Lauren twirled the large Sargent and Greenleaf combination lock on her classified file cabinet. Her hands trembled as she desperately tried to hit each number in the combination right on the mark. If she missed a single digit, she’d have to start all over again. The spring-loaded detents, there to prevent the skilled manipulation of the dial, threatened to cause to her lose her place.
Left three times, she stopped at the first number. She wiped the sweat from her hands before grasping the serrated dial again. Right two times to the second, and then left one turn to the third number. She turned the dial right to zero, praying she hit all the numbers correctly, and the dial would go to the unlock detent. She heard the familiar click when the dial reached zero. She turned it past zero until she was up against the detent. Grabbing the chrome metal handle, Lauren pulled the top drawer out.
Quickly she removed a list of telephone numbers also stamped TOP SECRET CUTTER. She selected one of the numbers, and dialed it on her phone. At Camp Three, the name the Park Service used for Camp David, a small portable cellular phone rang, bleeping only twice before it was answered.
“Thiesse here.”
“This is Lauren Woods at Cartwheel,” Lauren said identifying herself with NSA’s call sign. “We’ve got the information you wanted. If this weren’t an emergency, I wouldn’t give you this information on an open line, but under the circumstances... .”
“Please go ahead, Ms. Woods,” Thiesse interrupted, “I’ll assume responsibility for any security problems that might result.”
“The clear-text message implies strongly that someone’s going to try to assassinate President Varrick during his news conference.”
“Someone already has tried, but they weren’t successful.”
“Thank God,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She had pushed her people as hard as she dared. It wasn’t their fault it took so long to break the cipher. “Do you still want me to handle this on a priority? If so, where do you want the decrypted intercepts sent?”
“I presume this information should remain classified at the same level as the project?” Thiesse asked the NSA manager.
“We’re dealing with CRITIC information. We can have it secure‑faxed to the White House, or messengered to you personally.”
Thiesse hated to try to extract the substance of classified information by talking around the subject. On the other hand, he didn’t want to waste any time in getting his hands on the clear-text intercepts. “If we go secure, can you read me the clear-text messages?”
“Sir, if the STU‑III is set up for Top Secret transmission, there’s no problem.”
“What’s your secure line? I’ll call you right back.”
Lauren gave him the number, then hung up her phone. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead, and sat at her desk tapping her pencil while she waited for the return call.
She needed to calm down. The President was safe, and maybe their efforts at decrypting the messages would help the Secret Service arrest the perpetrators. Although she knew everything was all right at Camp David, her heart was still beating double time.
A few minutes later, the secure telephone on her credenza rang. Lauren answered the call. At the command center, Allen Thiesse immediately identified himself, and told her that he was going classified. She inserted her key, turned it, and watched the digital display illuminate the words TOP SECRET.
Satisfied that their communications line was secure, she read him the clear-text messages taken from the encrypted intercepts. When she finished, Thiesse asked her to have the hard copies couriered over to his attention at W‑16 in the White House. He thanked her for her assistance, and broke the connection.
Before she did anything else, she’d brief Gene Goldberg upon his return to the building. Since Allen Thiesse knew the contents of the intercepts, their ultimate transmission to the White House was no longer time sensitive.
Lauren replaced the handset in the STU‑III unit and took another look at the decoded intercepts. She shook her head, and placed them back in the envelope. Then she secured the Cutter documents in the office safe. Lauren prepared a brief memo indicating the date, time, and summary of her call to the head of PPD. She took a stamp from her top desk drawer, and marked the top, bottom, front and back of her memo with the designation TOP SECRET CUTTER.
Getting up from her desk, Lauren headed out the door of the SCIF and over to Gene Goldberg’s office. She hoped that he wouldn’t think the building had burned down and no one had bothered to call him.
. . . . . .
Thiesse left the command center and again crossed the road to Aspen. He knocked on the door, and waited until the President beckoned him in. Thiesse found Daniel Varrick sitting on the couch watching CNN. Although the television was on, the President had the volume turned down to barely a whisper.
The news network was still airing footage of the chaos that had taken place at the news conference. Even during the early stages of Operation Desert Storm, CNN’s video was rock stable. Not so this afternoon. As the soundmen picked up the bullet’s report, the cameraman swung his video-cam, trying to cover everything that was going on. As the picture danced, it looked more like cinema verité than electronic news reporting.
“Mr. President, I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.”
The President rose from the couch and walked over to the picture window. As he reached the window, he turned to Thiesse. “Go on.”
“Mr. Wingate is dead, sir. I believe he was killed by the same person who tried to kill you.”
Daniel Varrick’s face became drawn, blanched deathly white. His shoulders slumped. Silence, like a pall, fell over the room.
After staring out the window for a few seconds, the President turned to Thiesse, meeting his gaze. “Thanks for coming over. Please, sit down. I’d like some company.”
Daniel Varrick might hold the highest elected office in the free world, but right now, Allen saw a man emotionally crippled by the death of his oldest and dearest friend. The rest of what Thiesse had come over to tell him would only make it worse. Thiesse sat in one of the chairs.
