The Cassandra Conspiracy (35 page)

Parker was relieved. If his man had told him that it looked like they were getting ready to go out, he’d have to use one of Wingate’s helicopters to track the boat. The helicopter was available if he needed it, but it would be a lot easier if Payton kept the boat tied up at the dock.

“No matter what you do, don’t let them out of your sight.”  Parker hung up his phone.

Parker poured himself a cup of coffee and went back to his office.

If it looked like Payton and Janet Phillips were going to stay on the boat all night, he’d arrange for a little accident to happen right there in Middle River, maybe some sort of explosion.

Things like that happen all the time on the water. Gas vapors build up in the bilge, someone forgets to turn on the exhaust, and boom, no more boat. He’d give them another couple of hours. If they didn’t set sail, Parker would send in his people. If they left the marina, he’d have his man follow them. Either way, he’d get Payton out of his hair once and for all.

CHAPTER 38

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Janet said, trying to rouse Payton from his nap, “The pictures are probably ready by now. Time to get going.” 

Payton took a few seconds to orient himself, but the warmth of Janet’s body coupled with the gentle sway of the boat left him in no doubt of where he was. They dressed and after locking the hatch, left the marina. Neither Payton nor Janet saw the sedan trailing behind them.

Once back at the paper, they made their way to Navarro’s office.

“Here are your blowups,” Navarro said his eyes on Janet.

Payton removed the enlargements and spread them out. One by one, he studied the shots. The first four were worthless. The fifth eight
-by-ten included more of the surrounding countryside than the others.

Payton looked at the photo first, then scanned it using Navarro’s magnifier. The shot showed the green and the area outside the facility. Payton first traced the fence line to establish a line of demarcation, then slowly searched the area behind the fence. Although the lighting wasn’t the best, Navarro had done an excellent job on the prints. 

Payton had seen photos blown up to the point that everything in the picture looked like small grains of sand. He had read somewhere that some films have a tighter grain structure than others. This grain is what he saw when he used the magnifier.

The press photographers used the best film they could get–the one with the tightest grain structure. With nearly ten times magnification, he was thankful he could even distinguish one tree from the other.

Payton passed the magnifier over the top of the print, then stopped, and went back again. Was there something in the background?  It looked like a cluster of trees rising above the forest. Whatever it was, it was a considerable distance away.

Janet was carefully watching Payton. She realized that he had spotted something in the picture, something significant. “See anything?” she asked hopefully.

“Something’s out there–I don’t know what.” Payton shifted the magnifier about, trying to get a better view. “It looks like a group of trees, but I can’t tell from the photo. Whatever it is, it seems to rise above the tree line, which is why it caught my eye.”

They checked the other shots to see if the unknown object was visible, but it wasn’t. Something tugged at his mind. Payton went back to the fifth print, and then shuffled through the others until he found what he was looking for.

“Can we put one of these negatives back in the enlarger and take a look at it?”

The photographer shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, follow me,” he said.

The darkroom, no larger than an oversized closet, was next door. It would accommodate one person, two at the most. Fortunately, they weren’t going to be there long. Navarro led the way, Janet followed, and Payton brought up the rear.

Navarro took the strip of negatives and inserted it into the carrier. Then he put the carrier into the enlarger, and turned off the overhead lights. “Which shot do you want to see?”

“The one where Bush is practicing his putts.”

When the negative was in proper registration, Payton said, “Can we blowup the part where his hands are on the club?”

Navarro racked the enlarger up toward the ceiling. “We can’t go much higher. How’s this?”

Payton looked at the
President's right wrist. Bush was wearing a short sleeve shirt. His hands, wrists, and arms were clearly visible. Payton saw what he was looking for. “Thanks a lot. That’s what I needed.”

“Are the enlargements all right?” the photographer asked. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“They’re fine, and no, thank you, we’ve got everything we need.” 

“Don’t forget our date,” Navarro reminded Janet as she made her way toward the door.

