Seeing a surprised look on Payton's face she said, “Now if the maid comes in to drop off towels, she’ll think that we made good use of the bed like their other customers. There’s no sense in disappointing the old woman.”
Payton put the shells in the closet, and grabbed his jacket as he and Janet headed out again.
. . . . . .
When Ross Whitman got back to his office, he found Ted Spencer waiting for him. The senior agent was sitting at Whitman’s desk, perusing the report that Whitman had filed after getting rid of Payton. “What’s that all about?” the senior agent asked as Whitman sat at his desk.
“I’ve been with the Division for four years now, and I guess that I’ve seen them all, but this guy takes the cake.”
During his assignment with the Intelligence Division, Whitman had interviewed people who posed a threat to the safety of the President. Many of them walked the streets, free, while others remained in various mental wards. Some interviewees had told Whitman that they were on a mission for God. Others had heard voices.
By now, Whitman knew how to categorize each story that he heard. He put Payton in the one set aside for those people who posed no threat to the President, but were certain that someone else was. The agent spent the next fifteen minutes describing the hour spent with Payton and Janet Phillips. Whitman summarized his evaluation.
“I can’t believe that Payton thought one of the President's oldest friends was plotting to assassinate him.”
“You’re still going to file a report on it, aren’t you?” Spencer asked. Any agent who conducted an interview such as the one Whitman had had with Payton was required to file a mental-evaluation report. Depending upon its recommendations, the interviewee could be released or held for a three-day psychiatric evaluation at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington.
The procedures called for a comprehensive written report filed within a day of the incident, and the new boy on the block wasn’t about to put his career on the line no matter what.
“Sure, but it’s a waste of time,” Whitman said. “We can’t arrest him or the woman since neither of them directly threatened the President. Besides, I don’t think he’s certifiably nuts.”
“Run Payton's name through the computers and see if the Bureau or the Agency has something on him.”
Both organizations provided intelligence data to the Secret Service whenever an ongoing operation or investigation uncovered information that could affect the safety of the President. When the Secret Service first made it known they were interested in this kind of information, they couldn’t get their hands on enough material.
But after the flow of facts reached gigantic proportions, the Service established guidelines to filter the data being forwarded to them for analysis and possible investigatory action.
During the Nixon era, there were tens of thousands of names in the Secret Service’s files. Some of those people posed a real threat to the President, while others were there for political reasons. Since the mid‑seventies, the list had been pared down to only those people who posed a true threat to the President.
“Better also get a telex off to London, and see what the Metropolitan Police have on the Albright murder.”
“Will do. I’ll also check to see if Payton or the Phillips woman show up on our list of quarterlies.” The quarterlies is the list of several hundred potential assassins whom the Service keeps close tabs on. Whenever the President visits a city, the quarterlies in the area are located and checked out.
“What about alerting Allen Thiesse at PPD?”
“Not unless you want us to be the laughingstock of the Service. PPD’s on distribution for all of our reports. If they read it and have any questions, fine. They’ll call. Otherwise, I think we should keep away from this one.”
“All right, but I want to see what the locals can dig up on Payton and the Phillips woman. Send out a standard inquiry to the Maryland State Police, Baltimore PD, and whatever local or county department covers Pine Lakes. Who knows, they might have a history of problems with this guy. Do we know how to reach him if we need him?”
“Sure. He’s staying over at the airport motel near National. I’ll get those inquiries out first thing Monday morning.”
“Better do it tonight. I’d rather be in the process of doing some investigatory work on this one if anyone gets around to asking about it.”
The SAIC got up and walked out of Whitman’s office. Halfway out the door, he stopped. “Oh, and Ross, have a nice weekend.”
Ross Whitman wanted to get out of Washington before rush hour, but that wasn’t going to happen. He picked up his phone to call his wife to let her know that he’d be home late–again.
. . . . . .
Bill Parker had limited respect for the electronic systems arrayed all over what used to be his living room. If he had to depend on someone or something other than himself, he’d rather it be human intelligence and sheer force, rather than the morass of data these so-called electronic marvels produced.
This time things were different; Payton and the Phillips woman had left his human assets standing by the side of the road. First his people blew the surveillance on the farm, allowing the couple to get out of the country. Then they got taken again by Payton's fake-out in London. Granted his London team had managed to keep Mark Albright from ever meeting with Payton, but that was it.
Meanwhile, the Wizard had a line on the couple. He was busy at work monitoring the telex traffic between Washington and the various local police agencies. Parker also had feelers out to his contacts in several police departments, so that if they missed any telex transmittals, at least they wouldn’t be totally blindsided again. One way or the other, he’d find out where they were staying, and finish the job his men had bungled in London.
CHAPTER 33
Parker figured that at any moment, Wingate’s patience would, once and for all, dissipate. Each morning, he hoped to have good news for his boss, and each day his hopes were dashed. On Saturday, Parker’s phone rang. It was Wingate, and he wanted to meet.
