The Cassandra Conspiracy (46 page)

“No sir. Even if you believe Payton's version of what happened, that in itself is insufficient to draw that conclusion. Unfortunately there’s more. After I read the report from Intelligence Division, I used our Interagency Group at NSA to place taps on all the lines coming into and leaving the Wingate estate at Pine Lakes.”

“Without informing me?”

“I was reasonably sure it was a waste of time, but your safety was at stake, and I couldn’t chance it. If we found out that everything was above board, we would have pulled the flaps and folded our tent.”

Wary of what was coming, President Varrick's face muscles tensed up and his hands clenched.

“NSA found that the communications, both voice and computerized, were encrypted. We knew that Wingate’s business interests were far
-flung, so the fact that he encrypted his communications wasn’t in itself cause for concern. For the last few weeks, the NSA group has been working on decrypting the intercepts.

They completed their work a short while ago. I don’t have the written copies of the intercepts yet, but from what they read to me over the secure line a few minutes ago, there’s no doubt that Mr. Wingate was instrumental
in the attempt on your life,” Allen Thiesse said regretfully.

His world spinning out of control, Daniel Varrick exhaled sharply. Up until this moment, he had taken pride in being the
President of the United States. Varrick had been happy to devote his life to leading the nation. Now the impact of his friend’s betrayal trivialized his past feelings. He wondered why someone so close to him would take the first step down a path that had to end in death and the total destruction of their friendship.

Varrick, the man–not the
President of the United States–had lost someone who had been very important in his life, and that loss was already sinking in. Part of him had died when the fatal round hit Charles Wingate. What was worse, he had no idea why his friend would allow himself to become caught up in such a malignant whirlpool.

Charles Wingate had been part of his life for more years than he could remember. Images of the good times they had shared flashed in and out of his mind’s eye. In spite of how it ended, they would always be friends. Maybe it was better this way, parting as they did. T
hat way there would be no public humiliation or trial. It had all ended with the assassin’s bullet.

Unfortunately, the American people were waiting to hear what had happened at Camp David. The press was running wild.
Those of an assassination conspiracy masterminded by some yet-to-be-named foreign power matched rumors of a palace coup. Daniel Varrick knew that as the elected leader, it was up to him to stabilize the situation. And he had to do that before he took on the personal burdens the day’s events had placed upon him.

The
President looked into the eyes of the man who had dedicated a major part his life to protecting him. “Do you think this is part of a larger conspiracy against the Office of the President?”

Thiesse didn’t pause for a minute. “Yes, sir, I do. I believe when we get the appropriate warrants and search Mr. Wingate’s residence and offices, we’ll find ties to other people who, for whatever reason, adhere to the same beliefs as did Mr. Wingate.”

The President paused to collect his thoughts. After a few minutes, he looked at Thiesse and said, “By charter, I guess the FBI would be carrying the ball in any subsequent investigation into today’s events. Right?”

“Yes, Mr.
President,” Thiesse answered. Although it was the Secret Service’s job to protect the President, it was under the FBI’s jurisdiction to conduct the follow-up investigation.

“I don’t want to go that route. I want someone I know personally to take charge, and that’s you. Have any problem with that, Allen?”

“No, sir.” Thiesse quickly responded to the question.

“In that case, I am ordering a multiagency task force to consist of the FBI, CIA, NSA, IRS, and the Secret Service to conduct an investigation, to be classified at the highest levels and with the tightest need
-to-know, into the conspiracy you feel was, and might still be, in place against me. I want the others involved flushed out. I’m not certain I want a rash of public trials, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Procure the necessary warrants, and secure Wingate’s estate and his offices throughout the country. You’d better have the IRS handle that so we don’t draw attention to this office. NSA can continue assisting you in decryption efforts should they be needed.”

“I’ll get on it right away, Mr.
President,” Thiesse said making notes in his pocket pad on the President's directives.

“Allen, are you confident that Steven Payton and Janet Phillips are not involved in the conspiracy?”

“I am, Mr. President. I’d like not to lose track of them while we continue our investigation into their activities. Considering what you told me, I expect we’ll find that they’ve been telling us the truth all along.”

“Assign a team of agents to protect Mr. Payton and Ms. Phillips until we have the situation under control. They risked their lives when they decided to follow through on whatever it was that Mr. Payton discovered. Let’s see to it that we don’t let them down.

