“Less than a foot. It’s the most accurate device available. Triangulation using binoculars would have produced an error of at least fifteen yards. Even an optical rangefinder would have been good for an error of several yards. Besides, they’re so damned big. The laser unit’s the best, and it’ll do the job you want done.”
After the sniper rifle was back in its carrying case, the bullets stowed with it, Grant turned to the colonel. “It’s a great piece, perfect for the job I need done.”
Handing Grant another plastic box, the colonel said, “Here’s a box of regular fifty caliber ammo. Use ‘em for practice. However, be sure that you fire at least one of my hand-loaded rounds before you use the gun. That way, you’ll know what to expect. Before you go, there are a few other points I need to mention.”
The two men went back upstairs to the living room. After they were seated, the colonel began.
“When you sight in the rifle, try to find some place that matches the climatic conditions you expect on the day of the hit.”
“Why?” Grant asked.
“Because temperature and barometric pressure, which normally wouldn’t faze you at a shorter range, can give you a lot of grief when you’re target’s nearly a mile away. You could go through the trouble of calculating the correction factors, but it’s a helluva lot easier to do the sight either at the same place you’ll be shooting or in similar conditions.”
Grant’s mind whirled. “Forget the site. I’ll sight it in somewhere close by.”
“And when you do, don’t forget to take into account the effect of bullet spin.”
“What?” Grant asked. His sniper experience had always been at considerably shorter distances, where spin wasn’t a problem.
“At fifteen hundred yards, you’ll need to correct by two and half minutes of angle. So adjust your sights thirty inches to the left.”
Grant nodded, then asked, “Anything else?”
“No. That’s pretty much it. Just remember what I told you.”
“How much do I owe you for all this?” Grant asked.
“Let’s stick with the eighty‑five hundred we agreed on.”
Grant counted out ten thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills that he had taken from a leather case. Turning to his old friend, he said, “I heard that the weather in Las Vegas is superb at this time of the year. Put the extra bucks on black for me.”
When they got to the car, Grant placed the rifle case and ancillary boxes in the trunk. He closed the lid and checked to make sure that it was locked securely. As he turned around, the colonel reached over and clasped his forearm. “John, I sense that this mission’s a big one. You know I never ask what you’re doing, and I never stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I have a strange feeling about this contract. It’s not like any of your other assignments. Be careful.”
As he got into the car, Grant said, “Thanks for the concern. I’ll be in touch.”
As Grant’s car headed down the road, a strange feeling of déjà vu settled over the colonel. The old soldier stood silently watching until the car was out of sight. Then, with a sigh, he walked back toward the house.
PART Two
CHAPTER 20
October 17th
Payton couldn’t recall when he first knew that something definitely wasn’t right. Maybe it was when he began to notice the omnipresent Wingate Farms trucks and cars, or it might have been the feelings that he and Janet shared of not being alone when no one else was in sight.
Either way, Payton felt a new and unsettling presence. First he thought that his imagination was the culprit, playing games with his already paranoid mind. After all, he had been careful in his explorations into Wingate’s affairs. No one at the estate had any reason to be interested in him or Janet. Of that he was certain. Yet this feeling of being watched persisted, gnawing at his subconscious.
Payton's suspicions took on more significance when, after leaving the farm for a quick trip into town, he noticed a beige Ford pickup trailing behind him. He clearly remembered checking the county road before pulling out of the driveway; there hadn’t been any cars or trucks in sight.
Nonetheless, a half mile down the road, he saw the Ford as clear as day in his rearview mirror. It followed him all the way into town, speeding up and slowing down so that Payton was always within sight. He thought about abruptly turning off the main road to see what actions his shadow would take, but he didn’t want to chance alerting the other driver. He’d continue into Pine Lakes and see what developed.
As he pulled up in front of the country market, Payton checked the rearview mirror; the Ford was gone. Carefully, he looked up and down the main drag, but there was no sign of his shadow. Shaking his head, he went into the store and got the order that Janet had called in the day before. Once the clerk loaded the supplies into the car’s trunk, Payton left Pine Lakes, taking the same route home. After a mile or so, he checked his rearview mirror, but saw only the empty macadam road.
“Christ, I’m getting paranoid” he thought as he drove up the country road. It was ridiculous to think that Charles Wingate III would bother having him followed. No one at Wingate’s knew, or even suspected, that anyone was on to them. Then Payton caught a glimpse of the truck–the same beige pickup that had traced his steps into town. Payton's paranoia returned with a vengeance.
. . . . . .
The next morning, Payton ate breakfast with Janet. After they finished, he cleared the dishes, while Janet read the previous day’s paper.
“Hear what happened at the airport?” she asked, folding the paper in half.
“No, what?”
“Some car caught fire and blew up.”
“Stuff like that’s always happening. They don’t make them the way they used to,” Steve said jokingly. “Anybody hurt?”
“The driver–he was killed. It says here that the car was a dark blue Lincoln Town Car driven by Grover Albright, the head of Worldwide Agricultural Products Incorporated.”
Payton snatched the paper from her hands.
