NSA, you name it. Most deal with on
-going investigations. For instance, this is from the Bureau,” the President said selecting one document from the pile, “is a summation of an investigation in which certain members of Congress are believed to be pressuring the Air Force to award the new multiforce fighter contract to a specific supplier.”

“Business as usual.” Wingate interjected. “Every time there’s a major procurement, every senator and congressman lobbies to make certain that his state gets the contract.”

“Exactly. But this time, the Bureau thinks that money–large amounts of it– has changed hands,” Varrick said as he dropped the report back on to the stack.

“If you think federal laws have been violated, have the FBI arrest the guilty parties,” Wingate said unsure why this case would warrant different handling from so many others.

“If it were as easy as that, I’d be happy. But it’s not. There’s more going on here than a couple of elected representatives with their money-grabbing hands out. It’s much bigger than that. You see that’s not the only extent of the problem,” the President said, picking up the sheaf of reports.

“Okay, here’s the kickback case.” The
President dropped the report on the coffee table. “Then there’s the CIA. They think that some shadow organization, international in scope, is in the process of rigging the South African elections.” Another top-secret report dropped on to the stack.

“Then there’s Treasury’s Office of Intelligence Support. One of their investigations in concert with the Germans points to a massive conspiracy to control the Deutschemark.” A third report was added to the growing stack.

“The Mossad is almost certain that some group, whose origin is outside of Israel, has somehow put pressure on their government ostensibly to ease the tensions between the Arabs and Israelis.”

Wingate gently placed his cup on the table. “That kind of political maneuvering’s been going on since the beginning of time. Foreign elections have been rigged, and currency exchange rates fixed. Nothing’s changed.”

“I don’t agree. There’s a common thread throughout these reports, not to mention the ones I haven’t shown you.”

“And that is?” Wingate asked biting his lip.

“Don’t get me wrong, Charles. I’m not paranoid. But in each investigation, there’s mention of, or some indication of, a powerful covert group operating behind a thick veil of secrecy.”

Wingate caught his breath.

The President went on. “You’ve got operations in more cities than I can name, and substantial business dealings in every major country and most third world ones from Brunei to Timbuktu. Have you ever run across anything like this?”

Charles Wingate thought for a few minutes before answering. “No, Daniel, I haven’t. Sure, we’ve seen influence peddling, kickbacks, and the like from time to time, but nothing of the magnitude you’re alluding to. If such an organization exists, it’s certainly news to me.”

“I had hoped that you might be able to shed some light on my little mystery. I guess I’ll get out my own flashlight,” the President said nodding toward where the classified documents that lay on the table.

“What are you going to
do?” Wingate asked.

“For now, nothing. I’ve got to get my new economic program ready for Congress. And this time, I want to eclipse Capitol Hill and tell the American people about the plan before every pundit, demagogue, and lobbyist tears it apart. That should
take several weeks. Once that’s out of the way, I intend to put every intelligence agency from the Pentagon to the Library of Congress’s Federal Research Division on this. If there is a sub rosa group operating either here or abroad, I’m going to find it. And when I do, I’ll focus enough light on them to give them a sunburn!”

The communications console beneath the end table chirped, interrupting their discussion. The
President reached down to pick up the phone. “Yes, Linda, I didn’t forget the meeting with the senators, just the time,” the President said looking at his watch. “We’re wrapping it up now. Please ask the gentlemen from the Hill to wait.”

As Daniel Varrick hung up the phone, Charles Wingate rose. Extending his hand toward Wingate, Daniel Varrick
said, “Thanks for coming in. Given the gravity of this situation, I really didn’t want to have this discussion over the phone.”

As they walked out of the Oval Office, the
President put his arm around Wingate’s shoulders. “Let’s get together again soon. You’re sorely missed around here.”

.   .   .   .   .   .

Wingate left the West Wing and headed back to his Cadillac. As he neared the car, he glanced quickly at his gold Patek Phillipe watch. Leaving downtown Washington at this hour meant he’d probably hit the afternoon rush hour. The trip back to the estate would take longer than he had originally planned. Wingate’s driver was already out of the car, holding open the rear door. As the chauffeur got behind the wheel, he pressed a button lowering the glass window between the front and rear compartments.

“Where to, sir?”

“Back to the estate, please, Arthur.”

“Yes sir.” He backed the car out of the parking space and drove slowly up West Executive Avenue until he was at the north gate. The Uniformed Division officer in the small white security building nodded as he initiated the opening sequence for exit onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

The anti-vehicle barriers lowered slowly into the road surface, and the gates opened, allowing the limousine to enter the stream of traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. As they made the left turn and headed back to the Parkway, Charles Wingate raised the partition. He had a great deal of thinking to do.

CHAPTER
[1]

In medieval times, a large moat with at least one well-placed drawbridge would have surrounded the estate. Today, however, ancient fortifications had given way to electrically controlled gates, elaborate intrusion sensors, and  closed-circuit television cameras that continuously swept the roads leading onto the property.

