Whitman's office was located off a larger bull pen that housed at least half a dozen agents. Several people appeared busy at work, doing whatever it was that the Secret Service did when they weren’t guarding the President. Payton guessed that he was looking at a combination of agents and intelligence analysts.
Whitman led them past the offices and into one of the interview rooms. Inside, several armless chairs surrounded a large rectangular conference table. On the wall over the table, Daniel Varrick’s smiling countenance looked down on them. On the side wall hung a molded plastic emblem of the United States Secret Service star–an attempt to brighten up the otherwise drab setting.
Ross Whitman closed the door. “Please have a seat. I’d like to hear what you have for us.”
As Payton began, Whitman picked up a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen. Walk-ins were nothing new. The Service had them at all their field offices at one time or another. Nine times out of ten, a walk-in was a waste of time, but each report had to be checked out before the alleged threat could be dismissed or otherwise discounted.
Whitman had never heard of a walk-in leading to a real threat against any of the Secret Service’s “protectees”. Nonetheless, each person who came across what he or she believed to be a threat against the President or vice President warranted careful review of the information. Of course, when that information alluded to some plot or conspiracy so preposterous as to be ludicrous, the Service filed the report but took no further action.
“This is very awkward for us,” Payton said by way of explanation. “Neither Ms. Phillips nor I has ever been involved in anything this weird, for lack of a better term. By accident, we came across information that leads us to believe that there’s going to be an attempt on the President's life.”
“What makes you think someone’s going to assassinate the President?” Whitman uncapped his ballpoint.
Payton explained how he had gotten the errant E‑mail message and how Janet had deciphered it. Then, slowly, he brought Agent Whitman up to date.
Payton fretted at not having a prepared oration ready. He’d had plenty of time to figure out what he was going to say when they got there. He had even thought about it on the trip across the Atlantic, and then again in the car down from Canada. Now as he spoke, everything seemed to come out in a hodgepodge of disjointed statements.
The agent listened attentively to Payton's narrative, occasionally making a few notes. He wasn’t quite sure what he was dealing with. Payton didn’t seem like the kook type, but then you never knew.
“So you and Ms. Phillips began this whole odyssey as a result of an E‑mail message that Ms. Phillips decoded. Is that correct?”
Janet had been sitting quietly, allowing Steve to do the talking. Although she hadn’t given it much thought, she realized that the reception she had expected from the Secret Service was not going to happen.
“Agent Whitman,” Janet said, “what Mr. Payton told you is true. He received the email, obviously by accident, that I deciphered and that led us to Pine Lakes.”
Whitman sat thinking for a moment. “Let’s deal with that end of this, if you will.
First Ms. Phillips, how do you know that Mr. Payton actually received that message in the first place? You weren’t there when he turned on his computer, so all you have to go on is his word.” Whitman saw Payton's face flush.
“Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that you’ve been on a wild goose chase. I’m trying to fill in some of the holes.”
Janet thought about what Whitman had said. He was right that she hadn’t been there when Steve opened up his E‑mail box. But then, why would he lie? Whitman continued.
“For all you know, Mr. Payton could have generated the message himself, not that I’m saying he did. But all right, let’s say that you got this transmittal from God-knows-where, then what did you do?”
With Payton obviously seething, Janet carried on. “I contacted some friends of mine who work at UniNet–it was their database–and they were able to give me the general location of the source.”
“And that was Pine Lakes?” Whitman interjected.
Janet nodded. “So we went up there. We figured that once we had some additional proof, we could give all our evidence to the police.”
“I see,” Agent Whitman said. Payton didn’t like the tone of that response.
“You rented a farm outside of Pine Lakes. What happened then?”
“We checked out the area, trying to determine who could be behind what we believed to be a murder plot. That’s when we settled more or less on Charles Wingate.”
That name drew a reaction from the otherwise passive agent. “The financier?” Agent Whitman asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Payton watched as the agent made a note on the pad, underlining it several times.
Payton went on. “At that time, I didn’t know who the intended target was, so I went out to look over Wingate’s estate. I couldn’t find anything out. Right after that I started feeling that we were being watched.”
Complete paranoia, Whitman thought. “Watched? What do you mean watched?”
“You know. We weren’t alone. Like someone else was around.”
“I see,” the agent said with more than a hint of disbelief.
“I made at least one trip into Pine Lakes where someone from Wingate’s estate followed me into town and then back to the farm.
“Then during a routine trip to my office, the building maintenance supervisor told me that two men from the telephone company had been in to service my phones. I hadn’t had any problems with the phones, and never called for service.
“I figured someone had bugged the office, or the phones.” Payton didn’t like the way this interview was unfolding. The more he talked, the more his paranoia echoed.
When he paused, Agent Whitman cut in, “Did you subsequently find out that your office phones had been bugged?”
“Why no, but that’s what it had to be. Like I said, I never called the phone company.”
“But you don’t know for a fact the phones were bugged, do you?” the agent asked pressing the point. “I mean no one from the telephone company or police checked the phones to see if they had been bugged–right?”
“No, sir, I don’t know that the office phones had been bugged, but they tapped the phones at the farmhouse. I saw the bug.”