Taking the prints, they headed back to the car.

“What was that all about?” Janet asked as they headed toward the car.

“I needed to know what time it was when the shots were taken. The best way to find out was to look at the President's watch.”

“What difference does that make?”

“We know what date they were taken, since the photographs in the paper’s files were dated. Now we know the time. Therefore, given the position of the shadows, we should be able to figure out the direction our unknown object is from the fence line. Once we have that, we might even be able to find it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Payton was walking briskly toward the parking space, and Janet struggled to keep up with him. “It might only be some trees, right?”

“Whatever it is, it’s all that we’ve got. And you’re right. It could be trees, but even if it is, the sniper might be using them as a hide. You’ve seen those platforms deer hunters build in a tree. Well, nothing says that our man couldn’t do the same thing. The important thing is there’s something out there, and whatever it is, it’s in line of sight of the golf green. A long line of sight, but a line of sight nonetheless.”

Payton wanted to look over the photos on the way back to the motel, so Janet drove the rental car. It was getting late in the day, and the downtown traffic was building. As a result, Janet didn’t pay any particular attention to the car that followed her out to the Beltway.

.   .   .   .   .   .

After he hung up the phone, Parker walked over to the state map hanging on the wall of his office. They definitely weren’t staying in Washington. If Payton had planned to remain in the capital, he would have been at the airport motel. With Pine Lakes out, the logical choice was Baltimore, but something had caused them to hurriedly get out of Washington. Whatever that something was, it would point like an arrow to where they were staying.

Parker looked at the map again. Maybe he had underestimated Payton. If Payton had managed to piece enough of the conspiracy together, he and the Phillips woman might relocate closer to Camp David–and that meant Thurmont or Frederick. Parker reached for the phone, punching in the number for the car running surveillance on the couple.

After speaking briefly with its driver, Parker broke the connection and dialed the number of his response team positioned in one of the area motels. Parker’s instructions were clear. He would dispatch two teams. One would position themselves along Route 15, a mile or so north of where  Interstate 70 cut the highway. The second he’d have take up a point further north at the Route 77 intersection, but where they’d be able to cover the parallel route 806. If both cars left right away, they’d just make it.

When he was certain the couple was going back to western Maryland, Parker’s man reported in. Parker told him to verify that they exited Interstate 70 at Route 15, then drop off the surveillance. The man in the tail car acknowledged his orders, uncertain what Parker had in mind. It seemed like a lot of trouble to follow them from Baltimore all the way to western Maryland, only to break off the surveillance. What the hell? He was getting paid either way.

When he saw the car get off the interstate at Route 15, Parker’s man reported in again. Wherever they were going, Parker was obviously on top of it. He followed them off the same exit, but headed back to the estate.

Janet was driving at a leisurely pace. The heavy traffic on the north-south route continued up Route 15 since it was faster than Auburn Road. She followed the small country road, designated Route 550, north.

As they entered the Route 77 intersection, a car coming from the side road pulled in behind her. Janet continued on her course, paying no attention to the other vehicle. The other driver remained a respectful distance behind them, but never let her out of his sight.

Most of the traffic was headed for the interchange at Route 15. Once past the interchange, the road reverted back to a small country road, a single lane in each direction. Less than a mile from the interchange, she watched as the other driver pulled alongside her.

Instinctively, her foot came off the accelerator and started toward the brake pedal. But something told her to get the hell out of there. She regained control of the accelerator, pressing it to the floor.

Payton looked up from the photos. “What’s...” he asked.

“They’re trying to run us off the road,” Janet shouted in response to his unfinished question. Wingate’s people had finally caught up with them.

“Hit the accelerator,” he barked.

The rental car’s wheels screeched as she dropped the shift lever into a lower gear and slammed the accelerator to the floor. Blue smoke poured from the tortured rear tires until they finally grabbed the road.

