The Cassandra Conspiracy

by Rick Bajackson

  “And that was the beginning of the end?”

  Payton nodded his head. “It didn’t take long before the only thing we shared was our common interest in the law. Then that changed. I wanted a small practice. Cynthia courted the big law firms. She’s working for one of Baltimore’s more prestigious law practices. Her success was obviously measured in the depth of her office’s carpeting. They’re probably billing her out for three hundred an hour.”

  Payton shrugged. “By her standards, she had it made. The rest, needless to say, is history.”

  “And your practice?”

  “I believe in diversification. It keeps things interesting. I’ll take on any case as long as it piques my interest.”

  “Like for instance?” Janet asked.

  “Well, I’ve handled routine commercial stuff–leases and acquisitions. There’ve been a few contract negotiations and land sales. That kind of thing. Then, there’s my pro bono work. Enough about me already. Tell me about Janet Phillips.”

  Janet shifted in the bucket seat. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Start with the good stuff. How about important relationships? Any men in your life? ”

  “As far as the past, I guess I never was in one spot long enough to have a relationship reach the point where getting engaged and married was in the picture. Of course, there’re been men in my life, but no major commitments.”

  “And now?” Payton interjected.

  “Nary a soul,” Janet said wistfully.

  He drove at a steady pace north through the suburbs of Baltimore County. They were about six miles from the Maryland‑Pennsylvania line when he spotted the sign for Pine Lakes. Payton exited the interstate and continued to follow the signs.

  As they headed away from I83, all they could see were rolling green fields and fences–farm country. Several horse farms with their sprawling, well‑manicured pastures and modern stables were arrayed to the left of the road. Thoroughbred racing was big business in Maryland, and obviously a major part of the local economy. The miles began to pile up before they saw the beginnings of what he’d term civilization.

  Finally, they came upon a traffic light at the intersection of the road that they had been traveling on, and what Payton took to be a major cross street. Although the light was green in his direction, he slowed, looking first left and then right. Off to the left he saw a continuation of another country road like the one he was on. To the right, he noticed a small gas station and a church. He turned right and slowly made his way down what passed for Pine Lakes’ main street.

  Payton passed a small lumberyard that probably did barely enough business to stay open given that they also sold hardware and paints. Next door stood a row of stores; no big names were on any of the signs. On the front of the post office, a sign said, ‘Pine Lakes, Maryland’. Welcome to Pine Lakes, he thought. Across the street, a tractor sales and repair store seemed to do a lively business. A couple of other small stores, all of which appeared to cater to the local farmers, followed.

  “We’d better get our bearings,” Payton said as they passed the post office. “Maybe we can find someplace in this backwater to grab a sandwich, and someone who knows enough about the town to point us in the right direction. We also need to figure out where the nearest motel is.”

  “That sounds fine with me. From the looks of things, Holiday Inn and Ramada have skipped this place.”

  Payton saw what passed for the town’s restaurant, and was about to pull over when he noticed the sign on the door announcing that the place was closed while its owner was on vacation. They continued down the street. At the end of the two block shopping area, he noticed a bar big enough to possibly even serve food. A sign directed him to park on the far side of the restaurant. He pulled in and parked the car. They went up the steps leading to the front door and walked in.

  Except for the bartender, the place was empty. In front near the entrance, a pool table stood, its worn‑felt top telling of too many games being played, most likely on the weekends when there was no where else to go except maybe up to York or down into Baltimore. Two ancient Space Invader machines stood along the left wall up to the first of the bar stools. The dark, pockmarked bar wrapped around from the wall, went out a few feet, and then ran straight to the kitchen door.

  A sign over a second doorway in the rear said “rest rooms”. The rest of the place was a combination of tables with chairs and booths, most of which were against the far wall. They took seats at the bar.

