. . . . . .
At eleven forty-five, they left the hotel and started over to the Underground station at Knightsbridge. The sign over the platform indicated that the next train due to arrive was going toward Wapping Station. Ten minutes later, they exited the Northern line. Although there were only a few passengers, Payton waited until the platform emptied before looking for Mark.
As planned, he left Janet halfway up the platform, where she could quickly spot anyone coming up behind him, but close enough to the steps leading up to the street level. Then he walked down the platform in the direction that the train had come. Before he had gone far, he spied Mark Albright sitting on the last bench.
As Payton edged closer, Albright appeared to stare straight ahead. Things weren’t right. His heart beating faster, Payton looked around the area, paying heed to his gut feelings. He turned to check on Janet; she was where he had left her, watching his progress intently. Payton broke into a run.
“Mark, it’s me,” Payton said as he reached the bench.
Albright’s eyes fluttered. “Wingate...killed my father.”
“I know,” Payton said, desperately trying to ascertain what had happened. Payton tore open Albright’s topcoat, and then unbuttoned his suit jacket. Right over his heart, blood dribbled from a small puncture wound, a small caliber bullet or an ice pick, probably the latter.
Payton glanced over his shoulder. “Get out of here, Janet.” He waved her toward the steps. “Get out!”
Janet hesitated. “Get out of here,” Payton yelled again, his voice reverberating like a boom box within the tile‑covered walls. As Janet ran toward the steps, Payton cradled Mark Albright’s body. The dying man’s lips quivered as if they had another message to deliver. Payton moved closer.
“Go ahead, Mark. Tell me.”
With ebbing strength, Albright said, “He’s going to assassinate the President. Wants Darby to take over.” Albright’s eyes glazed. Blood seeped from between the lips that had spoken the words Payton dreaded.
Slowly, he eased Albright’s body back against the bench. Death was in Albright’s unseeing eyes.
Payton's mind raced. He hated to leave his friend lying there on the cold concrete, but what choices did he have? His mind began to search for another alternative. Then it hit him: this whole thing was a setup, a carefully conceived trap.
Payton took a deep breath, then turned. The stench of urine and stale tobacco caused Payton to hurry down the platform and away from the rancid air. He had to get out of there. He could chance trying the street, but Wingate’s henchmen might be waiting for him to join Janet. If they stood any chance of thwarting the assassination, Payton had to play the odds. If they were waiting for Janet, he had to take an alternative route back to the hotel.
Suddenly, Payton heard the faint sound of a train. As the high-speed behemoth came closer, he felt the train’s vibration through his feet. The tracks were relatively straight coming into Waterloo Station.
By moving closer to the front of the platform, Payton could make out the light from the train’s headlamp reflected off the blackened tunnel walls. The huge cavern amplified the engine’s roar as the train approached. From his position, Payton couldn’t gauge the train’s speed, but it had to be at least fifty miles an hour.
Suddenly Payton's peripheral vision detected a furtive movement behind him. It froze him in place.
In spite of everything that happened to them so far, Payton's reflexes weren’t honed well enough to sidestep the attack. He started back from the platform’s edge just as the killer plowed into his legs.
Payton tried to maintain his balance, but his feet refused to cooperate. The man’s momentum propelled him over the precipice at the platform’s edge, and down toward to the tracks. He was falling, going over the side. If he landed on the electrified track that powered the trains, he was dead.
Payton tucked his arms and legs in close to his body, and brought his knees up close to his chest trying to make himself as small a target as possible. If he was lucky and didn’t land directly on the live rail, he’d die when the arriving train turned him into a bloody pulp.
Payton's body hit the tracks at an angle, feet first. Pain exploded up from his right ankle, but this wasn’t the time to worry about it. The train’s roar was deafening, too close to bother trying to see where it was. It was already there, nearly on top of him. The mass of air pushed ahead of the speeding train tried to drive him up the tracks into the tunnel, but he wouldn’t give up. Though Payton's mind desperately tried to find some way to safety, there was no time to think. To survive, he had to react. Anything less would be his death.
