President Varrick clasped Wingate’s hand in his. The warmth of his handshake and the glint of his hazel eyes signaled his joy at seeing his old friend again. “Charles, it’s been too long since we’ve had a chance to sit down and shoot the bull. Oops, probably shouldn’t have said that out here,” Daniel Varrick said looking around to see who might be within earshot. “I could find myself being quoted on the seven o’clock news. Come in.” The President of the United States stood aside allowing his guest to precede him.
Wingate thought the Oval Office always seemed smaller in real life than on television. Maybe it was the slightly domed ceiling with the bas‑relief Presidential seal that made the room look larger when captured by the television cameras. To the right of the door stood the President's desk, chair, and credenza. Like many of his predecessors, Daniel Varrick elected to use the historic Resolute desk. A gift from Queen Victoria, the desk had been presented to President Franklin Pierce by the British monarch.
As far as he could tell, Daniel Varrick really hadn’t made many changes in the furnishing of his office since his election. The gold draperies and white carpeting were still there. Of course the two flags were in their positions alongside the credenza. The American flag was on the credenza’s right side while the flag of the President of the United States stood on the left.
An eerie feeling came over Wingate as he looked out the green laminate bullet-resistant windows behind the credenza and across the White House lawn. The green tint served as a constant reminder of the perils that went with the job Daniel Varrick had sworn to perform to the best of his ability.
Wingate started toward one of the chairs next to the President's desk until Varrick motioned him toward the office’s sitting area–the latter consisting of two facing couches separated by a small oval coffee table. After the men sat, the President asked, “How about some coffee? Or something stronger?”
“Coffee would be fine, thanks. But no decaf,” Wingate added as an afterthought. “The last thing I need is to fall asleep here.”
The President laughed. “That’s right you’ve wanted a fair number of jobs, but never this one. Can’t blame you. William H. Taft called the Oval Office “The loneliest place in the World”. I guess it is, unless you include the Kremlin.” The President reached under the end table to the right of the couch. He uncradled the telephone handset, punched a button on the comm console, and then spoke briefly.
Over the years, each man had found his road to success. Wingate had inherited a small but respectable fortune from his late father. He had taken the money, and done exactly what his father had told him to do-he invested it wisely. Slowly the fortune grew.
First it increased from astute investments in the stock market. Later his investments earned an even greater return as the budding young companies, which grew as a result of Wingate seed money, went public. Each public offering repaid the firm’s initial investors at least fifty times over. As always, the Wingate Trust was at the head of the line.
In spite of Wingate’s financial success, fate had dealt the man a tough hand. First, his only son had died in Vietnam in the latter days of the war. The President saw first hand the toll that the boy’s death had taken on his chief supporter. Yet he was powerless to ease his friend’s pain.
The death of their only child had a profound effect on Wingate’s wife, Joanna. After the funeral, she relinquished her right to live, even withdrawing from the various charities that she had so fervently supported. Instead, she spent more and more time at the estate–a virtual recluse. Before her son’s death, she had been a vibrant woman, eager to take on new challenges. Afterward she became visibly older and paler. Within two years, Charles Wingate suffered another body blow: the loss of his beloved wife to a heart attack.
Both politically and financially, Charles Wingate was a very powerful and extremely wealthy man. In spite of it all, he could not bring back his son or stop Joanna’s downhill slide. He could influence the nation’s choice for the presidency, and his financial empire allowed him to make charitable donations of a million dollars without a second thought. Yet feelings of frustration tormented him at every turn. It was the irony of life–fate gave you so many material things, then it took the two people away who meant everything to you–swiftly and without recourse.
The two men had always shared a close friendship. After Joanna’s death, however their relationship had grown stronger. In spite of his political commitments, Daniel Varrick was there to offer support to his old friend. Wingate often thought that without Varrick’s friendship he would never have made it through the loss of his family. They made it a point to meet at least once a month informally no matter what else was happening. Even after Varrick reached the White House, they continued their monthly get togethers.
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of their coffee. The steward from the White House mess came in and placed a silver tray on the dark wood table. The tray held a carafe of coffee, spoons, and two cups with the Presidential seal, sweetener and cream. “Should I serve the coffee, Mr. President?” the steward asked.
“No, thank you. We’ll be fine,” Daniel Varrick replied. Even the White House mess personnel were treated with uncommon respect. As the man left the room, the President reached for the carafe.
Charles Wingate chuckled over the President of the United States pouring his coffee. Daniel Varrick would never consider letting the trappings of the Oval Office get in the way of their relationship.
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 kin
d 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.
[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.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 3