The centerpiece of Wingate’s estate was the mansion house, which had a commanding view of the hills and valleys making up the five-hundred-acre estate. Wingate had built the mansion on top of the largest hill on the property, set back from, and out of sight of, the main road. The two-story U-shaped edifice dominated the estate. Two large wings, one to the left and one to the right of the house’s main section, ran perpendicular to the front of the mansion; the left wing housed Wingate’s personal library.

Other smaller houses, used for the infrequent guest and for those staff members whose presence was required around the clock, as well as maintenance buildings, stood farther back, and out of sight of the main house. A small network of private drives connected the various buildings on the estate to the surrounding country roads, which in turn linked up with the access roads leading out to the rest of the world.

The black stretch limousine took a circuitous route through a small grove of evergreens before stopping at the main entrance. Charles Wingate III got out of the car and bounded up the marble steps running the length of the mansion.

The mansion’s entrance was over twelve feet wide and consisted of a pair of double doors with fixed sections, one to the left and one to the right. Thick leaded glass with a Tudor design of interconnected circles and diamonds chilled the normally warm appearance of the medium
-oak doors. As Charles Wingate walked through the door, Cedric, his majordomo, met him.

“The plans are complete for this evening, sir. The staff is prepared to serve dinner at nine o’clock, if that’s satisfactory.”

“That’ll be fine,” he said, dismissing him.

Of all the rooms in the stately dwelling, Wingate felt most at ease in the library. It was and always would be “his” room. He walked through the double doors leading into the expansive room.

Wingate’s credenza was directly in front of the picture window that looked out over the broad expanse of lawn. Like its matching desk, the credenza was handmade out of the best rosewood; its finish reflecting the care expended on it. Sitting on the credenza, in a position that reflected its importance, was a silver-framed photograph of a young soldier in full battlefield dress. Wingate’s son had sent the photograph, and it had come a long way, from Vietnam. The likeness had originally consisted of three soldiers; Wingate, however, lacking any real interest in anyone other than the man in the middle, had had the photo cropped so that only his son’s image remained.

Directly in front of the credenza, Charles Wingate’s chair sat facing the double wood doors leading into the library. Some people thought the placement of the desk and chair had to do with being able to immediately greet whoever walked through the door. Others were equally certain that Wingate felt safer facing the door.

A well-dressed man in his early forties rose from behind the large, oval cherry conference table as Wingate entered the room.

“Lawrence, how good to see you,” Wingate said clasping the younger man’s manicured hand.

“Good to see you again, sir,” Lawrence Ettleberg replied.

“Congratulations on your appointment as chairman. Having known your father for years, I can attest to his confidence in your ability.”

“Thank you.”

The Ettleberg family fortune had come from the banks that once carried the family name. Lawrence’s great-grandfather had started a small bank in the Midwest. Over the years, under careful tutelage, the enterprise grew. With the inherent stability that a larger bank brings to the region it services came increased deposits. In the early nineteen hundreds, the First Union Bank was poised to become a major participant in financing the food belt, at exactly the right time.

Under Ettleberg’s father, the bank’s stewardship had remained in capable hands. The elder Ettleberg led the bank and its many branches through the Great Depression, bringing it out of  those impossible years damaged, but not down for the count. He continued guiding it through the expansionist times preceding World War II, and then through the war years.

All the while, he was carefully grooming his son to succeed him. Before the younger Ettleberg knew anything about the intricacies of commercial banking, he was enrolled in the finest preparatory schools. He then attended Harvard for his undergraduate education. Only after he received his advanced degree from the Wharton School of Finance was he allowed to enter the hallowed halls of the First Union Bank. Even then, it wasn’t until after his son’s apprenticeship that his father exposed him to the larger mercantile operations section of the business.

“I think we’ll be more comfortable in front of the fireplace.” Wingate led his guest over to where four high-backed chairs stood in a semicircle facing the mammoth hearth. A roaring fire spilled heat out into the room. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” Wingate said. “By the way, how’s business?”

“All in all, pretty good. We’ve written off most of our bad debt and strengthened the balance sheet. We’re lending to farmers, now that the administration has kicked the international wheat market in the tail. I expect a good year, not only for the bank, but also for its customers.”

“Glad to hear it,” Wingate replied. He knew that First Union had some money tied up in bad real estate loans. Obviously Ettleberg had taken steps to write down the problem accounts.

“I must say that this is the most impressive private library I’ve ever seen,” Ettleberg said, surveying Wingate’s library. It was obvious that no expense had been spared during the library’s construction and subsequent furnishing. Ettelberg estimated the room to be sixty feet long and forty wide.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves had been built into one of the rich mahogany paneled walls. A second set ran the entire length of the left wall. It was on these shelves that the estate’s master placed his most prized possessions, for this was the library of a well-read man.

Besides the classics, works by the better American, British, and French authors were included in the prodigious collection. There was also a complete set of law books, bound in leather with gold
-foil imprint. Another section housed modern works of fiction, while yet another was dedicated to nonfiction. Treatises on technical and other esoteric matters also found their way on to the library’s shelves. The room contained numerous texts on the owner’s favorite, or even sometimes past, hobbies, and each volume in its own unique position.

