“I can’t believe we’re in the middle of nowhere while everyone else is working protection details at Cactus,” Talley said.
“Relax, sit back and enjoy the view,” Norwood told his partner. “Let the other eager beavers worry about screening those turkeys and looking up each camera lens for hidden guns or explosives. I’m fine right where I am. Besides, no one cares whether you like the assignment or not. This is the U.S. Secret Service. They’ll assign you wherever they damned well please.”
The Service had bounced Jim Norwood around so much that his wife was sure all she had to do was to whistle and their possessions would jump into packing crates. And each move stressed his marriage that much more.
Now that he had a coveted Washington assignment–which amazed him since he’d never played the Service’s political game–he had no intentions of rocking the boat. None of the power mongers had taken Norwood under his wing. He had no ‘rabbi’, in Service parlance, to look out for his career. Nonetheless, here he was assigned to the D.C. field office. Not too shabby. Norwood was damned grateful no matter how he got the posting. He didn’t care what they told him to do. He’d even do a stint in public relations if it kept the family in Washington.
Talley didn’t have an immediate response to Norwood’s comment. No matter what his partner said, he missed not being at Camp David for such a momentous briefing. Both agents had received their assignments from Mary Neill and had departed for the fire tower directly afterward. Even with this Payton character running around, nothing was going to happen. Besides, between the two of them, they could handle anything that some screwball lawyer threw at them.
. . . . . .
John Grant secreted himself in the woods less than twenty feet beyond the tree line, and waited for one of the agents to take a nature break. If they’d come to him, it would be a helluva lot easier than if he had to beard the lion in its den. Scratch that, two lions.
His patience was soon rewarded as Jim Norwood, dressed in casual garb, came tramping down the steps and walked over to the base of the tower about ten feet from where Grant lay hidden in the brush. Grant flicked the safety on the carbon dioxide-powered tranquilizer gun to off, and then slowly took aim. As the agent pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, Grant squeezed off the shot.
The expulsion of gas from the dart gun made little noise–certainly not enough for Doug Talley to hear. The dart was right on target, hitting Norwood in the upper arm. When it struck home, the syringe fired a combination dose of tranquilizer and muscle relaxant into the agent’s bloodstream.
At first, Norwood thought he’d been stung by a bee. Looking to see what had caused the pain, he fumbled the still unlit cigarette. As soon as he saw the dart hanging from his sleeve, he reached for the push‑to‑talk switch clipped to his belt.
Before his arm got halfway to his waist, he started to lose motor control. Only then did the agent try yelling to his partner. It was a long way to the top of the tower, but it was all he had left. Although his brain willed it, his vocal cords refused to cooperate. He was even having trouble staying on his feet. He really needed to sit down. The drugs took effect, his paralysis total. He slumped to the ground. Three seconds after his brain first registered the dart’s sting, Jim Norwood lay unconscious at the foot of the sniper’s hide.
Grant watched the powerful drugs do their work. The agent would be out for the count, but would awake alive and well. Grant went over to Norwood’s body and removed the tranquilizer dart. One down: one to go.
Now that he had evened the odds, Grant began his climb to the top of the tower. He made no attempt to be quiet as he headed up the steps, confident the other agent would think that his partner was returning from his nature walk.
Doug Talley wasn’t expecting any surprises. Hence, he didn’t even bother to look up when he heard the door open. Grant’s second dart took him squarely in the left shoulder. A few seconds later, he too was unconscious. Agent Talley had gotten his wish–he was where the action was.
Grant slung the tranquilized agent over his shoulder, and using a fireman’s carry, brought him down to the tower’s base. Once on level ground, he placed Talley next to his partner. He then carefully bound and blindfolded both men. They would definitely be embarrassed, but at least they’d be alive.
Having taken care of his immediate problem, he returned to the cabin and began to set up his equipment. Yesterday Grant had carefully disassembled each piece of gear, its parts wiped clean of any fingerprints and any other forensic evidence. If anything had to be left behind after Grant’s shot, he knew whatever he abandoned couldn’t be used to trace his identity.
As if it were a delicate piece of optical equipment, Grant removed the fifty- caliber sniper rifle from its case and placed it on the table in front of the window facing Camp David.
The forestry service had conveniently designed the worktable so that its top was level with the window’s lower sill. Next Grant took several small sandbags from his knapsack, and placed them firmly around the front legs of the rifle. The heavy bags would chock the bipod legs, preventing them from shifting.
Using a glasscutter, Grant cut a one-foot circular hole in the window directly in front of where he sat. Then he rechecked the rifle’s sighting. He then deployed the laser rangefinder in order to ascertain the range to the target. The range to target was close to fifteen hundred yards. No adjustment was needed.
With that done, he had to determine what, if any, corrections would be required to account for the effects of weather. Wind, light, temperature, and even humidity all had an effect on the bullet, the sniper–sometimes both.