The President went over to the rustic looking sideboard. He slid open the door and reached for a bottle of whiskey. Varrick took two glasses from the cabinet. Turning to Thiesse, he asked, “Will you have a drink with me?”
On duty or not, Allen Thiesse wasn’t going to refuse the President at a time like this. He nodded. “Ice please, Mr. President.”
Daniel Varrick added ice to both glasses and from a shaking hand, poured the two drinks. He handed Thiesse the glass.
“You know, Allen, I’ve always adhered to Jack Kennedy’s philosophy that if someone wants to trade his life for mine, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I really believe that to be the case, even though I know that you and your people do everything in your power to ensure my safety.” The President paused for a minute and took a sip from his glass.
“Whoever took the shot at me missed. He could have come back another day for a second try, but instead he kills Charlie Wingate. Why bother going after Charlie? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Thiesse didn’t rush his response, allowing the question to hang in the air for a few minutes. Finally he swallowed hard, and began to explain to the President what had really happened.
“I’m not sure why, but it appears that Mr. Wingate was involved in the conspiracy.”
“Impossible!,” Daniel Varrick snapped, “Charles Wingate and I have been friends for years–since before I even went into politics.”
“About a week ago, our Protective Intelligence Division got a visit from a Baltimore lawyer, Steven Payton. Payton claimed that he had information about an imminent attempt on your life. At the time this happened, Payton was up in Pine Lakes not far from Mr. Wingate’s estate.
He told our people that Charles Wingate was behind the plan, and of course they didn’t believe him. But Payton knew that Mr. Wingate was a close personal friend of yours. That gave us some cause for conc
ern, since we felt that if he had made this whole thing up, he would have found a more plausible conspirator,” Thiesse explained.
“The Service is used to all types of people coming up with all kinds of plots they allegedly overhear, and generally we don’t take them seriously. In fact, Intelligence Division didn’t take Payton seriously, even though his friend, Janet Phillips, vouched for him. Since he hadn’t broken any laws and hadn’t directly threatened your safety, they had to let him go,” Thiesse said, pausing to see if the President had any questions. Daniel Varrick sat there, quietly waiting for Thiesse to continue.
“When Payton and the Phillips woman disappeared, we alerted local law enforcement to keep a watch out for them. Right before your news conference, they turned up in Thurmont. When the two deputies assigned to keep track of them were killed, we thought Payton had done it. But now we feel that it was someone connected with Mr. Wingate.”
“Why the change?” The President’s words came from between clenched teeth.
“First of all, Payton was shocked when we told him about the deputies’ deaths. Second, Payton had a shotgun when he was apprehended–nothing else. The deputies were shot with a small caliber pistol-probably a semiautomatic with a silencer, since no one at the motel heard a sound.
Finally, one person couldn’t have taken out both deputies. There had to be two shooters, and that means two guns. It was a professional hit all the way.”
“That may clear Payton as far as you’re concerned, but it doesn’t tie in Charlie,” Daniel Varrick retorted.
“Please bear with me a little longer,” Thiesse replied.
“After the attempt on your life, our agents found both Payton and Janet Phillips at the fire tower, the place we’re sure the sniper used. They still claimed that they were only trying to stop the assassination, but frankly we didn’t believe them. Both of them are here at Camp David being held under tight security in Buckeye and Elm,” Thiesse said, nodding in the direction of the two guest cabins.
“We ran a check on the shotgun we found at the scene. Our check of Payton shows only purchase of the shotgun we found in the room with him at the time of his apprehension. ATF has no records of Payton’s buying any other weapon, and the sniper definitely used a special, high‑powered rifle. “
“Allen,” the President said, “Is that the basis for your theory that Charlie was involved in the attempt on my life? Because if it is... ”
“No sir. Even if you believe Payton's version of what happened, that in itself is insufficient to draw that conclusion. Unfortunately there’s more. After I read the report from Intelligence Division, I used our Interagency Group at NSA to place taps on all the lines coming into and leaving the Wingate estate at Pine Lakes.”
“Without informing me?”
“I was reasonably sure it was a waste of time, but your safety was at stake, and I couldn’t chance it. If we found out that everything was above board, we would have pulled the flaps and folded our tent.”
Wary of what was coming, President Varrick's face muscles tensed up and his hands clenched.
“NSA found that the communications, both voice and computerized, were encrypted. We knew that Wingate’s business interests were far-flung, so the fact that he encrypted his communications wasn’t in itself cause for concern. For the last few weeks, the NSA group has been working on decrypting the intercepts.
They completed their work a short while ago. I don’t have the written copies of the intercepts yet, but from what they read to me over the secure line a few minutes ago, there’s no doubt that Mr. Wingate was instrumental in the attempt on your life,” Allen Thiesse said regretfully.
His world spinning out of control, Daniel Varrick exhaled sharply. Up until this moment, he had taken pride in being the President of the United States. Varrick had been happy to devote his life to leading the nation. Now the impact of his friend’s betrayal trivialized his past feelings. He wondered why someone so close to him would take the first step down a path that had to end in death and the total destruction of their friendship.
