“Don’t touch it,” Payton called out. Janet immediately dropped her outstretched hand. “I doubt it’s electrified, but it’s probably alarmed.”
He turned, facing away from the compound. “Whatever we’re looking for, it won’t be in there. Let’s follow the general run of the fence, but look for something to our right. We’ll move around the perimeter to the point marked on the map. Then we’ll shift position, moving farther away from the fence and retrace our steps.”
Whatever Steve said, it probably made sense–just not to her. Besides, she had no idea how they were going to find whatever was in the blowup. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “you lead, I’ll follow.”
They tracked the fence line for nearly half a mile before Payton decided they had gone too far. “Let’s move further away from the fence and try again.” They reversed direction and headed back toward their start point. They saw nothing but trees.
“By the time today’s over, I’ll never want to see another tree again,” Janet muttered.
They moved away from the fence, reversing direction a second time. In spite of their efforts, nothing appeared to be a suitable hide for the sniper. By now Payton was getting fed up. “Let’s stop for a few minutes,” he said, sitting down against a tree.
Janet’s back was toward Camp David, while Payton sat facing her. As she handed Payton the canteen, she looked up.
“What’s that,” she exclaimed, pointing to something high over Payton's shoulder.
Payton's heart skipped a beat as he felt the adrenaline shoot through him. He whirled around praying that no one was coming up on them. “What? I don’t see anything.”
“No, look. It’s some kind of structure.” Rather than try to talk Payton into looking where she was pointing, Janet got up and started walking out of the brush. Payton followed behind her. Rising from the treeline, approximately forty feet away, stood the supporting legs of a fire tower.
Payton was so flabbergasted, he could only stare. When he got his senses back, he pulled Janet down to her knees. “Let’s not announce our visit,” he whispered. “Unless we’re way off course, this is what we saw in the blowups yesterday.”
“But aren’t we too far from Camp David for this tower to be of use to the sniper?”
“Normally yes, but there are some incredibly long‑range sniper rifles capable of making the shot.” Payton had told her about the fifty caliber rifles the marines had tested in Vietnam and their ability to hit a target from over a mile away.
Payton pulled out the map and folded it so that the area designated as restricted was face up. Carefully, he plotted their course from the road to the retreat’s north side. According to the map, they were on an eighteen hundred foot elevation line.
“If the sniper’s using a fifty caliber rifle, the tower’s got to be within range. From there, he’d have a commanding view of the area, and my guess is that since the tower’s higher than the tree line, a good view of at least part of Camp David. It’s got to be a good two hundred feet high. If we’re at eighteen hundred feet, add two hundred more feet, and the tower’s well above Camp David’s elevation. He fires, walks down the steps, and is out of here before anyone figures out what happened.”
“What about the forest ranger?” Janet asked wondering how that could affect the sniper’s plans.
“There’d be one dead forest ranger. This is much too big to let a park ranger get in the way. There’s too much money involved. The sniper’s getting paid five million for the hit. What’s another body or two along the way?”
Janet realized that under the circumstances, her question was stupid. Of course it wouldn’t make any difference who got killed as long as the President died too. Wingate already had chalked up two kills.
“Come on. There’s got to be a road leading to the tower. I want to find where it goes.”
Payton circled the tower’s base. As expected, he found an unpaved road, which had to go from the main route to the tower. They hiked along the fire tower’s road, but remained in the woods until they were out of sight of anyone who might be in the cabin atop the tower.
At that point, Payton decided they couldn’t get into too much trouble if they were found walking down the road–as long as they weren’t discovered by Wingate’s men or the Secret Service.
When they reached the county road, Payton was pretty sure that he’d remember the intersection if he were driving. To be sure, he marked it, tying his handkerchief to a small tree branch. Then they retraced their steps back to where they had left the car.
Eager to verify the location of the fire road, Payton drove around until he saw his ‘flag’. With the hide pinpointed, they had all the facts except what they needed the most, the time of the assassination.
. . . . . .
Allen Thiesse was in his office when his second in command, Mary Neill, knocked and then walked into the room. “Good morning, boss,” she said, a cup of coffee in her hand.
Special Agent Neill had been with the Secret Service almost as long as Thiesse. Originally assigned to the New York office, she later did a stint in Training Division. When the voters put Daniel Varrick into the Oval Office, Mary Neill came on board as part of the PPD team. Thiesse found her to be someone whom he could always count on. She never complained about the hours or the travel, knowing both were part of her job. During the first term of the Varrick administration, she performed flawlessly, handling the myriad of problems the detail dealt with on a daily basis. At the beginning of the second term, Thiesse promoted her to Assistant Special Agent in Charge, ASAIC of PPD.
In spite of her rigorous travel and work schedule, Mary Neill found time to keep herself in excellent physical condition. Her five-foot-nine-inch frame carried little excess weight. Her dark brown hair was cut to shoulder length, and she dressed conservatively, befitting her rank.