His greatest problem would be the wind, since even the lightest crosswind at that range would effect the point of impact. Grant checked the anemometer on the top of the forestry station. The prevailing breeze was coming from directly behind his field of fire. Through the telescope he carefully surveyed the target area, looking for anything that would give him an indication of wind direction and velocity. Near the green, Grant spotted a flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes; the flag hung limp against the pole. Once again no adjustments were needed. Closer to zero hour, he’d check again.
Wingate had told Grant that his target would be stationary throughout the news conference. He peered through the sniper-scope a second time, noting that a table had been set in front of the banks of chairs. That was where Daniel Varrick would deliver his speech. In its center sat a cluster of three microphones. Television monitors stood on stands to the table’s left and right, as well as to either side of the chairs where the reporters would sit. A blue curtain formed the backdrop behind the speaker’s chair. Against the azure background, the flags of the United States and the office of the President of the United States stood in bold contrast.
Grant removed the plastic box containing the custom‑loaded fifty-caliber cartridges and placed it open next to the right side of the rifle. He selected one round, and then carefully slid it in the breech. With the cartridge properly seated, he sent the bolt home.
Next he removed the three-watt portable cellular phone from the knapsack, and placed it on the table. Fortunately the people at Bell Atlantic and Cellular One had seen fit to make sure their Maryland customers could talk from their cars all the way to the western Maryland line. Nonetheless he checked the signal strength indicator on the phone’s handset. A nearly perfect reading, it displayed five out of six dots. Grant replaced the handset in its cradle.
From his knapsack, he removed a small portable computer with built‑in modem. Even at this late date, his mission was contingent upon the receipt of the computer‑generated go-ahead signal through the cellular link. His ‘go’ signal was the word Cutter. In spite of all the preparations, all the planning and late nights, Wingate still insisted upon this last bit of fail‑safe precaution. In the absence of the go‑ahead signal, he was to abort the mission.
With everything set up and ready to go, Grant decided to check his two captives one more time. The dosage he had
used was such that each man would be out for no less than four hours. Grant loaded the tranquilizer gun, and taking a second dart, headed toward the steps. He found that both men were still out cold. Grant checked their pulses–strong and steady.
He took a few minutes to enjoy the fresh air and scenery. It had been a long time since he had been in the mountains–something he’d have to correct after this was over. Slowly he made the climb back to the cabin.
It was now ten o’clock and he wanted to be certain he was in position and ready. His intelligence indicated the conference would take the better part of an hour. There was plenty of time to get this done right.
CHAPTER 47
0930 Hours
After they drank the tea, Janet and Payton recapped the Sterno, extinguishing the heat source. They policed their campsite, then began the hike to the tower. Once they had entered the woods, they spoke only in a low whisper. It wasn’t long before they reached the tower.
As they got closer, Payton became more sensitive to the fact that they were visible from its ramparts. When they reached a spot still in the woods that gave them a view of the steps leading to the top of the tower as well as the fire road, he motioned for Janet to crouch down, and did the same, watching the tower for any signs of activity.
Payton checked the time. The conference would begin soon, and Payton had no idea when the sniper would make his attempt at snuffing out the President's life. Wingate’s plot was moving inexorably toward its inevitable conclusion.
. . . . . .
0945 Hours
Charles Wingate faced the impending press conference with totally divergent feelings. He knew that the course of action the Committee had devised was best. Nonetheless, the plan’s consequences terrified him.
When Daniel Varrick had invited his long-time friend to attend the conference, Wingate had recoiled at the possibility of being there when John Grant ended the President's life. He had struggled with his various options, wondering what would happen if he refused the invitation. In the end, he’d decided that he had no choice but to attend the conference, the consequences be damned.
Tied up with matters of government, Varrick was unable to see his friend Wednesday evening. The following morning, a Secret Service agent arrived at Wingate’s lodge to escort him up to Aspen for breakfast with the President.
“Charlie, good morning,” Daniel Varrick said as soon as his friend walked in. “I trust your accommodations were satisfactory.” The President was working at his desk, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. Obviously he had been up for several hours, putting the final touches on his speech.
“Of course, but then I am the guest of the President of the United States.” Varrick smiled at Wingate’s emphasis on the word guest.
“I took the liberty of having breakfast ordered for us. The Navy’s stewards feel that when you’re in the country, only a hearty breakfast will do. They put out a spread big enough to feed an army. They’ll have anything you want.”
“It looks like the fog is burning off. We might even have a nice day... at least as far as the weather’s concerned,” Wingate said as he peered out the window.
“I had one of my aides check the forecast. We should have cool temperatures and bright sunlight all day long. Of course, just because the President of the United States orders up good weather, doesn’t mean he’ll get it.” Daniel Varrick closed his loose‑leaf and got up from behind the desk.
“Time for a break,” he said, joining Wingate at the window.
Out front two agents watched the staff scurry as they readied Camp David for the impending news conference. The agent posted closest to Aspen carried a small black nylon case that Wingate knew held an Uzi submachine gun. Little good it would do them today.