Also, I think it’s only appropriate that I meet both of them before you shuttle them off to some safe house. Please arrange for them to have dinner with me tonight.”

“What do you want to do about the press conference, Mr.
President?” Thiesse asked as he got up to leave the cabin.

“I’d like to go ahead with it, but I doubt you’d let me step outside again until the sniper’s caught. Correct?”

“Right, Mr. President.”

“In that case, why don’t we reschedule the conference for the White House press briefing room tomorrow afternoon at one.”

“That’s fine. Should I tell your press secretary?”

“No. I’ll handle it.”

Thiesse headed for the door, but Daniel Varrick stopped him before he reached it. “Allen, I know that coming over here and telling me about Charlie was damned hard. I want you to know that I appreciate your honesty, and the dedication you’ve demonstrated since you inherited me five years ago.”

Allen nodded his thanks, and left the
President–alone with the responsibilities of the nation and those he shouldered personally.

Epilogue

The man called John Grant parked his car next to the cliff. From the vista point, he had a great view of Deep Creek Lake–so deep, that some parts of its bottom had yet to be mapped. The outcropping projected out over the deep waters of the lake by a good twenty or thirty feet. It was a fitting place for what he had in mind.

He got out of the car and looked about. There were no other cars within sight, no one walking nearby. Grant reached back into the car for his binoculars. It never hurt to be doubly sure.

He carefully scanned the area around the overlook. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he took the rifle out of the trunk of the car. Then he broke down the gun, removing
the telescopic sight from the receiver. He slipped the bolt from the breech and detached the stock from the rest of the rifle.

Each piece he wiped with an oil
-soaked rag, removing his fingerprints along with those of his friend in Florida. He then took the pieces of the weapon and threw them out as far as he could into the lake.

The sniper rifle disappeared with little more than a splash followed by the fifty caliber bullets. Finally, he tossed the cellular phone into the lake. With that done, he walked back to his car, got in, and headed east toward Baltimore. He kept a careful watch on the time, for
John Barron, previously known as John Grant, had an important dinner date to keep with an old friend.

Earlier, he had disposed of the driver’s license, birth certificate, and credit cards made out to John Grant. Those he had burned in a small fire, after which he had buried the ashes. There was nothing left to connect him with the Camp David incident. As a matter of fact, John Grant had
, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist.

About halfway to the city, he pulled in at a popular truck stop. He removed his overnighter from the rear of the car and walked into the rest room. Used to catering to long haul truckers, the truck stop’s men’s room had three shower stalls. John Barron stripped off his field clothes. He then showered
and shaved before donning the Brooks Brothers suit that he took from his suitcase. After weeks in khakis and heavy knit shirts, the silk shirt, tie, and suit felt good.

He drove back to the Baltimore
-Washington International airport and turned in the rental. He left the car-return area, and then crossed the main airport access road to the long-term parking lot, where he placed his bags into the trunk of his car. He paid the parking fees, and then left the airport.

A half hour later, Barron stopped at an empty rest area. He went up to the pay phone, inserted his quarter, and punched in the pager number of his close friend, Bill Parker. If it hadn’t been for Parker’s call warning him about Wingate’s treachery, he’d be spread all over the western Maryland landscape. The response beep from the paging company’s computer signaled that it was time for Barron to enter his phone number.
Done, he hung up the phone and waited.

If everything went as planned, Parker would get back to him as soon as he found a safe phone from which to make the call. If Barron didn’t hear from him in five minutes, something had gone wrong.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Bill Parker felt the pager’s silent vibration, but didn’t make the mistake of glancing down at the unit hanging on his belt. Besides, the only call he’d be making would be to his lawyer.

The FBI had descended on the estate like ants at a picnic. Agents had read Parker his rights,
and then handcuffed him while they tore the place apart. Even if he were lucky and they didn’t find the explosives he’d used to dispatch Grover Albright, there was no way he was going to shake the inevitable conspiracy charges.

John Barron watched as the last seconds ticked by, then started the car. In spite of everything that had taken place, there was nothing he could do for Parker except make certain he got the best attorney money could buy.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Barron eased the car into the traffic. His options
wide open, he decided Montana was nice this time of year. Besides, he knew he could be just about anyone he wanted to be.

.   .   .   .   .   .