  The bartender was a big, burly guy. He wore a white apron spotted with stains of every conceivable hue. Payton figured that it probably hadn’t been washed in a week. The man’s hair was of medium length, and from the looks of things, received no more attention than his apparel. His jowls seemed to droop at the same angle as his stomach, the latter hanging down over his belt, hiding it from view.

  “Hi, are you still serving lunch?” Payton asked.

  “Sure. Serve food all day,” he said, sliding a single-page plastic-laminated menu across the bar. “Take your pick.”

  Payton handed the menu to Janet, and then looked over her shoulder. It was the standard bar fare, a few hot sandwiches–burgers or barbecue you could heat up in a microwave. The rest were all quick fixes and except for the burgers, were cold.

  Janet turned up her nose. “I wonder what’s safe to eat?”

  “I think we’d better play it safe–soup and a sandwich, something easy like a burger,” Payton suggested. Janet nodded in agreement.

  “Have any soup?” Payton asked when the bartender stopped dipping dirty glasses in the sink. From the temperature in the place, no more than sixty degrees, the bartender liked it on the cold side. The soup would warm them up.

  “I can whip you up some of the standard forty‑seven varieties stuff. Whaddya want, chicken noodle, vegetable . . . ?”

  “Whatever’s convenient. We’re not particular; just make sure it’s hot. And I’ll take a burger if that’s no problem.”

  “And the lady?” the barkeep asked, catching an eyeful of Janet.

  “She’ll have the same.”

  “No problem. Whaddya want to drink?”

  Janet opted for an iced tea; Payton asked for a Pepsi.

  The soup was ready first. No wonder, since the gorilla had obviously microwaved it right out of the can. Their hamburgers followed a few minutes later. Unsure how old the beef was, he sniffed lightly at the burger.

  Given the cool reception, Payton figured on a quiet lunch. He was surprised when the bartender came over to where he was seated. Payton watched out of the corner of his eye as the man pushed his rear end up against the soda cooler, which sat under the rows of glasses and bottles against the wall, then braced his feet against the bottom of the sink behind the bar. It didn’t make any difference whether it was New York or out in the middle of nowhere, a bartender’s a bartender.

  “Where y’all from?” the bartender asked inquisitively.

  “Baltimore.” The town probably saw few strangers. “We’re taking a few days off and decided that Pine Lakes would be a great place to recharge the batteries.”

  “Hell, the noisiest Pine Lakes gets is on Saturday night when everyone comes in to shoot some pool and have a few beers. If you’re looking for a place to unwind, this might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Any hotels or motels around?”

  The bartender scratched his chin, and then said, “No, I’m afraid we’re a mite short on accommodations.”

  “No place at all to stay?” Payton asked. “No boarding house?”

  The bartender’s scowl changed to a sly grin. “Well, I might have a place for you.”

  Payton's gut feeling told him he was about to be had.

  “My name’s Ted, and you’re...”

  “Steve Payton. This is Janet.” Payton decided not to advertise the fact that they weren’t man and wife.

  “Well Mr. Payton, my old aunt’s place just outside of town been empty since the old biddy met h
er maker six months ago. It’s furnished and all. Left it just the way it was when she died. Since then, I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to do with it. Being its empty and all, I don’t see any problem if you was to rent it.”

  Janet immediately began to wonder what she had gotten them into. Images of a ramshackle farmhouse that probably hadn’t seen much care flashed through her mind. As Payton hedged, Janet blurted out, “Let’s go take a look at it, Steve. Ted’s probably got a great idea!”

  Payton's attention had been fixed on the bartender, but Janet was certain she heard his neck snap when the significance of her suggestion struck home.

  “You all go right up there and look the place over. There’s a key under the flowerpot next to the stoop. If you want it, call me, and we’ll work out the terms.”

  Ted went over to the other end of the bar to map out the route to the farm. As soon as he was out of earshot, Payton turned to Janet. “Is that iced tea spiked?”

