Like anything else he wanted, Parker requisitioned explosives simply by providing Wingate with a list of whatever he needed, and he always made a point of keeping some C-4 on hand. He had become familiar with the explosive during his time in Vietnam, and was adept at using it. Parker stashed his C-4 in the explosives shed with the dynamite and detonators used to remove tree stumps.
The explosive storage shed was located over a mile from the cluster of estate buildings. Wingate wanted to make sure that if the shed went up, none of the other buildings would be damaged. Parker took one of the golf carts that the staff used to get about, and drove out to the shed. From a special, locked chest, Parker selected a two-inch by three-inch piece of military-grade plastic explosive. He also removed one mil standard blasting cap. He locked the door behind him, and then drove back to his workshop.
In spite of his considerable experience handling explosives, Parker’s attention remained riveted on the workbench and his device. Although it was too soon to introduce the blasting cap into the C‑4, Parker wired it to the male jack that he would later insert into the pager when he was ready to plant the bomb. All kinds of transmitters were in use on the estate. Given the special frequency and equally unique tones, it was unlikely that a random signal would detonate the bomb, but there was no sense in taking any chances. When he was ready to plant the device in Albright’s car, he need only plug the assembly with its blasting cap into the pager-receiver and he’d be ready to go.
CHAPTER 15
October 8th
Allen Thiesse placed his coffee cup on the desk, and then reached for the ringing phone. “Thiesse here,” he said, wedging the handset to his ear. When he heard the caller’s voice, he tensed. “Yes sir, Mr. President.” Normally calls originating from the Oval Office came through the President’s staff.
“Allen, I’d like to take an impromptu trip if you think you can handle the arrangements.”
“Trip, Mr. President?”
“Yes, just across town, so I guess we’ll need the limousine,” Daniel Varrick responded.
With his free hand, Thiesse quickly shuffled through the papers on his desk searching for the President’s daily schedule. “Mr. President, there’s nothing on the schedule.”
“I know, but I want to go over to University Hospital–and I want to do it as quietly as possible. No press, no advance notice, nothing.”
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. President?” If there were, the best place would be the White House’s fully staffed medical facilities.
“No, Allen. I’m fine,” Daniel Varrick answered.
President Varrick had never been one to upset the Secret Service’s well‑oiled procedures without a damned good reason. Thiesse thought about the President’s request, if you could call it that.
No one else knew about the trip across town, which meant that no would‑be assassin could be lying in wait. Besides, the Secret Service had gotten weaned on unscheduled trips during the Clinton administration. Between jogging every morning and the fact that Clinton refused to allow the fact that there were all kinds of kooks out there to change his lifestyle, unexpected trips had become a way of life around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Can you give me an hour, Mr. President? If that’s satisfactory, I think we can get everything in place.”
“That’ll be fine, Allen. Departure around eleven fifteen.”
Thiesse mashed the phone’s flash button, then punched in Mary Neill’s extension. When his ASAIC answered, Thiesse filled her in on the President’s so‑called impromptu trip.
Afterward, Thiesse wondered how the exalted staff would take the news that their boss had sidestepped the entire executive office organization and initiated the local trip himself. What the hell, Thiesse thought. After all, the man is the President of the United States, and if he wants to take a low-key trip to a hospital, PPD would salute and get things moving.
As soon as she hung up the phone, Mary Neill notified the D.C. police that the President would be motorcading across town. She then notified the agents responsible for the motorcade vehicles as well as the White House garage. The wheels were in motion.
. . . . . .
Allen Thiesse picked up the microphone and depressed the push‑to‑talk button. Since Thiesse was riding with the President, his communications held priority over those of any vehicle in the motorcade. He directed his transmission to the White House Communications Center.
“Bookstore, this is Boxer. We’re approaching Band-Aid.” He knew his advance team at University Hospital were monitoring the motorcade’s radio traffic and prepared to receive the entourage.
In addition to the Presidential limousine, the motorcade consisted of six other cars. A marked D.C. police car led the procession. The second car, a spare limousine, carried the rest of Thiess’s on duty PPD team and the President’s doctor. Next was the Presidential limo. Directly behind it came a follow-up vehicle carrying the agents with their shift leader.
The last car in the “secure package”–the first five vehicles in the motorcade–was the control car. In addition to the President’s top staff, it carried the naval officer responsible for the highly classified SIOP–Single Integrated Operational Plan–that could toss the nation into global thermonuclear war. Even the warming of the Cold War didn’t alleviate the necessity of always having the “football” with the President.
The final two vehicles in Thiess’s hastily thrown together caravan were the War Wagon, filled with Counter Assault Team members, and the police tail car. This assemblage was typical of the myriad personnel who traveled whenever the nation’s chief executive hit the road. As the President had directed, there were no staff or press cars. The motorcade was as compact as possible.
Thiesse, seated in his usual position in the right front seat, felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face the President.