One Month Later

In NSA’s Operations Building, Lauren’s phone rang. She listened attentively to the directives from the Headquarters Building office. Then she replaced the receiver in its cradle, got up from her desk, and walked over to the classified storage cabinet.

As always, she carefully entered the combination unlocking the four-drawer file. From within, she removed the folder containing the Cutter intercepts. Leaving the office with the file still in her hand, she went over to a steel door built into the SCIF’s interior wall. Lauren pulled the door toward her, and then dropped the file folder into the chute. She closed the door and returned to her office. On the wall above the door in bold letters were the words CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT DESTRUCTION.

.   .   .   .   .   .

It was a small wedding; the guests were few and select. There were no formal announcements sent out, nor any notices placed in the newspaper. In spite of its size, the marriage of Janet Phillips to Steven Payton was special. After all, it wasn’t every couple that exchanged wedding vows in the presence of the President of the United States.

.  .  .  .  .  .

The cold winter temperatures chilled Allen Thiesse to the bone as he and Mary Neill stood at the entrance to the graveyard. This was the culmination of their investigation into the Committee, its members and operations. Wingate’s computer system had been a royal bitch to crack, but Lauren Woods and her team at the National Security Agency had finally begun making sense out of the limited information they had been able to salvage from the equipment confiscated at the estate.

It was a foregone conclusion that the conspiracy against the Varrick administration went much further than Charles Wingate II. Yet in spite of the recovery of most of the data from the system, the Secret Service was unable to identify any of the other members of the Committee.

They knew the cabal existed, and might still be operational, but nothing they had found pinpointed, much less hinted at, the identities of the remaining members. Even the telephone numbers taken from the intercepts had been a dead end. The calls made to the one cellular number that showed promise also ended abruptly. The phone in question belonged to a pediatric surgeon living in Baltimore County. Apparently the assassin had been able to get hold of a duplicate program chip containing the doctor’s number.

Thiesse only hoped that with the head of the snake
gone, the others would be too disorganized and too afraid of discovery to make another attempt on Daniel Varrick’s life. Thiesse’s real interest was in the identity of the man who had bypassed the best security planning he could devise and fired the shot at the President. If Payton’s unannounced arrival hadn’t thrown off the assassin’s aim, Thiesse would be guarding the Vice President. More likely, Thiesse would have been canned.

Wingate’s records identified the object of his search as John Grant. Thiesse had pulled out all the stops and directed the task force to get a lead on the man. The Office of the
President, without providing any explanation, got into the act, and such diverse organizations as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Defense, CIA, and even the Internal Revenue Service aided Thiesse’s search.

Unfortunately, and in spite of all the law enforcement and investigatory clout, their search yielded nothing on John Grant. The forensics team went over the fire tower looking for any trace evidence that would assist them in identifying the sniper, but found nothing. The fingerprint team took hundreds of
latent fingerprints from Wingate’s estate, but were unable to match any of the prints against known killers. So far, all they knew was that he didn’t pay taxes and he had never been arrested.

A check with Interpol under the Grant pseudonym also turned up negative.  Mary Neill had no idea how much computer time they had expended trying to come up with a lead, any lead, on the man.

To this end, she and Thiesse had driven up to the Pennsylvania town. The agents out of the Philadelphia field office had reported that a John Grant of roughly the same age as the assassin had been baptized in the small parish.

Rather than have the field team interview the minister, Thiesse had decided that he and Mary would make the trip. He’d been in the office too much since the assassination attempt, and the trip would do him good. Besides, he had a gut feeling about this lead.

When Thiesse and Neill got to the church, the ancient cleric only vaguely remembered that the Grant family had been members of the congregation. The wizened old man did recall that part of the family had been buried in the church’s cemetery.

“I think he said the graves were back here,” Mary Neill said as she walked among the marble and stone monuments. Her boss turned down what passed for the next row of gravestones and walked over to where she was standing.

“They must have tried to have some type of arrangement for the graves, but when plots went for a premium, they gave it up.”

Thiesse walked back to the next row of graves behind where Mary Neill was reading the names off the headstones. She had just finished the row she was on when she noticed that Thiesse was standing in front of one headstone, slowly shaking his head.

She didn’t say a word, but went over to where he stood. She read the inscription on the stone: “John Grant” followed by the dates “September 22, 1956 to August 4, 1957”.

Overhead, the church bells tolled their knell. Their search was over.