“What about the woman?” Wingate asked.
“She’s some sort of computer consultant. It doesn’t add up, and I don’t like him snooping around the estate.”
“I agree. We don’t need anyone sticking his nose into our business right now. If we can’t tie him to any of the spook outfits, fine. If something about him comes up or he keeps snooping around, then we’ll go from there. Meanwhile keep a close eye on our Mr. Payton and his friend.”
“How close?”
“Real close.” Wingate’s voice was frigid.
. . . . . .
Payton found Janet waiting for him when he got back to the farm. No sooner had he entered the kitchen than she was all over him with questions.
“Find out anything?”
“No. Wingate Farms looks like any other well‑tended horse farm, with one exception.”
“What?”
“No horses. I didn’t see a single horse the entire time I was there. No hay, no signs of any animals. I didn’t even see a pile of manure–anywhere.”
“They could have been in another pasture,” Janet suggested.
“I drove around the whole place: no horses, no corn, as a matter of fact no crops–period.”
“Maybe it’s a tax shelter.”
“Even a tax shelter’s got to be growing something. The more I see of our mysterious neighbor, the more I think he’s in this up to his ears. There’re too many unexplained things going on–all related one way or the other to Charles Wingate,” Payton said emphatically.
“Now, all you have to do is prove it...” Janet replied. “...and that may be a lot harder.”
As Janet left the room, Payton was sitting at the kitchen table contemplating a spot on the ceiling, lost in deep thought.
CHAPTER 18
October 14th
Parker strode down the hall toward the billiard room. He was glad that Wingate didn’t want to meet in the mansion’s trophy room. Charles Wingate prided himself on his big game hunting safaris.
When the local government outlawed the taking of elephant and rhinoceros, Wingate hunted with one of the gangs of poachers that traveled secretly into the major game preserves, killing whatever animals they came for and getting out one step ahead of the game wardens. Even after the Kenyan government mounted a major offensive, putting an end to the poaching, Wingate found a big game park in Texas where, for the right price, he could still hunt whatever exotic animals he wanted.
Meetings in the trophy room always seemed to have an underlying tone, one Parker didn’t like. Wingate seemed to be saying, “See what happens if you don’t do it my way. There’s always space on my trophy wall for another head.” Of course the old man never would be so crass as to spell it out in so many words, but Parker got the message nonetheless.
As Parker entered the room, Charles Wingate III was practicing bank shots. “Come in, Bill...and please close the door,” Wingate called. Parker closed the door, and then took a seat at a stool in the corner of the room not far from the billiard table. He waited for Wingate to begin, but suspected he already knew the subject.
“Mr. Albright is due to arrive here this afternoon–ostensibly to discuss his reservations about the Committee’s plans. I believe he actually thinks that he can force a change in our course of action.”
Wingate paused to see if Parker was going to comment. When Parker remained silent, Wingate continued. “I presume that your plans with respect to Mr. Albright are ready for implementation?”
“I’m only waiting for your final approval.”
Wingate tried banking the three-ball. The cue ball traversed the table, tapped the rubber and then caromed into the three-ball, dropping it into the side pocket.
“Go ahead.”
Parker left the mansion and returned to the work area in the basement of the guesthouse. After unlocking the cabinet that contained the radio-controlled detonator with its transmitter and miscellaneous parts, he installed the battery in the pager unit. Before inserting the mercury fulminate blasting cap into the C‑4, Parker rechecked all his connections.
Everything tested out fine. He switched the unit on, pressed the reset button, and inserted the male jack from the blasting cap assembly into the pager’s jack. The tools of Albright’s imminent demise were arrayed on the workbench in front of him.
. . . . . .
At the appointed hour, Bill Parker noted Grover Albright’s presence. None of the Committee members liked keeping Charles Wingate waiting, and Albright apparently had no intention of further annoying the Chairman.
Shortly after Albright’s arrival, Bill Parker went around to the rental car Albright used to get from the airport to the estate. Before approaching the vehicle, he looked about. There was no one in sight, and no one doing yard work near the spot where Albright had left the car.
Parker made an additional check, then quickly opened the car and slid the bomb under the driver’s seat. His total time in the car amounted to less than five seconds, and he was certain no one saw him. With everything set, he returned to his office and waited for Albright to leave.
His plan was basically simple. He would follow Albright to the airport, detonating the explosive device before Albright got out of the car. The resultant detonation and fire would throw the authorities into confusion. First the locals wouldn’t be able to tell if the explosion resulted from careless handling of gasoline. The return lot had at least four pumps used to refill the tanks of the returned cars.
Once they ruled out an accident, they’d still have to wait for a detailed lab analysis before they could begin to figure out who the intended target was. The lab analysis would be further hampered once the fire department hosed down the entire area. Every cop knew, from his earliest days as a rookie, to “preserve the scene of the crime”. That was hard to do when the fire department flushed away all the evidence.
Less than three quarters of an hour later, Grover Albright was on his way back to the airport. Wingate’s chief of security duly noted his departure on one of the closed- circuit television monitors located on the security panel in his office. There was only one way back to the airport serving the Baltimore area. Parker could take his time.