Agent Whitman sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m trying to understand all this. Please excuse my questions. Are you experienced in either telephone systems or electronics, Mr. Payton?”
“No. I’ve installed a couple of extension phones, but I don’t have any formal training in either area.”
“Then you wouldn’t know if what you saw was supposed to be there or not, would you?” Whitman asked pointedly.
“I checked the other phones in the house. None of the other lines had the same electronic module wired into the line that the bedroom phone had. It had to be some sort of wiretap or bug.”
“Please continue, Mr. Payton.”
Payton explained that he and Janet had been watched by people who worked for Charles Wingate, although he knew that again he lacked the needed proof. The more he talked, the more defensive he sounded. Worse, what seemed like so many irrefutable facts to him at the time, didn’t carry the same weight in the harsh light of day. He sensed that Ross Whitman felt the same way.
“A week ago, we decided to leave Pine Lakes. Both Ms. Phillips and I were concerned for our safety.”
“Because you felt that you were being followed, and your phones were tapped?” The agent leaned forward to study Payton as he would a specimen under a magnifying glass.
“Yes and because I had been in touch with Mark Albright right after his father’s death. He asked us to meet him in London. With the heat turned up in Pine Lakes, going to London had a hell of lot of merit, Agent Whitman.”
“Did you meet with Mark Albright?”
“Not exactly. We
met Mark at Wapping station as planned. When we got there, someone had stabbed him. Before he died, he told me that Charles Wingate was behind his father’s death. He also said that Wingate was planning to assassinate the President.”
Agent Whitman was busy jotting down notes. Then he turned to Janet. “Were you there when Mark Albright talked to Mr. Payton?”
Janet paused. “Yes, but not within earshot.”
“Then you can’t substantiate his story?” Whitman asked, gesturing toward Payton.
Janet thought for a minute, and then said, “I guess not. But I’m sure it’s true.”
Whitman didn’t bother with a response. “Then what happened?” the agent asked Payton.
“I had told Ms. Phillips that if anything happened at the meeting, she should make her way back to the hotel, which she did. After she cleared out of the station, one of Wingate’s men tried to kill me.”
“They tried to kill you, Mr. Payton?”
Payton tried to quell his rising anger. “Yes. After we found Mark dead, a man tried to push me under a subway train.”
“Obviously, you survived.” Whitman stated, trying hard not to show his disbelief in what he was hearing.
“Would you have found my story more convincing had I been killed, Agent Whitman?” Payton snapped, his patience at its end. Either Whitman believed what he was telling him or he didn’t. If he didn’t there wasn’t any sense in going on.
“Please remain calm. As I said before, I need to get all this down. I’m sure that you both have been under considerable pressure these past weeks. Maybe an objective third party’s perspective is what’s needed,” the agent said trying to ease the tension in the room.
“Stop trying to patronize me,” Payton said, biting his lip. “You don’t believe a word I’ve said.”
Whitman let the comment pass. “Let’s get back to Mark Albright’s murder. After you made it back to your hotel, did you or Ms. Phillips report this to the British authorities?”
“No, it would only complicate matters. I decided that it was a better bet to get back here as soon as possible. The following day, I saw this article in the London paper.” Payton handed Whitman the page he cut out reporting Mark Albright’s death.
Agent Whitman read the London Times story. “According to this, the local police feel that Mr. Albright was killed during a robbery. All his valuables were taken. Why do you believe he was killed, to keep him quiet?”
“First of all, not all his valuables were stolen. The killer or killers wanted to make it look like a robbery, but that was only to mask their actual intent. Had it been a real holdup, they would have taken his passport too.” Payton was certain that he had scored.
“You could be right or the robbers or robber could have overlooked the passport.”
Their theories about the assassination plot fell like water off a duck’s back. Payton was crestfallen. He glanced over to Janet, but the look in her eyes told him that she couldn’t help him. Payton gave the agent a black look. Even a blind man could see that Whitman wasn’t about to initiate an investigation that would immediately sweep up such a distinguished financier as Charles Wingate.
Rising from behind the table, Agent Whitman said, “Well Mr. Payton, Ms. Phillips, I think we should call it a day. I’ll complete my report and pass it along. We’ll see what my supervisor wants to do next.”
As if there was ever any doubt in Whitman’s mind. The Service had always been a highly political organization. A new director had been named recently, and the first thing that he’d done was to get rid of senior managers who had been appointed by his predecessor.
Even Ted Spencer, Special Agent in Charge of the Intelligence Division, had been on the job less than six weeks. Whitman and his family had lived in the Washington suburbs for nearly twelve years. He didn’t want some nut case screwing things up to the point where one of the new powers‑that‑be decided Whitman should be running a field office in Idaho—or worse.
“Are you going back to Pine Lakes tonight or will you be staying over in Washington?”
They hadn’t discussed what they were going to do after meeting with the Secret Service. Payton knew of the airport motel, and figured that it would be as good a place to stay as any place else. “Tonight, we’ll be at the airport motel, over by National. If we decide to check out tomorrow, I’ll give you a call.”