“Jesus Christ! That’s my friend’s father!” Payton exclaimed as he scanned the article. The story said that Grover Albright had been in Baltimore on a business trip. For reasons not yet ascertained, Albright’s rental car had exploded upon his return to the airport.
“I’ve got to get a hold of Mark. He’s probably devastated,” Steve said tossing the paper aside. He briefly explained that he had known Mark since college, and over the last few months the two of them had worked together on some of Worldwide Agricultural Product’s legal business.
Payton picked up the telephone handset. “The damned thing’s dead.” Now he’d have to go into town to call his friend.
“I’m going into Pine Lakes and find a phone that works. I’ll be back...”
“Wait a minute, Steve. I’ll go with you.” As afterthought, Janet added. “I’ll drive.”
En route, Payton decided that the nearest phone booth was at the interstate exit. As soon as they pulled up, Payton was out of the car. Janet watched as he quickly punched in the numbers, spoke for a few seconds, and then hung up. Obviously, Mark Albright wasn’t in. Payton walked back to the car, a puzzled look on his face.
“What happened? Janet asked as soon as he got back in.
“Mark wasn’t in, but he’d left me a message. He told his secretary to tell me to check my mail.” Payton thought for a few minutes.
“Are we going back to Baltimore?” Janet asked.
“No. Let’s head back to the house.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet. But I think I know a way to find out.”
As soon as they reached the farm, Payton led Janet into the dining room.
“Is this all set up?” Payton asked gesturing toward the computer. “I mean can I use it to access UniNet?”
“Sure, but I’ll have to switch the modem over from the Telco lines to the cellular system. Why?”
“Please,” Steve impl
ored her. “I’ll explain later.”
Janet disconnected the cable that led from the computer’s serial port to the landline modem. Then she connected the cellular modem to the computer. She powered up the computer, and then initiated the call‑up protocol to UniNet.
“I’ve got comm with UniNet,” she said as she slipped out of the chair.
With Janet hovering behind him, Payton sat down, and then executed the command sequence to access his E‑mail account. A message waited for him.
“Just what I thought,” Steve said. In seconds, the message appeared on the screen in front of them.
Address: EMB 3479581
Originator: M. Albright
Sequence: 0925/1742
Steve:
Sorry for the cloak and dagger. My father’s dead; he was killed. I think that a business associate, Charles Wingate, was behind it. We need to talk, but I don’t want to risk getting together here. Don’t come to the funeral. It’s too dangerous. I’ll contact you in London on the 22nd. Take a room at the Hyde Park. I’ll be in touch. Thanks.
“Grover Albright murdered! I don’t believe it.” There were too many things going on Payton thought–all happening at once. He couldn’t refuse Mark’s request. On the other hand, he couldn’t abandon Janet in the midst of all that was happening.
“I don’t know what to do,” Steve said exasperated.
“You’ll have to go to London.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“You won’t have to. I’m going too.” Janet put her arms around Steve. “I wouldn’t think of letting you go without me.”
“What about all this?” he asked gesturing toward the table.
“The London trip’s a few days out of our schedule. We’ll still have time. Besides, you don’t have to meet Mark Albright until the twenty‑second.”
Payton thought about what Janet said. “You’re right. We can fit this in. Do you have your passport?”
“It’s in the computer case. The portable, my American Express card, and my passport...” Janet said with a grin.
“I know. Don’t leave home without them.”
“Exactly.”
Payton looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, my passport is at the office. I’m going to have to go into Baltimore. It’ll probably take me a couple of hours. Want to go?” Payton asked.
“No, go ahead. I’ve got a few things to do around here. See you when you get back.”
He thought about changing out of the jeans and flannel shirt he was wearing into something more businesslike, but decided that what he had on would do.
Payton went out, started the Jaguar, and drove slowly up the driveway. All the way into Baltimore, he kept a wary eye on the rearview mirror. The part of I83 that ran from Baltimore to York, Pennsylvania, ended at the Beltway, which Payton followed west for a mile before he picked up the southbound ramp to the Jones Falls Expressway.
With the radar detector on, he accelerated to a little over seventy miles an hour and the car merged cleanly into the sparse traffic on the highway. Anyone tailing him would have to stay up with the Jaguar–a dead giveaway. The big car purred, passing the others on the road. Each time Payton checked the rearview mirror, he saw nothing to alarm him.
When he reached the building housing his law offices, Payton drove down the ramp that led to the underground garage. He parked the car, and then took the steps to the first floor.
As he strode past the front entrance to the building, he glanced outside. Payton took a step toward the elevator, and then did a rapid double take, seeing what he had dreaded. He ran to the entrance, nearly colliding with an elderly man who was coming into the building as Payton's mad dash for the sidewalk erupted. When he got outside, any doubts he had were gone. A beige Ford with the Wingate crest on its door was slowly making its way up the street.
Badly shaken, Payton went up to his office. Pushing past the pile of mail he found lying on the floor in front of the mail slot, he walked over to the receptionist’s desk and checked the answering machine for messages.
Other than routine calls about a few inconsequential matters, nothing required his attention. Great. Payton then walked over to the front door and picked up the pile of mail he had almost trampled on his way in.