“When we get to the hospital, Allen, I’d like to go right up to the ward. Since we’re not expected, the hospital staff won’t have time to go overboard.”
“We’ll do the best we can, Mr. President.” As the motorcade reached the hospital’s main entrance, Thiesse wondered what had made the President shuffle his schedule for the unplanned trip.
The advance team had done their job. The coast was clear from the front entrance all the way through the lobby to the elevators. One by one, the agents responsible for each segment of the path gave Thiesse the all clear. As the elevator neared its destination, the agents who preceded the President indicated that the floor was secure. Thiesse mashed the button on the control panel, opening the doors.
The President of the United States walked over to the nurses’ desk. Jaws dropped in recognition.
“I’d like to speak with Melissa Johnson, please,” Daniel Varrick told the attending nurse. Caught totally off guard, the nurse led the President and his Secret Service entourage down the long corridor. Almost at the end of the hall, she turned, passing through double doors and into the ward.
Melissa Johnson was a towheaded youngster about seven years old. They found her lying in the starchy white bed, tubes snaking from beneath the covers.
“Melissa,” the President said. “I saw you on TV and I understand you wanted to talk to me.” A smile took over the little girl’s face.
Gently, the President sat on the edge of the bed. “It looks like we’ve got too many people here to suit you, haven’t we?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, Varrick turned to Thiesse. “I think I’m plenty safe for the time being, don’t you, Mr. Thiesse? Why don’t we give the young lady some space?”
Thiesse signaled the agents to move further away from the bed.
For nearly twenty minutes the President of the United States was engaged in deep conversation with the child. Finally, President Varrick rose from the hospital bed. He started to walk toward where Thiesse and the agents were waiting, then turned and went back to Melissa’s bed.
Thiesse watched as Daniel Varrick leaned over the little girl. Hesitantly, her pencil�
�thin arms came up, encircling the President’s neck. As they hugged, Thiesse was certain he saw tears in the President’s eyes.
A profound silence permeated the elevator as the group made its way back to the limousine.
“She’s dying,” Daniel Varrick said. “Leukemia. I saw her on the morning news today. When the host asked her what she wanted to do more than anything else, you know what she said?”
Thiesse shook his head.
“She said she wanted to talk to me about all the children in the world. Couldn’t very well turn her down, could we?”
CHAPTER 16
October 9th
If the murder was going to take place on November 1, Payton and Janet had less than a month to fill in the puzzle’s missing pieces and alert the authorities.
“If you’re right, Steve, then where do we go from here?” Janet asked.
“We need to find out who the target is and warn him. To make matters worse, someone from Wingate Farms picked the killer up, which ties this whole mess to our neighbor.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back to Wingate Farms and take a look around. Maybe I’ll learn something that will help us put all this together. If worse comes to worse, and I don’t make any headway, we’ll go to the police with whatever evidence we have.”
Janet thought for a few minutes. “Maybe Shangri‑La’s a boat. Tomorrow, I’ll access the Coast Guard registry and call the Chesapeake Bay marinas to see if anyone owns a boat named the Shangri‑La.
Meanwhile, for God’s sake don’t take any chances. I searched the major publications for all references to Charles Wingate. He’s an extremely wealthy and very powerful man, with connections all the way up to the White House. He’s very secretive and doesn’t like anyone snooping into his affairs. Whatever’s going on, it was probably hatched by one of his people. I’ll bet he knows nothing about it.”
Janet walked over to where Payton stood near the kitchen door. She put her arms around him and said, “Be careful.” Her eyes told him everything else.
“I will. I promise.”
Janet kissed him, and then watched as he left the house. As Payton pulled the Jaguar out of the barn and headed up the drive, she wondered if he’d be able to keep that promise.
Payton followed the same route they had taken the other day, across the back roads. When he arrived at the estate, he circled it once before he decided it was safe enough to stop the car and take a look around. Before getting out to reconnoiter the estate, Payton wanted to make sure that no one was working nearby. Wherever he looked, the fields were empty of men and equipment. He got out of the Jaguar, but left the driver’s door open. That way, if anyone suddenly appeared, it would appear he was only making a brief rest stop.
All along the right side of the road, the extent of Wingate Farms was evident. Rolling green pastures, each dotted with small, fenced‑in stands of trees, extended from the roadside as far as the eye could see. A culvert separated the country road from the farm’s well‑tended grounds.
About ten feet in from the edge of the road stood the first of two four rail white fences. Fifteen feet away, a second, inner fence ran parallel to the first one. From where he stood, it appeared that the fences traced the estate’s entire boundary. Payton remembered that some thoroughbred farms used twin fences to keep the passersby away from the horses, and maybe that was Wingate’s objective too. On the other hand, although the fields were well cared for and the fence lines trimmed to perfection, there were no horses in sight. Payton wondered why anyone would go to all the trouble of installing two fences when there wasn’t anything to protect.