“Thank you. My late wife’s hand can be easily seen in every room of this house except this one. The library’s design I reserved all to myself.” Wingate paused. “I suppose you don’t have any idea why your father set up this meeting?”

Ettleberg shook his head.

“What I am about to tell you must never leave this room. Is that understood?”

The banker was used to handling all kinds of confidential information. He knew how to keep such matters sub rosa, and wasn’t at all concerned about whatever Wingate was about to impart to him. “You have my word.”

“I don’t mean to dwell unnecessarily on this point, Lawrence, but should you ever
breech this confidence, it will have the direst of consequences for you and your family. Is that understood?”

Ettleberg couldn’t fathom the significance of what Charles Wingate was telling him. His father had instructed him to agree to the older man’s restrictions.

The younger Ettleberg nodded in acceptance.

“Since before he was your age, your father has belonged to a secret organization, which we call the Committee.” Wingate paused long enough to let the significance of what he said sink in.

“Over five generations ago, the original members, all scions of wealthy American families, banded together at a time when this great country was entering the Industrial Revolution. The membership scepter has, just as in your case, been handed down from generation to generation.

If you agree to become one of us, no word of any business we conduct here tonight or any other night may be passed to anyone outside the group, including your father. He has distinguished himself in service to the Committee, and must be allowed to enjoy the fruits of his labors.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Allow me to continue,” Charles Wingate said pensively. “For decades, we, as well as our predecessors, have seen the horrible failures of world governments. First in this country, where waste is everywhere, and later in Europe, South America, and Asia.

Our elected representatives...” Wingate spat out the word, “... spend more time lining their pockets or worrying about their share of the pork barrel than in accomplishing anything worthwhile. Even the once-emerging commercial leaders, such as Germany and Japan, have followed the same course; the litany of waste and self-indulgence is endless.

“Of course, we tried to turn things around here, but our efforts were of no avail. Getting our designated candidates elected was easy. It only took money. In each case, our little group either directly or indirectly controlled the donor corporation. Once elected, the representative or senator had no choice but to honor their obligations. But the slothful ways of big government were too ingrained in the system.

Compromises had to be made; amendments were added to support high-powered constituents. The entire political process was mired in compromise, to the point where the best solution to a given problem was often lost in the rhetoric.”

“In order for a group, any group, to play such a powerful role, it must have highly diversified interests,” Lawrence Ettleberg said.

“The Committee does. We have significant interests in banking, electronics, publishing, agricultural products, clothing, and oil exploration. Any business that we’re interested in, we acquire. If the target enterprise doesn’t fit into one of the convenient categories, then the Wingate Trust moves in to make the acquisition or handle the investment. Through an intricate network of contacts and cut-outs, we’ve been able to move effortlessly into any area that strengthened our long-term goals.”

The implications of what Wingate said were staggering. Any group capable of such commercial piracy must control untold billions of dollars. “Then the Committee’s assets must total...”

“Billions of dollars, and these assets, as you put it, are arrayed throughout the world. We have extensive holdings in oil, land, publishing, gold, and technology. People employed by our companies number in the tens, if not hundreds, of thousands. If we attempted to simultaneously liquidate everything we own, the effect would be to drive down the collective financial markets of every major country in the world.”

“And with that goes unbridled political power,” Ettleberg deduced.

“Exactly. The Committee’s influence and power do not stop at the doorways to Capitol Hill either, but extend throughout the branches of government. Even if the bureaucrats and politicians involved don’t see the influence’s source, they feel its power. At the Pentagon, we control who wins and who loses the critical megadollar contracts. At the Department of Justice, our control extends over government investigations into companies and organizations controlled and owned by the Committee. Of course, special attention is paid to those firms who intentionally or inadvertently oppose our interests.”

Ettleberg saw the fire in older man’s eyes and felt the heat of his words.

“Everything we do, every election we control, every position we carefully fill, every investment we judicially make, is done with the utmost secrecy. In fact, the organization’s operations are more like the highly compartmentalized workings of the major international intelligence agencies than those of a private company. No one ever suspects that we’re behind a given takeover or investment. That’s absolutely crucial to our success.”

As Wingate’s steely stare caught Ettleberg’s glance, the latter nodded again.

“The Committee’s power base extends into the very governments of the countries we operate in. Factions supported by us changed South Africa’s prime minister from one who deeply supported apartheid to a more moderate one, only months before certain gold leases were up for renewal.

When the long
-standing feuds between the Palestinians and Israelis threatened to spill over into another war, we flexed our political muscle, managing to bring a moderate leader into the Tel Aviv government, while at the same time reining in the Palestinians. If you remember, during the Gulf War in 1991, it was rumored that Jordan’s ruling family pressured Saddam Hussein. Just goes to show that you can’t believe everything you hear.” Wingate sneered.

“The Committee was behind that?”

Wingate nodded. “We avoided a fight to the finish, and put the region back on the path toward stabilization. When the final accounting was completed, the Gulf War brought untold millions of petro-dollars into our coffers without jeopardizing our long term holdings in the region, another resounding success.”

Ettleberg was staggered. Beneath the fabric of daily global business was a group so secret that he hadn’t known about his own father’s membership–something that had been going on for decades. Wheels within wheels.