The Cassandra Conspiracy (41 page)

Then it dawned on him. Two calls would be placed to the cellular phone. The first would be the go
-ahead signal from Wingate. The second, which would be transmitted later, would send another digital word to the cellular phone. The bomb’s logic circuitry would decode the command, and detonate the bomb he had been carrying around for weeks. He had to hand it to Wingate; it was neat.

Suddenly Wingate’s insistence that Grant always have the phone nearby made sense. If his shot killed Daniel Varrick, Wingate would erase any traces of his hired assassin. If anything went wrong and Wingate had to terminate the contract, what better way to do so than by destroying all traces of his hired assassin?  Wingate certainly wasn’t going to leave anything to chance!

With the bomb deactivated, Grant was left with a dilemma. He could pack up his gear and get the hell out of there. He already had the down payment. Or he could go after Wingate.

Alternatively, he could do what he came to do. Either way, he could kiss off the rest of the money. Just because Wingate missed him now didn’t mean that the Committee would give up either. From past experience, Grant knew they had a long memory. They also had the resources to hunt him down no matter where he sought asylum. Grant didn’t fancy the idea of becoming the hunted with a milli
on-dollar contract on his head.

Of course only Wingate and his security man, Bill Parker, knew enough about him to be a threat. He had never met with any of the Committee’s other members. They knew him by his pseudonym but had never seen him. Only Parker and Wingate could identify him.

The money he had banked over the years added to the down payment he had already received, would allow him to lead the kind of life most people only dreamed of. He could spend a few hundred thousand on a nice sloop, and sail the Caribbean living off the balance of the money. The world today was a small place, and wire transfers were possible from almost anywhere. His funds were instantly accessible simply by sending a fax with the right account number and matching code word.

On the other hand,
John Grant, alias John Barron, had more reasons than mere dollars and cents to complete this assignment. He had made a promise–one he intended to keep. He’d been planning this moment for years–ever since he found out that it was Varrick, then chief of CIA Southeast Asia ops, who had steadfastly refused their pleas for help.

The Vietcong might have been the ones to plant the mine that shredded his SOG teammate, Charlie Wingate, but it was Varrick who set up the suicide operation in the first place and then was content to sit comfortably in his Saigon office while the men in the field perished. John Grant reassembled the cellular unit and connected it to the modem.

A few minutes later, he heard its buzz. Grant pressed the Send button on the handset, and then watched as the letters CUTTER flashed across the compact CRT display. He replaced the handset and disconnected the computer. He was ready.

CHAPTER 48

1034 Hours

Payton spent a few minutes absorbing the predicament he was in. It was a few minutes past ten thirty; he knew the press conference would begin on time. From where they stood hidden in the brush, Payton couldn’t tell who, if anyone, was in the cabin.

If he climbed the stairs and found the Secret Service agents at their post, he’d be arrested on the spot. If he blundered on to the sniper, he’d probably end up dead. A quick check had merit.

“Stay here. I’m going to take a quick look around. I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Janet.

Janet leaned closer to Payton. Then softly she said. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“How would I know that unless you told me. What do you think I am, clairvoyant?” Payton asked, smiling.

“Be careful.”

He set off toward the tower, staying as close as possible to the tree line. Payton knew if anyone, Secret Service or not, came down the steps while he was busy reconnoitering the area, he’d be history.

He stayed in the foliage rather than chance walking out into the clearing at the base of the fire watch station. As he made his way around the tower, Payton kept a wary eye on the steps leading up to the top.

He was so busy looking for potential trouble; he nearly tripped over the two Secret Service agents. Payton's mind lurched when he saw the two bodies. The unconscious body of Jim Norwood was at his feet. Doug Talley lay alongside. At first he thought both men were dead. It wasn’t until it registered that they were bound and gagged that he realized the sniper hadn’t killed them. 

Payton reached down to check Norwood’s pulse. It beat strong and steady. Next he ran his hands over the agent’s body, looking for some sort of identification though he was certain he had found the Secret Service agents posted at the tower.

In Norwood’s shirt pocket, Payton found his ID case. The badge inside confirmed what he already suspected–the man sent to kill the President of the United States was already in position.

Carefully, Payton made his way back to where he had left Janet.

“I found the Secret Service agents,” he whispered.

“Dead?” she asked, a shiver running down her spine.

“No, but unconscious. Wingate’s assassin must have drugged the agents, before leaving them over there,” he said, pointing across to the trees.