The woman who sat across the desk was a frequent visitor to the Training Center. In her free time, Neill honed her hand‑to‑hand combat techniques. While most agents assigned to PPD had difficulty finding the time to re-qualify on the range, Mary Neill made it a practice to shoot at least every other week. Her scores consistently placed her in the top five percent of the agents. Thiesse was sure she was the best shot with a handgun among those assigned to the protection details.
“What’s going on this fine fall morning?” Thiesse asked her as she settled into the chair, crossing her legs.
“Not much, just more of the usual. I see you’ve been reading the latest reports from Intelligence Division.”
“ID’s more than a little concerned about this Payton character,” Thiesse said tapping the report on his desk. He had read the report on Payton's interview. There was always someone who knew that the President's life was in imminent danger. These characters walked in off the street every week. Most of the time they were rejects from St. Elizabeth’s or some other area mental hospital. Nonetheless, PPD couldn’t discount any information that suggested the President's life was in danger, regardless of how bizarre the story or the source.
“Ross Whitman thinks that Payton might be more dangerous than they first thought. He told him to take a motel room in the area and stay put. Whitman planned to place both Payton and his girl friend under routine surveillance the next day.
By the time the team got to the motel, they were gone, and Payton hadn’t bothered to leave any forwarding address. Since then, we’ve gotten nothing new on the their whereabouts. ID’s decided to pass this one over to us.”
Thiesse leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “I don’t like this one bit. Something about it doesn’t seem right. When someone deviates from what the shrinks in ID say is the norm, we’ve got problems. Better find Payton and Phillips. Once you do, let’s stay on them. The President's been shuttling between the White House and Camp David frequently, and I don’t see that changing. In fact, the powers‑that‑be are thinking about having the next press conference up in western Maryland. We can’t have a nutcase walking a
round un-chaperoned.”
Before she had even walked into Thiesse’s office, Mary Neill realized how large a problem Payton presented to PPD.
“I’ve already contacted Maryland DMV, and we have the details on Payton's car. They might have rented a car, so I’ll have someone get on that right away. Once I get all the pertinent information together, I’ll send a bulletin out to the local law enforcement agencies asking them to keep a watch out on the vehicles. If they locate the car, we’ll have them sit on it.”
“Fine, go ahead. But remember we only want to know where they are. We don’t want the locals getting too enthusiastic and violating anyone’s civil rights.”
The Secret Service had recently gotten a new director, appointed by the secretary of the treasury. Less than three months in place, and he was already under fire because “the President's Praetorian Guards”, as the press termed the agents, had delayed the reporters’ departure while others spirited the President away during a recent trip to Texas.
“Concentrate on the Pine Lakes area, and also both Frederick and Thurmont. If they’re not in the immediate area, then at least we don’t have any major concerns for now.”
“You really think Payton's planning to assassinate the President?”
Thiesse shrugged. “I’m not sure. I suppose it’s conceivable that what he told ID is true–or maybe he really believes it’s true. Either way, that doesn’t make him an assassin. On the other hand, Payton could be off his rocker. He hallucinates an assassination, then does everything he can to make it happen.”
“I’ll alert the field offices, but locating him is going to be worse than finding a queen bee in the middle of a hive of angry drones,” Neill said.
“I’d be a lot happier if this picture weren’t clouded by Payton's disappearance. In the meantime, an ounce of prevention...”
Mary Neill left her boss. When she got back to her office, she picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Intelligence Division. When she reached her party, Mary Neill outlined the information they needed regarding the title searches and rental car investigations. She stressed the need for immediacy in both investigations. She wanted to be certain that when the Baltimore field office got the inquiry from ID, there wouldn’t be dogging it. Now she could only sit back and wait for the results.
CHAPTER 40
October 28th
By Saturday morning, Mary Neill had the requested data. On her desk were complete descriptions of all possible vehicles, including the one the couple had recently rented. She decided to place the emphasis on the rental, and back burner the Jaguar. The car would appear in her bulletin, but she’d ask the locals to concentrate on the rental. The ASAIC instructed her assistant to issue the alerts with special attention to the police agencies responsible for Thurmont and Frederick, and the one covering Pine Lakes.
. . . . . .
The police and Secret Service weren’t the only ones looking for Janet Phillips and Payton. Bill Parker was seething over the royal screw-up south of Thurmont.
Their attempt at taking out the couple had been the biggest mistake since Custer said he had the Indians surrounded. Of course, there was nothing to link the two who died in the wreck to the Committee, Parker, or the Wingate estate. The car they had demolished had been stolen a few days earlier in downtown Philadelphia, and the men carried no identification on them. With absolutely nothing to go on, the police wouldn’t be able to identify the bodies much less connect them to the Pine Lakes operation, exactly the way that Parker wanted it.
Parker’s police contact alerted him as soon as the Secret Service bulletin came off the telex. The government’s strategy was evidenced by the distribution of the telexed message. It didn’t go to every police department in the country, or for that matter even on the East Coast. Its distribution was limited, but focused on the western Maryland area, a sign that the Service felt that Payton represented a threat to the safety of the President while Daniel Varrick was at Camp David. If the Secret Service was beating the bushes around Thurmont, then that was a fine place for Parker’s people to start.