Payton noticed that the fences ran in straight shots, as if the architect had taken care to keep the fence line as straight as possible except where it entered the corners of the property. Small beds of well‑maintained hyssop and chickweed dotted the area between the two fences. Each bed was mulched with a medium sized chip, and set off from the surrounding grass by pressure‑treated timbers.
Payton walked over to the first fence and rested his arms on the top rail. Off in the distance, he could make out the outline of the mansion. Payton slipped between the lower and middle rails of the outer fence and into the clear zone.
The thought that there had to be a logical explanation for the double fencing that he was unable to fathom nagged him as he made his way along the estate’s perimeter. Suddenly, Payton got the feeling that he was being watched. But when he turned around to see if anyone had stopped on the road or if one of the estate’s employees had come up behind him, no one was there. In spite of his senses, Payton felt another’s presence.
After a few minutes, he realized that there was nothing to be gained by hanging about the estate. Other than the fact that Wingate took excellent care of his property, Payton had learned nothing. Frustrated, he back climbed through the outer fence. Lost in thought, he returned to the car, started the engine, and fastened his seat belt.
As Payton drove back to the farm, his gut feelings told him that the hit man was working directly for Wingate. He needed more information, but he had no idea how to go about getting it.
As the Jaguar disappeared down the road, several ultra-quiet motors, each controlling a miniature closed circuit television camera installed in the flower- beds, began to hum. Slowly, the periscoping miniature black cameras that had followed Payton's every move disappeared back into the ground.
CHAPTER 17
October 11th
“Something’s come up. Got time to discuss it?” Parker asked his boss. He hesitated, unsure whether Wingate would want to talk in the library or go elsewhere.
“Of course. How about a walk? The weather’s beautiful and I’ve been at it since early this morning. The break will do me good. I’ll meet you near the barn–say fifteen minutes.” Wingate hung up the phone.
The financier had been busy reviewing the performance of the Wingate Trust, and it looked like another banner year. They had exceeded their sales projections by nearly twenty percent, which for them meant their profits would be up by at least that amount. Wingate never countenanced increased sales without a commensurate increase in profitability. He flipped the financial report closed and locked the document in his desk drawer, safe from any prying eyes. Satisfied that everything was in order, he left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, Wingate met his security chief outside the massive barn. Parker would have liked a cigarette, but Wingate didn’t tolerate cigarette smoking. Yet he had no qualms about lighting up a Havana cigar from his private reserve. His boss wore casual slacks, a dress shirt with an ascot, and a pair of Wellingtons. Even when he didn’t expect visitors, Wingate’s affectation was evident. They walked until both were sure they were out of earshot of anybody.
Then Wingate got down to business. “What’s the problem? Somebody stealing tools again?” Wingate joked.
Parker thought about a snappy reply, then decided discretion was definitely the better part of valor. “If you recall I changed the operation of the perimeter system over to incorporate the closed circuit television equipment that we bought last year.”
Wingate interjected, “You mean the cameras hidden in the flower beds? The ones that pop up like a jack‑in‑the‑box when someone trips one of the sensors?”
“One and the same.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The perimeter intrusion detection system on the eastern section of the estate detected a trespasser two days ago. When the seismic sensors tripped, the main computer switched the closed circuit television on and activated the system’s videotape recorder. I periodically request a printout of all alarms. When I saw the number of alarms coming from that sector, I played back the videotape to see what was going on.”
“What did you find?” Wingate asked, stopping to face Parker.
“Someone approached the outer fence.”
“But coming near the outer fence wouldn’t set off the alarms, would it?” Wingate interrupted.
&nb
sp; “No, but climbing over the outer fence did. The guy didn’t try to approach the estate, but walked between the two fences.”
“Is that all?” Wingate stepped off in the direction they had been heading.
“He seemed to be looking for something. After a few minutes he went back to his car and drove off.”
“That’s nothing to get excited about. He may simply have lost a hub cap.”
“Possibly, but I ran a check on him anyway. There’s too much going on right now to assume that this is innocent.”
Wingate paused to think about what Parker had told him. He was right; the Committee did have too much going on to tolerate any outside interest. “Our visitor, who is he?”
Parker opened a small pad he kept in his shirt pocket. He referred to his notes for a few seconds. “His name is Steven Payton. Came into Pine Lakes a couple of weeks ago with a woman, Janet Phillips. They rented the old Stewart place a few miles from here.”
Charles Wingate turned toward his security chief. “Any reason to believe he’s FBI or CIA?”
“No, but I’m not positive that he’s not connected with one of the alphabet soup agencies. I ran a check on him, and from all appearances he’s a Baltimore lawyer taking some kind of break. I even had our people visit his ex-wife. They don’t stay in touch, and she thought he was still in Baltimore. But that’s not significant by itself. I had his office checked out, and no one’s seen our Mr. Payton for a few days. On the surface, he checks out fine, but I don’t like it. Why would a small‑time Baltimore lawyer suddenly lock up his office, effectively shutting down his law practice, and come to Pine Lakes? It doesn’t make sense.”
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 16