The tracks were too low for Payton to jump up onto the platform, not that he could have. His ankle was throbbing. In spite of the pain, he constricted his muscles as much as he could. With what would probably be his last act, he pushed off from the tracks with every ounce of energy left in his battered body.
Payton glanced up; he was facing the platform. Its edge overhung part of the train bed, allowing passengers to board the train without stepping across a large gap between the platform and the floor of the car. In the fleeting seconds before the train reached him, Payton realized that his last chance to live depended upon reaching the area beneath the overhang.
Payton clutched at the side of the platform, praying that there was enough room for his body to share the tight space with the train’s side carriage. As he wrapped his arms around his legs trying to protect himself, the screech of multiple air brakes deafened him. Payton closed his eyes and waited for the impact he knew was sure to come. He had given it his best.
After what seemed like an eternity, the screeching and hissing ceased. Slowly Payton pried open his eyes. There were no bright lights, no celestial openings through which angels beckoned him to pass. He was alive. The train had stopped inches from where he sat scrunched up against the platform, trapped between the mass of concrete and the train. Holding his claustrophobia in check, Payton counted the seconds, waiting for the train to leave. While part of him rejoiced that he was still alive, the other half desperately wanted the train gone.
Payton knew that all hell would break loose if any of the departing passengers noticed of Mark’s body. But because of the late hour, no one exited the train. After what seemed like an eternity, the train slowly pulled out of the station, building up speed as it re‑entered the far tunnel.
With the tracks temporarily clear, Payton needed to get a handle on his predicament. The rail nearest the platform was not electrified, so at least he was safe in moving out from underneath the overhang. It was only after Payton stood next to the deserted platform that he thought about the man sent to kill him.
Payton peered over the platform’s edge. The benches now sat empty. No shadows lurked near the back wall of the station or around the concrete pillars nearer to the tracks. He was alone.
Payton placed his hands on the edge of the platform, and tried pulling himself up. The platform’s design presented no hold for his feet, and Payton's cut hands and bruised arms weren’t able to pull his weight onto the platform. He knew what he needed to do.
He had to swing one leg up and onto the top of the platform in the hope of using it as an aid to climbing off the tracks. If he tried using his left leg, all his weight would be on the right. That wouldn’t work. On the other hand, if he propelled himself up using his left, he’d be transferring his weight to his injured leg as he pulled himself up. He’d have to chance it.
Payton heaved off the tracks, shifting his weight to his good leg. On his first attempt, his right leg crashed into the side of the platform and pain coursed through Payton's leg. Using his arms to cushion the rebound, Payton eased himself back down.
Again, he swung his damaged right leg up and over the top of the platform. Before his foot hit the platform surface, Payton twisted so that the hard rubber of the heel would land first, and he hoped, prevent his foot from slipping. By pressing down, he was able to keep his leg stationary. Again t
he pain was excruciating. Using the remaining strength in his arms, he pulled himself up.
Once back on the platform, Payton wanted to get as far from the tracks as possible. Slowly he got up, and edged away from the precipice over the tracks, still afraid that his killer would come back to make sure that he was dead. Payton took stock of his situation. Gingerly, he put weight on his right leg, silently praying that the ankle wasn’t broken. It was painful, but he could walk.
Payton looked over to where Albright’s body lay slumped against the old scarred bench. He didn’t want to leave his friend lying there like some piece of refuse. Yet everything inside him cautioned against calling the authorities. Besides, adding his demise to Mark’s would be a sheer waste. Nonetheless he was torn.
Finally, logic took precedence over emotion and Payton glanced toward the steps. On second thought, if Wingate’s people were outside watching, he’d invite a second attack. This time they’d make certain that he was dead. Whether he liked it or not, he’d have to wait for the next train. This time, when it left, he’d be on it not under it.