As Parker walked into the library, Wingate gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Since I haven’t heard anything but bad news or no news at all, I suppose you still haven’t found Payton and the Phillips woman,” Wingate said, tapping his pencil impatiently on his desk pad.
Parker knew better than to beat around the bush. “We’re still working it, but we don’t have a single lead yet.” Parker kept his voice professional, neither proffering apologies nor trying to defend his position.
“Payton has been a thorn in our side since he came to Pine Lakes,” Wingate said, “I don’t have any idea how this small-time lawyer got wind of what we’ve got in store for President Varrick, but he’s managed to outsmart us. . . ”
Parker knew that meant him in particular.
“. . . from the start. It’s time to put an end to Payton's meddling. I want him found, and I mean found
I want him and his girlfriend taken out. I don’t care if it looks like an accident or not–just get it done. By the time this week’s over, there are going to be enough bodies lying around that two more aren’t going to make a helluva lot of difference. Is that clear?” The veins in Wingate’s forehead and neck stood out like highways on a map. Wingate was losing it.
“Yes, sir.” Parker left the mansion and headed back to the guesthouse. He’d gotten his marching orders.
. . . . . .
When Parker returned to his office he found the computers down and the Wizard waiting for him.
“Where’s everybody?” Parker asked, ready to jump all over the man. “Why are the machines off?”
“Because we know where they are,” the Wizard replied laconically.
“Where?”
“They’re at the motel near Washington National–the one near the Pentagon.”
“How did you find them?” Parker asked wanting to know if this information came by way of deduction or fact.
“The Secret S
ervice is doing a background check on Payton. They were kind enough to request information from several local police departments. We got the message the same time they did,” the Wizard said, smiling his Cheshire cat smile.
Parker made a quick note. He turned to the Wizard. “Good work. Don’t tear down the computers until we’re sure we won’t need them again. I want you to stick around in case I need you, but you don’t have to hang around here. There’s enough to do on the estate to entertain yourself. I’ll call you if I want you.”
As the Wizard beat his retreat, Parker was already busy on the phone.
. . . . . .
The two were the best there was in their given field. Where others failed, they succeeded. In days gone by, notches on their gun handles would have been a measure of their success. At this late hour they hit no traffic, making good time getting to the airport motel.
They pulled their car into the motel parking lot, and found a space close to the exit. The two men wanted to be able to get out of there fast if anything went awry.
The motel’s units mapped out a rectangular parking lot. At each corner, sodium vapor lamps cast a reddish hue over the yellow-striped asphalt lot. An additional light stood at the intersection of the two lines of rooms.
In spite of the lights, shadows rippled across the front of the motel. As the men made their way from the car, the sound of jets taking off from nearby Washington National Airport echoed through the darkness.
They were not going to underestimate Payton. He could be armed, and the last thing they wanted was to make themselves perfect targets silhouetted in the doorway of the lighted parking lot.
The outside lights had to go, and they had to go quietly. The team’s junior member took out a Ruger Mark II target pistol that had been worked over by one of the commercial firms engaged in providing suppressed or, as they were sometimes referred to as, silenced, weapons. To ensure that there was no crack from the bullet’s breaking the sound barrier, they had loaded the gun with subsonic Dynamit Nobel twenty-two caliber bullets. In the right hands, the Ruger could punch holes in the center ring of the standard twenty‑five yard slow fire pistol target all day long.
The man checked to make sure no one was about before sighting in the first of the parking lot lamps. He squeezed the trigger.
The light flared once, then went dark. In succession, he took out each of the remaining four lights. None of the room lights came on, nor did anyone bother trying to see what was going on in the parking lot. They were ready to deal with Payton.
He put the Ruger back in its case in the trunk of the car. The small caliber handgun was fine for plinking lights or close‑in work, but it would never do the job they needed done.
Both men removed nine millimeter Ingram MAC‑10 submachine guns from the trunk. They screwed the suppressors to the barrels of both weapons, and pulled the slides back to their cocked position. With the selector switch set to full automatic, the guns were ready.
Loaded with subsonic nine millimeter rounds, the suppressed weaponry probably wouldn’t be heard in the next room. At over six hundred rounds per minute however, the gun put out a lethal hail of lead.
When they located Payton's room, they carefully picked the lock. The chain provided a false sense of security. Even latched, it would never withstand the force of a full grown man throwing himself against the door. They opened the door a crack. Unable to see in the dark, one of the men slid a knife along the gap between the door and the jamb. The chain was off.
Both men had a long history of counterterrorist experience. One of them would go in low, covering the room and sighting their target. The other would stay clear of any possible return fire, ready to provide supporting fire.
On cue, the support man kicked the door open, making sure that it swung out of his partner’s way. As soon as the door opened, the other team member jumped into the room, assuming a crouched position with the MAC‑10 ready to go. His partner covered the right side of the room from the left of the entrance. It was quiet. Nothing moved, and there was no return fire.