Keeping his surveillance loose, Parker tailed Albright as he made his way back to the airport. Part of that trip was across country roads, and Parker didn’t want Albright getting suspicious because he saw someone from the estate following him.
As the two cars neared the airport, Parker could risk moving in closer, certain that Albright would not notice the nondescript car with all the other traffic approaching the airport. As expected, Albright dutifully followed the signs for rental car returns. Parker watched as Albright pulled into a line of cars waiting processing.
As soon as Albright turned into the rental return area, Parker pulled off the access road and into a parking lot designated for airport employees. He wouldn’t be there long. From the lot, he had a clear view of everything taking place across the road. When Parker was certain that no one else was in the immediate area, he placed the transmitter on the car seat next to him, and turned on the master toggle switch powering up the transmitter. When he pushed the transmit button, the unit would send out the signal that would end Albright’s life. Parker checked the area a second time, then hit the switch.
Inside the miniature push‑button switch, two contacts met, allowing current from the battery to flow into the alarm system transmitter. The transmitter, in turn, sent out a four watt encoded signal to the paging receiver positioned under Albright’s seat. The receiver decoded the signal and verified that all the tones matched those in its memory.
The match made, it sent an electrical current to the circuitry that normally powered the tiny beeper. Since Parker had removed the audible alarm, the current passed directly into the mercury-fulminate blasting cap, which exploded, detonating the C‑4 plastic explosive. All this took place in less than a half a second.
The force of the explosion blew out the car windows, scattering
glass for a hundred yards in each direction. Given the amount of plastic explosive used in fashioning the bomb, a significant amount of shrapnel whirled through the rental car like a high-speed tornado. From every angle, countless pieces of glass and shrapnel pierced Albright’s body. Less than a third of a second later, the detonation threw Albright’s head forward into the steering wheel, crushing his skull.
An unwilling puppet of the explosion, Albright’s body hit the steering wheel with such force that the wheel broke into several jagged spikes. Each penetrated his chest; one pierced his heart. In fact, if one were timing the death from the time that the security man’s finger hit the switch, it would only have been a matter of a few seconds. Very few men died that fast.
Even after Albright’s heart stopped beating, the explosion continued ripping through the vehicle, finally reaching the half‑empty gas tank. The tank’s vapors erupted in a massive secondary explosion, turning what was left of the car into a brilliant fireball and scorching everything around it.
The ground below quickly heated to over a thousand degrees, changing the black‑topped pavement into a hot, gummy mess. The inferno further destroyed the car, its occupant, and any evidence that might have remained after the bomb’s detonation.
Parker heard the sirens as the fire and police emergency response teams converged on the conflagration. Carefully, he placed the detonator on the floor behind the front seat, and then covered it with a newspaper. He shifted the transmission selector into drive, and began the trip back to the estate, careful not to exceed the posted speed limit. He didn’t want to break any laws.
CHAPTER 19
October 15th
Grant returned to the colonel's house shortly after 3 P.M. on the appointed day. As he pulled into the driveway, the colonel came out of the house to meet him.
“How was the trip?”
“Fine. I decided to drive rather than fly–less questions that way.”
“When did you hit the road?”
“Three days ago, and I took my time getting here,” Grant said as the two started toward the house. Grant appreciated the small talk, but he was anxious to see what the colonel had for him.
His entire plan hinged on the rifle. As long as the colonel delivered, Grant could go ahead making his arrangements. He’d remain on schedule. If not, he’d have to reevaluate the entire mission, placing the schedule in jeopardy. The colonel, sensing his friend’s eagerness said, “Why don’t we go downstairs. I think there’s something you want to see.”
Grant followed the man through the house and down the stairs leading to the basement work area. The colonel had a six-foot by three-foot Formica-topped folding table set up in the middle of the room. A black cloth covered the table and hung over its sides. In the center, a sinister-looking rifle sat poised on two bipod legs.
The rifle was unlike anything that Grant had ever seen before. A set of spring-loaded bipod legs provided support for the barrel. The springs made it possible to keep the rifle’s legs tight against the weapon when the gun was transported. A rectangular frame enclosed the trigger guard, the rear of the frame also serving as a handgrip. The frame was the third leg of the tripod. It extended from the handgrip to a position a few inches behind the rifle’s front legs.
The overall length of the rifle was about five feet, including the three-foot barrel and the three‑sectioned rectangular muzzle break. Mounted on the top of the rifle’s receiver was a black matte scope with built‑in, flip‑up lens caps. For obvious reasons, there were no iron sights. Only the scope would be used.
A black nylon webbed sling ran from the end of the stock to a point behind the muzzle break where it attached to the barrel. The rear of the stock consisted of an oval piece of metal curved to fit comfortably against the shooter’s shoulder and covered with recoil absorbent rubber. Emerging out of the right side of the gun, a three-inch long bolt with knurled handle provided the means of loading the weapon. A matte black finish made the gun harder to see in the field. A dozen fifty-caliber cartridges, each over six inches long and an inch wide at the base, sat on the table next to the weapon.