Bills, miscellaneous stuff, but nothing of importance. Payton tried desperately to concentrate on the stack of mail before him, but his practice, the mail, everything had become insignificant.
No matter how hard he tried, Payton couldn’t get the Wingate Farms car out of his mind. He had been certain that he wasn’t followed. What he had deftly written off as paranoia was real. The conspiracy he had uncovered in the little town was taking over his life, spreading like wildfire on parched timber.
Payton's anger welled up, then burst forth like a torrent of water from a stricken dam. He threw the stack of mail across the room where it hit the wall, envelopes fluttering like fall leaves to the ground. He had to get hold of himself, figure out what the alternatives were, and then come up with a course of action.
All right, Payton thought. So what if they were watching him. Old man Wingate had no idea what they knew.
Then it dawned on him–he was still in the dark. He didn’t know who the target was or where the murder was going to take place. He couldn’t tie Wingate to the stranger he saw in Pine Lake’s café. He had his suspicions, but that’s all they were, and suspicions won’t stand up in a court of law. Desperately, Payton needed a strategy that would be effective against Wingate’s far‑reaching power base.
Payton rummaged through his desk drawer, shifting letters, notes, and the like out of his way until he spied the passport. Payton took the passport and placed it safely in his shirt pocket, then buttoned the flap.
Finally he turned off his desk lamp and put on his jacket. He might as well go back to the farm. He was leaving the office, lost in thought, when he walked into the building’s maintenance manager. Built like a fire-plug, Pike had been with the building since well before Payton had signed the lease.
“Good morning, Mr. Payton. Haven’t seen you here recently.” Although Al Pike made the statement sound as if it were simply an observation, in reality it was a question that required some sort of answer.
“Hi, Al. How are you doing?” Payton asked, sidestepping Pike’s question, and hoping that Pike’s penchant for conversation didn’t consume the rest of the day.
“Pretty good, Mr. Payton.” Pike ran his hands through his normally rumpled hair. “The wife’s bursitis has been acting up again. Makes her damned cranky. But other than that, I’m doin’ okay. Your phones working better now?”
Payton didn’t know that his phones hadn’t been working, much less whether or not they were any better. “What do you mean? As far as I know, they’re fine.”
Al Pike shrugged. “Two men from the telephone company were in the other day. Said you were havin’ problems with the phones and called for service. I told ‘em you’d been closed for a couple of weeks. Told me if they couldn’t get in, they wouldn’t be able to get back here to fix them for several weeks.” Pike paused, then added, “Figured I’d do you a favor and let ‘em in.”
“How long were they here?” Payton asked tersely.
“About three quarters of an hour. Something wrong? Wasn’t I supposed to let them in? They said they was telephone repairmen,” Pike said defensively. “Hell, they even looked like ‘em. Had the tool belt, phones, everything.”
“No, Al. You didn’t do anything wrong. For a minute, I forgot that I had called. That’s all.”
It wasn’t, and Payton knew it. There hadn’t been any problem with the phones, and he had never called for service. Wingate’s people. They were probably going to break into the offices, but when Al Pike ran into them, it was easier to sweet talk him into letting them in.
They couldn’t tell the maintenance supervisor that the phones in the building had a problem, because he would have known about it. Instead, they told him the phones in Payton's office were on the
blink. Someone had bugged his office lines, as well as the one at the condo. Had Payton not walked into Al Pike, he never would have known that Wingate was no longer sitting idly by keeping a casual eye on him. The stakes on whatever game they were playing had just been raised.
“Oh, my God. I almost forgot one of the things I came for,” Payton confessed. “Al, I hope your wife’s bursitis gets better,” Payton said as he unlocked his office door.
“Oh and Al. . . ” Payton said, stopping before he went back in.
“Yes, Mr. Payton.”
“Don’t worry about the telephone repairmen. Like I said, everything’s fine.” Payton went back into the office. He walked through the reception area and back into his private office. Careful not to make any unnecessary noise, he proceeded to unlock his closet door.
When he first took over the office suite, he found that the previous tenant had abandoned an old Mosler steel safe that was worth less than it would have cost to move it. The previous tenant had considerately left the combination to the old vault taped to its top.
After a few tries, Payton had learned how to manipulate the lock so that he could open the clunker on the first try. Over the years, he used the Mosler to store important papers and records. Payton dialed the combination, careful not to miss any of the numbers. After rotating the dial to the last number, Payton drew the steel-locking lever down. The locking bars retracted, and Payton pulled the door open.
After rummaging through several envelopes, Payton finally found the one he was looking for. He took the envelope over to his desk and sliced it open with his letter opener.
Payton withdrew a stack of hundred dollar bills. One of his clients, a man who never trusted banks, had kept the money at home. He was more than willing to forgo earning interest in exchange for round-the-clock access to his savings. After his client died, Payton found that he had been named executor of the estate. The cash was part of the estate’s assets. Its distribution to the heirs with the rest of the proceeds from the sale of his client’s assets was still pending.
Payton counted the money–fifteen thousand dollars. He noted the amount on the outside the envelope, then stuffed the bills into his pants pocket. Then he replaced the envelope and locked the safe.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 18