“I’m going up to the top. Promise me you’ll stay here until I get back. If anything goes wrong, get help, but go back the same way we came. No matter what you do, stay off the fire road.”

Janet looked into Payton's eyes. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Not if I can help it.”  Payton could have told her the truth–their chances of getting out of
this thing alive had been slim from the start and was only getting worse.

He kissed her,
and then picked up the shotgun. As he headed toward the tower, he flicked off the Remington’s safety. In spite of what he’d said, Payton was about to rush headlong into a blind alley.

Payton looked up the stairs. For a brief moment he remembered the high school gym teacher who had half motivated, half driven him up the sixteen-foot-high climbing rope. It had been his freshman year, and Payton had dreaded gym classes. To make matters worse, the instructor was a prematurely graying man named Kent, who reveled in making things as hard as possible for all his students, but particularly for Payton.

The rope had stood in the center of the gym, daring him to reach the ceiling. He knew how to climb, but found the height daunting. Twice he’d tried and failed to make it to the top. The third time his gym teacher had stood at the bottom of the rope as Payton began his ascent. He had made it up the first eight feet before he stopped. His mind’s eye saw him falling to the floor. The instructor had yelled, “The only thing you have to fear is fear itself. Get your ass up that rope!” 

Payton had gripped the rope tighter and continued his climb, pausing every few feet to test his hold on the rough hemp.

“Guts, Mr. Payton, guts!” the instructor had yelled at him. Payton had pressed on, more afraid of the teacher’s wrath than of the rope. Now he was back at the foot of his rope of fear, but this time things were different: his life was on the line.

Payton's eyes followed the steps’ zigzag route down to the ground. Each step would move him closer to his quarry. After every set of ten stairs, a narrow landing turned the climber in the opposite direction before he had to tackle the next flight. Fortunately, the steps were both narrow and close to the tower’s side, making it difficult for the sniper to see him.

Clutching the shotgun, he started the slow climb up the steps. The stock was in his right hand, the shortened barrel in his left, and the muzzle pointed up. If the sniper ambushed him on the steps, he’d be cut to pieces. He purposely kept his finger away from the Remington’s trigger. Payton was shaky, and a slip would be the end.

When Payton's foot hit the third step, it creaked loudly. As he glanced up, Payton prayed that the assassin wouldn’t hear his footfall. No one peered over the side. Each step brought Payton closer to the top of the fire tower–closer to facing the demons that awaited him–one in the cabin, one in his head. Payton choked down his fear, and continued up to the first landing.

When he got there, Payton gave himself a moment’s respite before continuing his climb. He felt more exposed now than before. Unable to afford any distraction, he didn’t dare look down to where Janet sat watching his progress. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

He continued to the second landing. Here he didn’t stop, certain th
at if he did, the agony of self-doubt would take control and he’d never see the top of the tower. Without so much as a look down or behind him, he continued his ascent.

The last group of steps went up to the catwalk encircling the cabin. Four steps from the top, Payton saw that glass windows enclosed the cabin on all four sides.

He looked at the door. Where were the hinges?  Did it open in or out?  There were no hinges on the door’s exterior; it had to open into the cabin. That would work to his favor when he finally rushed the sniper. Options, where were his options? He had none.

.   .   .   .   .   .

1045 Hours

The Secret Service, along with Cantrell’s Marine detachment, had screened all the press people, the television news teams, and the technicians supporting the media. Every piece of equipment had been searched; every individual who sought entry was checked for concealed weapons. Everything was as ready as it could be. Camp David’s gates were secure. No one else would be admitted. The retreat was locked up tighter than Fort Knox’s vaults. Thiesse checked his watch for what must have been the tenth time. It was nearly eleven o’clock–show time.

Allen Thiesse raised his sleeve to his mouth while mashing the transceiver’s push-to-talk button. Then he spoke into the microphone clipped to his cuff. “All units, this is Horsepower One. Get ready. We’re moving Cutter now,” he said referring to the President by his code name.

.   .   .   .   .   .

1057 Hours

Payton noted that the cabin’s door was partially open. If the catwalk creaked at his step, he’d fire as soon as the sniper came to investigate the noise. Holding his breath, Payton stepped up onto the landing. Careful to stay under the level of the windows, he inched toward the crack of the partially opened door.

From his position he could see the sniper hunched over his rifle. The man’s finger was already on the trigger, his eye glued to the sniper-scope. Payton thought briefly about trying to take him alive. If he were successful, he could prove everything he had told the Secret Service. If he failed, he’d die. Seconds ticked off.