Parker dispatched three cars, each with two of his best people. Their orders were simple–find Payton and the Phillips woman, and kill them. He couldn’t afford to let the couple fall into the government’s hands again. The second time, someone might believe them.
CHAPTER 41
October 30th
Lauren Woods cleared security at NSA’s Gatehouse 1 and turned down the corridor to the Headquarters Building. As she made her way past the entrance, the security guards tried in vain to get their minds off her tall, well‑proportioned figure and back on to their work.
At thirty‑seven, Lauren’s life had centered on her work. She was assigned to the office of Signals Intelligence Operations, the focal point of NSA operations. SIO, as it was called around the Fort Meade complex, was headed by the Deputy Director of Operations. He reports directly to the Director, National Security Agency, or DIRNSA.
Everything associated with the interception of signals, their subsequent decryption or cryptanalysis, and the final analysis of the clear-text message is the responsibility of the DDO. All Special Intelligence Communications, or SPINTCOM, passes through Group W, the department responsible for the collection of signal intelligence, or SIGINT. Group W analysts assess the source of the signal and its type. Once the information had been source identified, it was passed to Lauren’s C Group, where the SPINTCOM is decoded.
The Secret Service’s Protective Intelligence Division maintains an ongoing relationship with the code breaking organization. Over the years, NSA intercepts have led to fallout Secret Service investigations against counterfeiting rings, computer hackers, phone phreaks, and of course would‑be Presidential assassins.
Lauren made the turn into the main corridor and passed the long mural on the wall. For an organization that reveled in its shroud of secrecy, she found it ironic that they would commission a mural showing its people engaged in various SIGINT activities.
The scenes depicted ranged from staff members monitoring telephone conversations to the collection of data from the satellite systems operated by NSA and the top secret National Reconnaissance Office, the organization that provided raw intelligence data siphoned up by the various satellite systems to the Central Intelligence Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, and of course, NSA.
When she reached the center of C Corridor, she cleared another security checkpoint before taking the escalator to the third floor. Each work area on the floor was a SCIF, or Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility, built to strict guidelines, which set forth the thickness of the walls and the type of construction. NSA’s guidelines addressed the types of sophisticated electronic filters required for all signal carrying lines entering or leaving the facility. Even the power lines coming into the SCIF were filtered. Her office, if you cared to call the secured area an office, was halfway down the wide corridor.
The heavy gauge steel door leading to the SCIF had no identifying marks except a large red dot signifying that the work being performed inside the area was classified at a Top Secret Sensitive Compartmentalized Information level. The SCI designation meant that intelligence sources could be identified from the already Top Secret material.
Most of the NSA’s hush‑hush projects received their own code name, identifying the project and the information the project developed. Lauren’s program was classified Top Secret Cutter. She had no idea where the suffix Cutter came from, and she knew better than to ask.
Lauren unclipped her ID badge from the beaded metal chain that hung around her neck, and slid it into the computer‑controlled card reader to the right of the door. A light on the front panel instructed her to enter her personal identification number, or PIN.
The computer matched her access level to the badge number and the PIN, then released the electronic lock and allowed her entry. Then the computer recorded the time and date in the access file for the Cutter SCIF.
She walked through
the cluster of rooms, where her team was still busy at work, and past the secured destruction area. As she made her way into her office, Lauren glanced over at the small access door leading to the classified waste disposal chute and shook her head.
Years earlier, NSA had installed a site‑wide destruction facility for the tons of highly classified waste produced each day. Rumors had circulated that the Fort Meade facilities generated more than two hundred tons of material per week; she thought the number was low.
Each building had a complex network of vacuum driven chutes that routed the classified waste to a special building dedicated solely to its total destruction. Lauren was never sure if NSA burned, pulverized, or shredded the waste material. But she was confident that whatever the agency did, its highly sensitive information was gone forever.
The intercepts they had gotten from the Cutter source had proven to be a more challenging problem than first anticipated. Usually the “take”, as collected intelligence was called, from the old Red Block countries was encrypted with the most sophisticated encryption schemes.
These sometimes were either unbreakable or took NSA’s super-high‑speed Cray computers so long to complete the decrypt that the information had limited value by the time they got it into clear-text. The Cutter source indicated that the intercepts her team had been working so hard on consisted of encrypted telephone conversations and encrypted computer‑to‑computer transmissions of domestic origin. Since few U.S. organizations deployed sophisticated encryption equipment, she was perplexed about why they were having such a tough time breaking the codes.
As soon as she sat down in her chair, the gray ‘secure’ telephone on her desk rang. Lauren picked it up on the second ring.
“Lauren Woods speaking.”
“Lauren, Gene Goldberg here.” Goldberg was the current DDO.
“What’s the status of the Cutter intercepts?” he asked, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 31