Ten minutes later, a train pulled into the station. As soon as the doors opened, Payton jumped aboard, drawing a few puzzled looks from the sparse group of late-night riders. Dirt and grime from the tracks smudged his face. His hands were filthy, and he limped. The sleeve of his suit had ripped near the shoulder, and his pants were torn along the calf.
Any other time, Payton would have been appalled at his appearance. Tonight he didn’t give a damn. He had faced death and beaten it. What difference did it make if he got a few cuts and bruises, and looked like hell? He was alive.
What about Janet? Had they gotten her? Had she made it back to the Hyde Park? The unanswerable questions flooded Payton's consciousness like storm water over a dam. Eagerly, he watched the station signs slip by. If they had her, what would he do then? Was she safe? Payton tried to ease the angst by assuring himself that Janet had made it back safely. If only he knew for sure.
When the doors opened, Payton raced from the train and up the steps. The anxiety that permeated his very being numbed the pain from his injury. He knew that the men who had killed Mark Albright and who had tried to murder him could be waiting for him. He didn’t care; he’d kill them barehanded. At one point as he sprinted across Knightsbridge, Payton almost hoped that he’d run into the sons‑of‑bitches.
Beads of sweat took shape on his forehead and along the front of his neck. The more alarmed Payton became, the more he perspired. Rivulets of sweat dripped down his face, clouding his vision. By the time he limped back to the hotel, his shirt collar was wet, his breathing was harsh and irregular, and he was sure he could feel his heart pounding. He made it through the Hyde Park’s lobby in a blur, and then took the steps not having time to wait for the elevator. When he reached the room, Payton held his breath while he pounded on the door. No answer.
Payton raised his fist and was about to hit the door with everything he had when it opened. Dressed in her robe, Janet stood there.
She immediately threw her arms around Payton. “Thank God you’re all right,” she exclaimed. “What happened?” Janet had taken one look and drawn the right conclusion.
“Albright’s dead. Somehow Wingate’s people found out about the meeting, and got to him first.”
Payton told her about the abortive attempt on his life, keeping his narrative down to the bare essentials.
“Do you think that Wingate’s people followed us?” Janet asked with fear in her eyes.
“They didn’t have to. They knew where we were going, or at least where Mark was meeting us.” Suddenly it dawned on him. Payton put his finger to his lips, and then guided Janet into the bathroom. He closed the door, and then turned on the shower full blast.
“The damned room’s bugged,” he whispered into Janet’s ear. “Don’t say a word,” Payton added. “Before he died, Mark told me who Wingate’s target is–Wingate’s going to assassinate President Varrick.”
A shocked look swept over Janet’s face. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He is,” Payton said. “That explains the electronic mail message. Shangri‑La’s the old name for Camp David, and five million’s a respectable amount for a Presidential assassination.”
Slowly the pieces of the ominous puzzle began to come together. The fog that clouded Payton's head since he’d first gotten the Email message was finally clearing. “I don’t have an inkling why the President’s best friend would want him dead, but he does.”
“With Daniel Varrick dead, Vice President Darby takes over the Oval Office,” Janet said.
“If that’s Wingate’s game plan, then Darby’s either one of his people or someone that Wingate finds acceptable as President.”
“What are we going to do?” The entire situation was beyond her wildest nightmares. “Wingate will destroy us.”
Payton pulled Janet toward him. “We’re going to make it through this. You’ve got to believe me. And we’re going to keep at Wingate’s heals until we stop the assassination. But first, we’ve got to get out of here. With any luck, we’ll be able to get seats on one of tomorrow’s flights to the States.”
“Then what?”
“Assuming there’s no change in Wingate’s schedule, we’ve got less than two weeks before the assassin strikes. It’s time to bring in the pros.” He was eager to raise the specter of an assassination attempt as soon as possible. “The Secret Service will know what to do,” he added as an afterthought. It sounded great, but Payton wasn’t even sure they could elude Wingate’s people.
Everything that had happened had drained Payton emotionally. He had run the gauntlet from abject fear and grief to the elation of surviving the attempt on his life. Not to mention the fact that Janet had gotten away unharmed. Her robe had become undone, and Payton could see her breasts between its folds. He reached over and gently undid the already loose tie. Then he slipped the robe from her shoulders.