Marines were taking their posts ready to usher the media people to the now‑converted golf course. Yellow ropes on stanchions marked the path from the main gate to the press conference area. Technicians cleared by the Secret Service were busy moving their equipment over to the site of the briefing. Carts loaded with high‑priced video cameras, monitors, sound equipment, lights, stands, tripods, and cables shuffled past attentive sentries.
Wingate felt it all–the excitement, the scramble by the news crews for the best locations, the tenseness in the eyes of the Secret Service agents, the Marines’ spit and polish.
Varrick gestured toward the parade of technicians. “They’re going to spend more time setting up and taking down their gear than listening to my speech. And all that for what? By the time the hour of videotape gets to the broadcast suite, it’ll be edited down to a few minutes of air-time. Makes you wonder if it’s all worth it.” Daniel Varrick paused as more technicians scurried toward the green.
“Looks like breakfast’s here,” Varrick said. Two Navy stewards pushing a small trolley cart were coming up the walk toward Aspen. They arrived with an array of eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, and biscuits. The stewards poured coffee for both men.
“Is there anything you need, Mr. President?” the senior man asked.
“No, as usual, it looks as if you’ve thought of everything,” the President said as he lifted the cover off the serving plate. Everything smelled so good, and Daniel Varrick was hungry. “Please give my compliments to the chefs. Tell them I said ‘The condemned man ate a hearty meal’.” The President laughed at his joke. Wingate didn’t.
While Daniel Varrick filled his dish with scrambled eggs, bacon, and a biscuit, Charles Wingate was at a loss as to what he wanted for breakfast. He finally selected a smaller portion of eggs, added some ham, and began to eat. Varrick knew his friend always began the day with a large breakfast, and he was surprised at the small portions on Wingate’s plate.
The President mused, “It’s really funny. When I’m in Washington, I get by with an English muffin and coffee. Up here, I eat enough for two. Must be the country air.” Varrick poured himself another cup of coffee.
The President's ebullience was in stark contrast to the cloud overshadowing Wingate’s mood. “Anything wrong?” the President asked.
“I guess that I have a touch of the flu–nothing to be concerned about. It’ll go away soon enough,” Wingate said, barely picking at his breakfast.
Wingate might be having second thoughts about the Committee’s decision, but he knew there was no turning back. His allegiance to the Committee superseded all else. It had been that way since his father introduced him to the group, and it would be that way until he died. He only hoped Daniel Varrick wouldn’t push the issue. After all what could he say? That he was upset because by this afternoon his old friend would be dead? With his approval, the die had been cast. He was committed–to the end.
“Why don’t you see one of my doctors? Navy’s got a complete medical team here. Let them take a look at you.”
“You have a lot on your mind today. Don’t be concerned about me. I’ll be fine.”
They finished the meal in relative silence. Wingate didn’t want Daniel Varrick focused on anything but the matter at hand. He needed to put the President’s mind at ease. “You know, Dan, some of us still have to earn our living. We can’t depend on the taxpayers to support us in the manner to which we’ve become accustomed,” Wingate said, making a feeble effort at levity.
The President chuckled. “You’ve always regretted your decision to stay in the private sector rather than run for office. I always said you’d make a great governor after that last idiot got voted out of office, but you wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Christ, by then you had already made your first hundred million. You could have lived like a king and still been governor of the state. You should have run.”
“You’re right. But then, when it came to politics, I was always a day late and a dollar short. I can’t complain. The trust has kept me more than busy and certainly challenged. It hasn’t been a bad life,” Wingate said, pensively avoiding Varrick’s gaze.
Varrick glanced at his watch. “I don’t mean to throw you out, but I’ve got a few minor touches le
ft to do on this speech. I’ll see you after the news conference.” The President rose to see his friend to the door. “I hope you feel better. Remember, if you change your mind about using our medical facilities, call over to the security control lodge. They’ll send someone right over.”
“Thanks, but as I said, it’s nothing. Good luck today. I hope the press doesn’t make things too rough.” Varrick waited at the door until Charles Wingate walked down the steps leading from Aspen to the main road, one of the agents trailing along a few paces behind him.
. . . . . .
0945 Hours
As Grant got to the top of the steps, he heard the cellular phone’s chirp. He took the last few steps at a run, darting toward the phone. Only two people had his number, and according to plan, only one should be calling him.
Grant picked up the handset. “Yes.”
The familiar voice on the other end of the phone exclaimed, “John, you’re compromised. You aren’t supposed to get out of there alive. Abort the mission and get as far away from there as you can. They’re going to kill you!”
Grant’s hand tightened around the handset. “Do you know what their plans are? How are they going to hit me?”
“No, I don’t. I overheard Wingate telling someone that you weren’t going to be a threat to the Committee after today. Then I put two and two together.”
“I was afraid of that. I can tie this right back to the Committee, so I’m history. No way! I’ll take care of things here. Watch your six,” the man known as John Grant cautioned. “You’re as much a threat to them as I am. Maybe even more so.”
“I’m getting out soon. Good luck.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
With the warning delivered, the caller calmed down. “What are friends for?”
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 35