Varrick, the man–not the President of the United States–had lost someone who had been very important in his life, and that loss was already sinking in. Part of him had died when the fatal round hit Charles Wingate. What was worse, he had no idea why his friend would allow himself to become caught up in such a malignant whirlpool.
Charles Wingate had been part of his life for more years than he could remember. Images of the good times they had shared flashed in and out of his mind’s eye. In spite of how it ended, they would always be friends. Maybe it was better this way, parting as they did. That way there would be no public humiliation or trial. It had all ended with the assassin’s bullet.
Unfortunately, the American people were waiting to hear what had happened at Camp David. The press was running wild. Those of an assassination conspiracy masterminded by some yet-to-be-named foreign power matched rumors of a palace coup. Daniel Varrick knew that as the elected leader, it was up to him to stabilize the situation. And he had to do that before he took on the personal burdens the day’s events had placed upon him.
The President looked into the eyes of the man who had dedicated a major part his life to protecting him. “Do you think this is part of a larger conspiracy against the Office of the President?”
Thiesse didn’t pause for a minute. “Yes, sir, I do. I believe when we get the appropriate warrants and search Mr. Wingate’s residence and offices, we’ll find ties to other people who, for whatever reason, adhere to the same beliefs as did Mr. Wingate.”
The President paused to collect his thoughts. After a few minutes, he looked at Thiesse and said, “By charter, I guess the FBI would be carrying the ball in any subsequent investigation into today’s events. Right?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Thiesse answered. Although it was the Secret Service’s job to protect the President, it was under the FBI’s jurisdiction to conduct the follow‑up investigation.
“I don’t want to go that route. I want someone I know personally to take charge, and that’s you. Have any problem with that, Allen?”
“No, sir.” Thiesse quickly responded to the question.
“In that case, I am ordering a multiagency task force to consist of the FBI, CIA, NSA, IRS, and the Secret Service to conduct an investigation, to be classified at the highest levels and with the tightest need‑to‑know, into the conspiracy you feel was, and might still be, in place against me. I want the others involved flushed out. I’m not certain I want a rash of public trials, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Procure the necessary warrants, and secure Wingate’s estate and his offices throughout the country. You’d better have the IRS handle that so we don’t draw attention to this office. NSA can continue assisting you in decryption efforts should they be needed.”
“I’ll get on it right away, Mr. President,” Thiesse said making notes in his pocket pad on the President's directives.
“Allen, are you confident that Steven Payton and Janet Phillips are not involved in the conspiracy?”
“I am, Mr. President. I’d like not to lose track of them while we continue our investigation into their activities. Considering what you told me, I expect we’ll find that they’ve been telling us the truth all along.”
“Assign a team of agents to protect Mr. Payton and Ms. Phillips until we have the situation under control. They risked their lives when they decided to follow through on whatever it was that Mr. Payton discovered. Let’s see to it that we don’t let them down.
Also, I think it’s only appropriate that I meet both of them before you shuttle them off to some safe house. Please arrange for them to have dinner with me tonight.”
“What do you want to do about the press conference, Mr. President?” Thiesse asked as he got up to leave the cabin.
“I’d like to go ahead with it, but I doubt you’d let me step outside again until the sniper’s caught. Correct?”
“Right, Mr. President.”
/> “In that case, why don’t we reschedule the conference for the White House press briefing room tomorrow afternoon at one.”
“That’s fine. Should I tell your press secretary?”
“No. I’ll handle it.”
Thiesse headed for the door, but Daniel Varrick stopped him before he reached it. “Allen, I know that coming over here and telling me about Charlie was damned hard. I want you to know that I appreciate your honesty, and the dedication you’ve demonstrated since you inherited me five years ago.”
Allen nodded his thanks, and left the President–alone with the responsibilities of the nation and those he shouldered personally.
Epilogue
The man called John Grant parked his car next to the cliff. From the vista point, he had a great view of Deep Creek Lake–so deep, that some parts of its bottom had yet to be mapped. The outcropping projected out over the deep waters of the lake by a good twenty or thirty feet. It was a fitting place for what he had in mind.
He got out of the car and looked about. There were no other cars within sight, no one walking nearby. Grant reached back into the car for his binoculars. It never hurt to be doubly sure.
He carefully scanned the area around the overlook. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he took the rifle out of the trunk of the car. Then he broke down the gun, removing the telescopic sight from the receiver. He slipped the bolt from the breech and detached the stock from the rest of the rifle.
Each piece he wiped with an oil‑soaked rag, removing his fingerprints along with those of his friend in Florida. He then took the pieces of the weapon and threw them out as far as he could into the lake.
The sniper rifle disappeared with little more than a splash followed by the fifty caliber bullets. Finally, he tossed the cellular phone into the lake. With that done, he walked back to his car, got in, and headed east toward Baltimore. He kept a careful watch on the time, for John Barron, previously known as John Grant, had an important dinner date to keep with an old friend.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 40