“That’ll be fine. Thank you both for taking the time to come in. Like I said, we don’t dismiss threats against anyone we’re tasked with protecting. I’ll see you out.”
They left the Intelligence Division’s offices and took the elevator down to the lobby. The Secret Service’s lackluster response was a body blow to Payton's plans.
As soon as they exited the building, he said, “I watched Whitman’s reactions. He doesn’t believe for a minute that one of the President's best friends is conspiring to kill him. He’s written the whole thing off as the ranting of a paranoid, overworked lawyer. Whitman will be the good little public servant, and write up his report. That way, he covers his butt, but the bottom line is that the Secret Service isn’t going to do a damned thing different from what they normally do.
“You can rest assured that if anyone knows how they protect the President, it’s Charles Wingate, and he wouldn’t be spending all that money unless he had found a hole in their protective shield. He’s going to exploit that, and when he does, Ansel Darby will be our new President.”
“Who knows what Whitman will do? Maybe he believed more of what you said than you think,” Janet retorted.
“Uh-uh. He doesn’t believe a word of it. Well, at least now I know how Cassandra felt,” Steve said.
“Who?” Janet asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Cassandra from Greek mythology–you know, the Trojan War. It was Cassandra who told her people to beware of the Trojan Horse. She warned them, just the way we warned the Secret Service. The Trojans didn’t buy Cassandra’s story any more than Whitman believed us,” Steve said, annoyed.
Payton had been counting on the Secret Service’s enthusiastic support, even if the organization had their doubts about Charles Wingate’s involvement. If they even gave him the benefit of the doubt, the increased security alone might put a crimp in Wingate’s plans.
As it was, they were nowhere. Remaining in Washington seemed pointless. They might draw some additional attention from the Secret Service, but they weren’t going to get anywhere with such a thinly supported story. After all, why anyone would believe that the President's best friend was planning his assassination? Wingate held all the aces.
“The Secret Service is going to let us sit here while they finish doing their background checks. In the meantime, Wingate’s hired gun will go ahead with the assassination,” Steve said, disgusted at the turn of events.
“If the agency responsible for protecting the President's content to sit back and do zilch, what can we possibly do?” Janet asked.
“I’m not sure, but you can bet we’re not going to sit here twiddling our thumbs just because Whitman’s content to keep his head in the sand. The assassination’s definitely going to take place at Camp David,” Payton stated firmly. “I think we ought to move closer to the Presidential retreat. Maybe we can somehow put a crimp in Wingate’s plan.”
Janet thought about what Steve had said. He made plenty of sense. “We sure as hell better, because if we don’t we’ll be next. Wingate certainly won’t leave any loose ends hanging around. Remember what happened when Kennedy was assassinated?” Janet asked. “Anyone who even remotely knew anything about the plot died mysteriously.”
Payton nodded, then added, “Even if the Secret Service foils the assassination attempt, but can’t tie it to Wingate, we’re in the soup. No matter how you cut it, we’re not out of this until the whole conspiracy is tied back to Charles Wingate. Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m beat. I need a shower and some sleep.”
They took Seventeenth Street to the Arlington Memorial Bridge, crossing over the Potomac. Wh
en they got to the motel, Payton parked the car along the side where the older rooms were.
The motel had a main multistory building and a block of older rooms in a U-shaped array along the side of the main building. He didn’t want to be in the tower, preferring the easy access of the first floor rooms. After he parked the car, he turned to Janet. “We’ll take two rooms. One I’ll put under my name, and the other we’ll pay cash for and list under your mother’s maiden name.”
Janet didn’t see why Steve was going to all this trouble. “Why two?” she asked.
“I don’t want us to be sitting ducks. If Wingate’s people are scouring the hotels and motels looking for us, and they find out we’re here, we’re dead. We’ll take the two rooms, make sure that they’re interconnecting, but only use the one in your name. That way, if Whitman calls us, we’ll hear the phone.”
The clerk thought their request odd. Most of the couples who rented rooms were lovers on an assignation. They used one room, not two, and then only for a few hours, or at most overnight. Payton told the man not to volunteer that they had taken a second room, sealing his request with a hundred dollar bill. The money was more than the clerk made the entire day, and there was little doubt in Payton's mind that he would cooperate if anyone showed up.
As soon as they got to the rooms, Payton unlocked the connecting doors. He went back out to the car and brought in the shotgun, careful to keep it covered. He put the Remington on the bed, and the boxes of shells on the nightstand.
Janet started laughing. “Here we are, back from London, international travelers, and what do we have to show for our trip? One twelve gauge sawed‑off shotgun–no clothes, no souvenirs–just a gun!”
Even Payton had to admit that under any other circumstances, this whole scene seemed ludicrous. “I guess we’d better find a drugstore, not to mention a place where we can pick up some clothes.”
Payton lifted the side of the mattress from the queen-size bed, and shoved the shotgun in the middle of the bed between the box spring and the mattress. He started to smooth out the blanket and spread so the maid wouldn’t wonder why it was disheveled, but Janet walked over, stripped the spread off the bed, and rumpled the blanket and sheet.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 26