Streaked with sweat, Payton crouched outside the door. Silently he willed the assassin not to turn around. It was time to put an end to the nightmares of the past months. Payton took a deep breath,
and then charged for the door.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Janet Phillips watched the man she loved climb the steps to the top of the fire tower. Although she was standing safe amongst the trees near the tower base, Janet shared Payton's fear. It rippled through her body as if she were the one stalking the assassin. She knew the person that Wingate had picked to kill the President would be very special–a trained killer. And he would not be easily taken, even by other professionals. As her fear rose like bile, she prayed that Payton would somehow stop the assassination.

She felt helpless, unable to provide any kind of support. There was no way to make the feeling disperse; nowhere to go where it didn’t get you. And it was coming home to roost. She had had to be crazy to let
Steve get involved in this scheme, much less involve her too. It wasn’t his job to stop anybody from assassinating the President. She should have stopped him at the start, but she hadn’t. Guilt swept over her like a tidal wave. Unlike a wave, which soon passes, the feeling of dread stuck with her.

CHAPTER 49

1059 Hours

The complex of cables carrying video and audio signals from a multitude of cameras and microphones snaked their way from the golf course to a morass of state of the art broadcast transmission equipment. Ten rows of metal folding chairs, sixteen chairs each, were arranged in a rectangular array.

The first row, reserved for the big name reporters and network anchor people, was ten feet from the table where the President of the United States would deliver his briefing. A question and answer period would follow. A blue velvet rope looped from stanchion to stanchion, demarcating the area between the press and the table from which the President would deliver his speech.

President
Varrick's Secret Service escorts maintained formation until he was in position in front of the gathering. Once near the table, the flanking agents shifted to left and right, taking positions far enough from the President for their presence not to be a distraction.

As soon as Daniel Varrick walked toward the table, the banks of klieg lights came to life, illuminating the entire area where, in a few seconds, the
President would sit. Simultaneously the electronic strobes of the still photographers flashed like bolts of lightning over the assemblage. All three major networks, as well as two lesser ones, were carrying the President's speech live. President Varrick smiled for the cameras, as if to reassure the millions of viewers that everything was going to be fine.

Immediately hands shot up while a chorus of voices called out, “Mr.
President.”  Daniel Varrick took his seat and arranged his notes on the table in front of him. When it became obvious that the President was not going to entertain any questions, the gathering stilled.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Varrick said. “I know you have numerous questions about a wide range of topics of interest to your viewers and readers. However, before I answer any questions from the floor, I want to talk to you about our economy and the direction in which this great nation is headed.”

As the President began his introductory comments, Allen Thiesse walked over to the side of the gathering, and mingled with some of the press people and technicians. This was standard practice whenever the President spoke and added to the overall security. Thiesse remained in constant touch with the retreat’s command center, but no communications were initiated during an event unless it was an emergency. Because all his people were close to each other, Thiesse had the squelch on his unit adjusted to a point that kept his earphone free of the channel’s static.

“Horsepower One, Cactus here,” Thiesse’s radio crackled.

The unanticipated message galvanized the head of PPD. Whatever the command center wanted, it was urgent. He moved quickly for his push-to-talk switch to acknowledge the transmission. Some of the press noted his reaction, and wondered what was going on. The President was right up there in front of them. Everything seemed fine.

“We can’t raise Champion Two.”  Thiesse’s mind ran down the list of call signs and positions–Champion Two was the team at the fire watchtower. Suddenly the pieces dropped into place. The attack that he had figured would materialize from someone at the news conference would come instead from th
e forestry service’s fire watchtower.

.   .   .   .   .   .

1100 Hours

John Grant smoothed the folds of his shirt where soon the rifle would nestle against his shoulder. He flicked off the safety, and brought the gunstock up and into position. Sighting through the scope, he positioned the top of the vertical post in the reticle on the center of the
President's chest, and then quartered his target.

Grant finally had the right man in his sights. In his mind, he envisioned the path the heavy round would take as it left the gun barrel to begin its nearly mile
-long journey. Daniel Varrick would be dead before he hit the ground, a fitting end to an ignoble career.

Ever so slowly, Grant applied the pressure on the trigger needed to start the bullet on its lethal journey. Carefully he controlled his breathing. Even a slight quiver would throw the trajectory of the high powered round off–no time for a second shot.

As Grant’s finger tightened on the trigger, the cabin door burst open. The firing pin shot forward, striking the shell’s primer; the bullet began its deadly supersonic flight.