Meanwhile, the chase car stayed alongside, but made no effort to force them off the road. Payton got a good look at the occupants of the chase car–two men, both sitting in front. Immediately, he reached behind the front seat scrambling desperately for the shotgun, which he had forgotten to move over behind the driver’s seat after Janet took the wheel.

The cars ripped through the western Maryland countryside at a breakneck pace. Fortunately no one pulled out in front of them. 

As they reached the next intersection, Janet shouted, “Should I turn?”

Payton had only a split second to make a decision.

“No go straight, stay on 550. At least we know where it goes,” he said as his left hand finally got a grip on the Remington 870.

He pulled the gun between the seats and into his hands. Payton stripped the towel off the gun, then reached for the safety. Mindful of the fact that Janet was in his line of fire, Payton kept the shotgun pointed down toward the floor.

Without warning, the pursuit car slowed, dropping back behind them. Suddenly Payton heard a loud blast. Their rear window exploded, showering the back seat with a rainfall of glass. Hoping the car’s body would slow the pellets, Payton yelled, “Keep your head down.”  What little protection the headrest would provide was better than none.

Frantically, Janet maneuvered the sedan
so that other car was behind her. She couldn’t let them pass. If they managed to get ahead of her, the game would be over. Once they forced her to stop, both she and Steve would be dead, the victims of some unknown, random crime that unexpectedly hit the western Maryland community.

She had no intentions of letting that happen. Every time the driver of the chase car tried to get around her, Janet swung the steering wheel to the left, cutting him off. Both cars whipped from lane to lane, each driver struggling to gain the upper hand.

More rounds raked the car, each blast slamming into it with a loud thump. At first Payton had thought they were trying to shoot out the tires: a high-speed crash would be almost as effective as a shooting. But the rounds’ impact at window level changed his mind.

He looked over at the speedometer; they were pushing seventy
-five miles per hour. The rental was holding its own, but if they got to a straight section of road, the other car would out run them. They were on the razor’s edge, and quickly running out of options.

Payton held his fire:  he was reluctant to use the Remington from where he was sitting. In order to get a shot off, he’d have to lean over Janet’s seat, and that was the last thing she needed. He’d have to move to the back seat, leaving Janet alone in the front.

But they were going too fast, and the road had too many curves for him to be able to climb out of the front seat. What’s worse, he knew they couldn’t keep this pace up much longer. Either Janet would crash, most likely into one of the countless roadside trees, or the other car would finally force them off the road.

Janet watched as the other driver tried again to pass. He had just begun to pull up on the left side of them, when Janet glimpsed the construction dump truck in the oncoming lane. Wingate’s man, still trying to edge up alongside them, hadn’t seen the truck. Janet gauged the distance. It was time to fight fire with fire. A plan began to take shape in her mind. It
just might work.

Ever so slowly she cut her speed, letting the chase car move up closer alongside them. She didn’t want them so close that a shot would hit something vital. On the other hand, she didn’t want them so far back that they could easily slow down then ease in behind her. She kept her imaginary fingers crossed, hoping the other driver’s attention would remain on her, and not the road ahead. The gunman’s attention was riveted on his quarry.

Carl Yalter had recently turned fifty. His beer belly, infinitely better padding than a seat belt, propped him up between the seat and the rig’s steering wheel. He often threatened to lay off the suds, but his after-work six pack was the one thing in life he really looked forward to.

As usual, he was late, and his wife would be all over his ass. He had promised her he’d be home on time so that she could go out with the
“girls” for a sandwich and a beer, then go bowling.

It used to be the guys’ night out. Now it was the girls’, and his turn to put up with their three brats. At least there was an ample supply of beer in the fridge. He downshifted gears on the huge Kenworth dump truck.

Many people who worked in Baltimore or Washington discovered that the lengthy commute out to Western Maryland was well worth the lower housing prices. Construction was booming, and Yalter was working pretty steadily. In fact, he’d worked more this year than he had in the past three years. His load of gravel topped ten tons cargo weight.