  “Nope. Look, how bad can it be? From the sound of things, his aunt’s farm is the only place available, and we need at least two rooms. A kitchen would be nice as would a living room or anywhere else where we can spread out the computer gear.”

  Ted returned, map in hand. “You must’ve come from the interstate, so go back the way you came. Don’t make the turn. Just keep ongoing. That’ll put you on this road,” Ted said pointing to the thickly penciled line traversing the page. “Follow my map from there on. There’s a mailbox where the road to the house meets the main one. The name’s Stewart. You can’t miss it. This here’s my number,” he said pointing to seven digits at the bottom of the page. “We close at midnight.”

  They finished their lunch, paid the bill and headed out the door.

  As they got back into the Jag, Janet took the map. “I’ll navigate.”

  Twenty minutes later they turned into an unpaved driveway marked by a country mailbox, the kind with the little metal flag the mail carrier flips up when he delivers the mail. The fenced‑in part of the farm on both sides of the driveway had to be pasture without any livestock. Payton was concerned that the Jaguar would bottom out on the driveway’s center rise, but the car cleared it without more than an occasional thump.

  Near the house, the driveway forked, with one leg running through a stand of trees in the front. The other went straight to the barn, which was situated behind the house and about two hundred feet away. Payton couldn’t figure what protection the barn afforded its occasional inhabitants or the equipment stored inside since he could see right through it. Given the condition of the walls, Payton doubted the roof was in any better shape.

  “I don’t know about this,” Payton said as he pulled the car up to the side of the house.

  “We’re not buying it, Steve.”

  “You might not be so optimistic after the first rain,” Payton retorted.

  Janet found the key, and was already up the wide front steps and across the porch, which was at least twelve feet wide. It ran across the front of the house and then down along both sides. On the right side of the house, several wooden chairs had been placed in the middle of the porch. An old-fashioned two‑person swing chair was on the left. They wiped their feet on the welcome mat, and entered the house. The wide front door had three horizontal partitions. The lower one consisted of three panels, while the upper two were glass covered by chintz curtains.

  With Payton on her heels, they walked in.

  “Whew!” Janet exclaimed. The mustiness assaulted her nostrils.

  “I guess we’d better leave the door open,” Payton suggested. “Better yet, I’ll open the windows.”

  The living room took up the entire right side of the house. It was decorated with casual, but comfortable furniture. In spite of the worn carpeting, Payton recognized the care Ted’s aunt had put into the room. The dining room was off to their left. Four chairs, two on each side, encircled the maple drop‑leaf dining room table. A matching hutch stood against the wall. The main hallway appeared to head toward the rear of the house. Payton could make out the old fashioned wood cabinets with glass fronts that hung in the kitchen surrounding a Formica topped kitchen table.

  “What do you think?” Payton asked.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  The steps led to the second and third floor bedrooms and bathroom. They found two bedrooms and some sort of sewing room on the second floor. The third floor had three bedrooms and a private bath.

  “This place has got more nooks and crannies than an English muffin,” Payton said.

  “How do you want to work this?” Janet asked.

  “I guess we’d better take rooms on the second floor. That’ll leave the living room and dining room to work in. I’ll call Ted and see what kind of a deal I can work out.”

  Payton smiled as he watched Janet explore the house. While Payton searched out the telephone, she was out the front door. Like a kid on a camping trip, she couldn’t wait to get settled.

  By the time Payton walked back into the living room, Janet had already picked which bedroom she wanted and deposited Payton's duffel bag in the other.

  “How did it go with Ted?”

  “Better than I thought when I saw the light flash on behind his eyes when he realized that we were at his mercy. Anyway, the place is ours on a weekly basis.” Payton flopped down in one of the two wing-backed chairs.

  “I checked out the kitchen while you were on the phone. There’s plenty of silverware, dishes, and glasses, but we need to make a food run before tonight.”