John Grant walked over to the table to inspect this instrument of death. As he did so, the armorer explained the merits of his latest creation to him.
“Ironically, this is a counter-sniper rifle that has been specially developed around the Browning BMG‑2 fifty caliber machine gun bullet. The British Special Air Service has used the gun in Northern Ireland, where it’s been effective in the counter sniper role. The manufacturer selected the BMG‑2 round because of its accuracy and muzzle velocity, 2,950 feet per second.
My tests on the range have shown that the bullet will penetrate four inches of steel plate or fourteen inches of concrete. The round’s maximum distance of travel is about eight miles, but keep in mind that although it’ll go that far, its maximum effective range is three thousand yards. Considering what you told me the last time you were down, it’ll easily meet your needs.”
Grant hefted the rifle, concerned that its weight might present a problem. He was still unsure how far he’d have to hike with the gun before he got to his hide. As he placed the rifle back on the table, he said, “It feels like it weighs about twenty pounds.”
“Close...actually twenty‑six. It shouldn’t be a problem in the field.”
The colonel went on with his lecture. “If your distance to target is under a thousand yards, you’ll be able to place your shots in a two‑inch group. On the range, I’ve held five rounds to a two‑inch group at three hundred yards. If you go out to the maximum distance, say around a mile and a half, you should be able to achieve a six‑inch grouping. By the way, that’s better than the gun could do when it got here. I made some modifications that improved its accuracy.”
The old man went over to his desk, shuffled through a stack of papers, most of which were targets peppered with half‑inch holes, and extracted the targets he had used in testing the rifle. Both showed a series of five half‑inch holes punched through their centers. He handed the targets to Grant.
Grant quickly glanced at the targets, checking to see how many shots were in the black. The grouping also concerned him; the rifle needed to be accurate as well as consistent. He didn’t expect that he’d be able to get off a second shot, and that made the first critical. If he aimed for the center of mass, the chest area, he needed to be absolutely certain that his round would hit his target’s torso. The targets looked real good. Had the colonel been shooting at a person, any one shot would have been fatal. Grant had the weapon he needed. Handing the targets back, he said, “I’ve fired the Browning fifty caliber, and that thing jumped all over the place. What kind of recoil should I expect from this?”
“I designed a custom muzzle break specifically for this application. Incorporated into the muzzle break is a suppressor. The suppressor is not going to mute the noise of the shot, but it will substantially reduce it.
You’ll find the recoil is comparable to that of a twelve-gauge shotgun. Besides, if your first shot’s on target, it won’t make much difference. But should you miss on the first round, or elect to fire off a second shot, then the recoil issue could be significant. I think you’ll find that the gun doesn’t kick like any other high powered weapon–it sort of pushes against your shoulder.”
The colonel went on. “I filled the area between the barrel and the stock with a special glass bead resin. It’ll keep any minor bumps on the stock from being transferred to the barrel and throwing off your shot. The barrel is an eight-groove premium-grade match barrel, more than adequate for your needs. For this application, it’s a one‑in‑fifteen-inch twist.”
Picking up the gun, and opening the breech, he said, “The gun’s a breech-loader and takes a single round at a time. I could have gone with either a bolt action or semiautomatic design that could handle more than a round at a time, but you insisted on first‑shot accuracy. So a single shot rifle will be fine. From what you said about this op, you’ll be lucky to get off the first sho
t, much less a second.”
Grant picked up the rifle. The quality of the weapon, coupled with the man’s craftsmanship, was indeed impressive. Again the colonel had come through. He had taken a commercially available high-powered rifle and modified it for enhanced accuracy at a range greater than its original designers had ever conceived of.
“These are the ten rounds I assembled for you,” the colonel said, picking up one of the special bullets. “I fired one at a side of pork from five hundred yards, and blew it to pieces.” The man paused smiling. “It also didn’t do much for the tree that I had the meat nailed to either. The special bullets, the ones that emulate the Glaser slug, have the same characteristics and will follow the same trajectory as the standard loads. I assume you’ll verify that for yourself.”
Grant nodded.
The colonel explained how to break the rifle down for cleaning and routine maintenance. He didn’t expect Grant to fire the gun more than twice–once to test it, and once when he had the quarry in his sights.
“The optic is an Austrian, Swarovski Optics, and built to NATO specs, a superb scope. It’s got a 10 power built-in auto‑ranging cam matched for these custom rounds,” the colonel said, gesturing toward where the fifty caliber bullets lay on the black cloth.
“Thing’s unsurpassed for both brightness and resolution. You can adjust the point of impact from fifteen hundred feet on up to a mile. I’ve sighted it in for fifteen hundred yards. When you test fire it, you can make whatever final adjustments you need.”
The colonel picked up an aluminum case, and then placed it next to the rifle.
“This,” he said gesturing toward the case, “is a laser rangefinder. When you set up for the kill, sight the rangefinder on your target, or anything at the same distance, and then turn it on. The range appears in the window at the top.”
“What’s the error on the laser unit?” Grant asked.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 17