Slowly, the two men eased in. While one man scanned the interior, his partner turned on the lights at the switch near the doorway. They were too late. The room was empty, although in need of maid service. They closed the door, and checked out the connecting room door. It was closed and locked, apparently from both sides.
Finally they rifled the trash for anything that might give Parker an idea of where the couple had gone. Again, they found nothing. Turning off the lights, they pulled the door shut. Keeping the MACs under their coats, they walked back to their car. They’d call Parker from there. He wouldn’t be having a good night.
CHAPTER 34
October 26th
The Secret Service prides itself on its effective worldwide communications capabilities. Designed by the White House Communications Agency, the same group that ensures that the President and vice President can communicate from anywhere in the world, the system uses a Department of Defense satellite system giving the Service full coverage in the continental United States.
Even the paging system used by the senior agents was special. Their pagers could be set to beep or vibrate upon receipt of a properly coded signal. It wasn’t uncommon to see an agent suddenly get up from a meeting and head for a telephone even though no characteristic beeping sound was heard. It was that system that reached out for Ted Spencer mid-morning on Sunday.
When Spencer called in, Ross Whitman answered the phone. “What’s up, Ross?” Spencer asked, annoyed at being called away from brunch with his wife and their friends.
“Payton's flown the coop, sir,” Agent Whitman answered, his tone completely professional, although he was unsure what the ramifications of his statement would be.
“We tried to get in touch with him this morning–to make sure he was still there. When I didn’t get an answer at his room, I sent two agents over to the motel. He and Janet Phillips were gone. The room had been paid for in advance, but they had apparently left.”
Whitman had tossed Spencer a hot one. If he sounded the alarm and made a big deal with the guys at PPD only to find that Payton was a harmless crank, he’d be the laughingstock of the Service. If, on the other hand, Payton was a threat to the President and Spencer delayed taking action, then he could kiss his career good‑bye. Spencer’s ambition included assuming the directorship one day not too far in the future. A critical mistake in judgment now would cut short his chances.
Whitman had said his piece. Now it was up to Spencer to decide what to do. That’s why the SAIC got paid the big bucks. If Spencer hesitated, Whitman would back up his conclusions with a written memo. He had been an agent long enough to know how to cover his ass. So did Spencer.
“Put Payton's name in the computer and notify the guys over at PPD. Then alert the security teams at Bandbox and Cactus.” The senior agent used the call signs of the Uniformed Division at the White House and the security contingent at Camp David.
“I’ll get on it right away. What level should I assign to Payton?” Whitman asked his boss. The Secret Service used to assign potential threats to the safety of the President to a single list called the quarterlies. Over the years, it had become necessary to discriminate between types of threats, so the Service ranked them from one to three. Class Three was the highest. It would be interesting to see what Spencer, the consummate bureaucrat, would do.
“Make Payton a Class Two.”
“Anything else?” Whitman asked.
“No. If something else comes up, page me.”
Whitman hung up the phone. It was going to be a busy Sunday.
CHAPTER 35
The STU‑III secure telephone in the command center rang twice before the officer of the day answered it. He spoke a few words into the phone, then looked around for his CO.
“Captain Cantrell, there’s an urgent call for you from Blackboard.” Cantrell wondered what the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division wanted. As Cantrell looked up from reviewing an assignmen
t roster, the OD added, “An Agent Whitman’s holding for you, sir. Says its got to do with a protective intelligence matter.”
Cantrell was the epitome of the perfect marine, ramrod straight and raring to go. Strikingly handsome, he had bright green eyes that never missed a move.
Cantrell walked over to the encrypted telephone and took the handset from the OD. “Captain Cantrell speaking.”
With the other divisions briefed about Payton, Ross Whitman needed to let Cantrell’s Marines in on what was going on.
“Good morning, Captain. This is Ross Whitman at Blackboard. We need to go secure.” Something was brewing.
Whitman inserted, then turned his personal activation key in the telephone’s front panel. When Captain Cantrell did the same, the STU‑III read the keys’ classification codes. Both keys were encoded for the same classification level. The front panel display flashed TOP SECRET.
As soon as the line was secure, Agent Whitman briefed the Marine officer on what they had on Steven Payton and Janet Phillips. He explained that the Secret Service now considered Payton a threat to the President, and that Camp David had come up in during the interview.
“I presume although you haven’t been officially notified yet, that you expect Cutter to be here sometime this week?” Whitman asked, using the President's code name.
“We’re aware that Cutter has been using Aspen to prepare his economic program,” Cantrell said referring to the President's lodge.
“I don’t know that he’ll be up there this week, but it’s a safe bet to assume you’ll be seeing more of him as he finalizes his plans. Better brief your men and keep a close eye peeled for Payton and his girlfriend. We’ll send up their photographs by secure fax later today.”
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 27