  “We can hit that market in Pine Lakes or run up 83 to the nearest major food store.” Payton thought for a moment. “Look, since I need to give Ted the first week’s rent, why don’t we head back into town, see what we can learn from him, and then worry about our shopping?”

  “That sounds fine to me,” Janet said. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Shortly after takeoff from Los Angeles, the huge Boeing 747 reached cruising altitude. Air traffic control referred to the plane by its official “SAM 28000” designation unless the President was aboard. Then and only then the Boeing became Air Force One.

  Since they had boarded the plane, the President had been sequestered with his aides, rehashing the meetings with the heads of several major industry groups. The President had solicited their comments on his controversial economic plan, and he had gotten them. The closed-door session in the Air Force One conference room had been going strong since takeoff. From the looks of things, no one was going to get a break until they landed at Andrews.

  Allen Thiesse checked his watch, and tried to relax. Since Daniel Varrick’s election five years earlier, the Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, of the Presidential Protection Division (PPD) held the weighty responsibility of protecting the President of the United States. It was his job to ensure that no one, sane or not, could get close enough to harm the man he was sworn to guard–with his very life if the need arose.

  Daniel Varrick had been a two‑term governor of his home state, Arizona, when President Nixon tapped him to head the CIA’s Vietnam operation. His stint at the intelligence agency had taken in the end of the war and years of the return to the cold war. With Jimmy Carter’s election, Varrick had returned to private practice, but politics nipped at his heals. The citizens of Arizona elected him to the U. S. Senate. After several terms representing the state, Daniel Varrick sought and received his party’s nomination for President.

  The Secret Service had assigned Allen Thiesse to the detail protecting the candidate early in the campaign. Thiess’s firsthand view led him to respect the man and his goals. The agent liked Varrick's easygoing personality and his sense of humor–one he often shared with the PPD detail. Most of all he liked the President's willingness to cooperate when security dictated changes in his plans.

  When the votes were tallied, the man from Arizona became the President‑elect and the Oval Office’s newest occupant. Varrick had immediately requested that Thiesse head his protectio
n detail. The big jump in position had surprised everyone in the Service’s hierarchy. It also portended other changes to come from a President more interested in people who got the job done right than those owed political favors.

  Nonetheless, at forty‑six Thiesse sometimes felt that his entire adult life had been spent running alongside limousines or doing “advances” in some godforsaken city before a Presidential or vice Presidential visit. The gray that had started out along his temples had spread to the point where it had just about taken over what used to be wavy black hair.

  Thiesse shifted his six-foot four-inch frame to a more comfortable position. He had been carrying a gun for years, but even after all that time, the presence of the Sig‑Sauer P228 under his left armpit was a constant reminder of the danger inherent in his job. Thiesse reached under his jacket and shifted his holster toward his back, moving the semiautomatic out of the way.

  For years, the Service had stuck by the Smith & Wesson K‑19. It was only after most of the other federal agencies and countless local and state police departments shifted to the higher capacity nine millimeters that the Secret Service had decided to make a change. Virtually every handgun manufacturer had been after the contract to supply the Secret Service with new handguns. The Service, intent upon getting the best regardless of origin, went into an exhaustive testing program at its Beltsville training facility.

  The replacement had to have at least the knockdown power of their old standby, with the capability to carry more rounds and the accuracy to place those shots on target. The result was the selection of the Swiss-designed and German-manufactured Sig‑Sauer nine-millimeter P228 semiautomatic with Siglite night sights, which gave the agents a superior sight picture even in total darkness. Now instead of a mere six rounds, each agent carried thirteen shots in the gun and a spare clip of twelve more.

  The changeover to the new guns had been a logistics nightmare. Thiesse and the other agents, who had carried revolvers for decades, found themselves with a semiautomatic that had completely different handling characteristics. But after hours of practice, Thiesse decided he liked the Sig‑Sauer. It was far more accurate than the old Smith & Wesson, and he could bring more firepower to bear if he needed to.