Sensing his urgency, Janet fumbled with Steve’s belt.
Payton was unable to dam the emotional surge. He kissed Janet’s lips trying to be gentle, but knowing that he wasn’t. His mouth parted from hers, and then traveled a course first to her neck, then down to her breasts.
“Do it, Steve,” Janet half whispered into his ear. “Do me.”
Payton's fingers found her ready. He leaned her over the pedestal sink, and then entered her. Payton moved back and forth–the pain from his fall be damned. Like a tidal wave crashing on to the shore, they climaxed together in one gigantic spasm–each fulfilled by the other.
Afterward Janet said, “Wingate could have heard that without the bugs.”
Payton shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares?”
. . . . . .
Across the street in the office commandeered by Parker’s men, Payton's return was noted.
“Look who’s returned from the dead,” Parker’s team leader swore under his breath. “There’s always tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 28
October 23rd
As he drove along the narrow back road, John Grant looked for the weathered sign pointing to the abandoned quarry of some long forgotten sand and gravel company. He continued, but carefully kept an eye out for the road that would lead him to the quarry property.
Finally he spotted the sign warning trespassers to keep out. After a quick check in the rearview mirror, he turned onto the old gravel roadway. It led to the quarry’s main operation where the landscape was pockmarked with an array of gravel hillocks interspersed amongst obscene ravines where the once-sought-after minerals had already been quarried. Gullies, long since dry, had formed to sluice the runoff away.
Cognizant of the colonel's warnings, Grant had selected the site because it fulfilled his requirements. The temperature and humidity were approximately the same as they would be on November 1.
Grant found a suitable place to park, then got out of the car. Spent cartridges littered the ground, confirming his suspicion that others had used the old qu
arry for target practice. Most likely the neighbors were used to the sound of gunfire echoing from the quarry. Nonetheless, he hoped that no one would bother coming around to see what he was doing. There was nothing untoward save his choice of weapons. Not that any of the locals would even recognize the highly specialized sniper weapon for what it was. If someone did show up, he’d stash the sniper rifle, and plink with the Smith & Wesson.
After he was satisfied that he was alone, Grant began to set up his makeshift shooting range. The colonel's instructions had been specific: first find out how the high powered rifle handles with the standard load, then with the special frangible rounds. To sight in the sniper rifle, he needed at least fifteen hundred yards–line of sight.
Grant hammered a stake into the ground near the side of the road, then reset the trip odometer on the car, driving in the direction that held the most promise of having the greatest unobstructed distance. He clocked the odometer at half a mile, and then at the three-quarter-mile point. At nine tenths of a mile, he stopped the car and drove a second stake into the sand and gravel surface. He was at his anticipated range. To be on the safe side, Grant fine‑tuned the distance with the laser rangefinder.
The site was perfect, less than twenty yards from a substantial sand hill left by the quarry workers when they ceased operations. It would make a more than adequate backstop, easily stopping the heavy bullet.
He took out a shovel and dug two holes approximately two feet deep and three feet apart. From the trunk, Grant pulled two two-by-fours and placed one in each hole. He then shoveled the sand and gravel mixture back into the holes. Also from the Jeep, he removed a half sheet of plywood, four feet in width. This he nailed between the two-by-fours. Finally, Grant stapled the man‑sized silhouette targets to the plywood framework. He secured the hatch, and then drove back to where he had driven the first stake.
Grant parked the Jeep across his intended direction of fire and carefully spread a blanket across the hood of the car. Next he took out a telescope that he had bought from a local hobby store. He needed a way to determine the accuracy of his shooting while he sighted in the sniper-scope. A regular spotting scope wouldn’t handle the distance, but the telescope would do fine. Grant slipped the sniper rifle from its case and placed it on the hood of the Jeep. He removed the snap on plastic caps that protected both ends of the sniper-scope.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 23
