The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 5

  “I’m sure that’s an expense we can easily handle.” Wingate had spent months working out the details that enabled the Committee to become a major player in the disarmament of the old Soviet Union, and everyone around the table knew it. Satisfied with their progress, he paused before proceeding.

  “I called this meeting because I have come across information of the utmost importance to us all. For the first time since this group was originally formed, our very existence is threatened.”

  A murmur arose, but was silenced by the chairman’s upraised hand. “Today I met with the esteemed Daniel Varrick. His call–one that I might point out, was not made by the omnipotent White House switchboard or for that matter even by a personal secretary, but by the President himself–requested my attendance at a private meeting. Varrick indicated that the business he wished to speak with me about could not be discussed over the telephone. Obviously, I went.”

  Total silence permeated the library. As Wingate spoke, every eye was on him, each ear attuned to his every word.

  “The President has uncovered trace evidence that he believes will support his theory that a secret cabal exists, intent upon exercising control over commerce, industry, and governments on a worldwide scale. In short, the Committee.”

  Wingate’s bomb caused an immediate upheaval around the conference table. “How is that possible?” from one member. “That’s impossible,” another spoke up.

  “Please, madam and gentlemen. We’ve made no serious blunders. We do, however, operate in a modern world, one with high-speed computers linked through large networks. With the Iron Curtain rusting, U.S. intelligence agencies have had the time to refocus their attention on domestic problems and niggling little things that wouldn’t have seen the light of day when the KGB and GRU were active. The NSA’s been actively monitoring all kinds of communications in their effort to control the flow of contraband drugs. The FBI, freed of its counterintelligence duties, now spends time investigating all kinds of white‑collar crime. Somehow, we’ve gotten ourselves caught up in this gigantic sieve.”

  “Are we in any immediate danger?” Thomas Ward interrupted.

  “No, but I fear that too won’t last for long. Right now Varrick’s revamping his economic program. Until that’s completed, we’re safe. Once he’s got a plan laid out to deal with the economy, Varrick intends to launch a major investigation, one in which we’ll be the focal point.”

  Helene Rochambeau joined the discussion. “Is Varrick certain that we exist?”

  Wingate stroked his chin. “I’m not sure. Apparently a number of independently run investigations point to the possible existence of a group such as ours. The reports that aroused the President’s curiosity come from a variety of agencies, all with active projects in our sphere of influence.”

  “What can we do?” Grover Albright asked, his voice almost pleading.

  “You know the old adage, Grover.” A look of bewilderment spread across Albright’s face.

  “They say that curiosity killed the cat.”

  Lawrence Ettleberg was the first to react. “You’re talking about assassinating the President of the United States!”

  Charles Wingate let his proposal lie on the table like some horribly distasteful, yet needed, medicinal elixir.

  “Please, let me speak,” the Chairman said after a few moments. “We really don’t have any choice. This is not a case where we stand to lose a few million dollars, or suffer some sort of political setback. Our very existence is threatened. We must fight back with every weapon available to us. Once Varrick completes this economic proposal,” Wingate said, “he will have all the time he needs to direct the IRS, FBI, NSA, CIA, you name it, to investigate those cases where our scent can be picked up. The Committee will never withstand such an onslaught.

  Nor, I must add, have we ever been subjected to a sustained investigation by organizations with unlimited resources. If we decide not to take any overt action, we will, of course, make every attempt to stymie their efforts. But in the end, we will lose. And I don’t think that I need to take the time to explain to each of you what that means.”

  Around the table, heads nodded in unison. None of them could envision themselves brought in handcuffs before a legal tribunal, and the inevitable incarceration that would result.

  “With Varrick out of the way, Vice President Darby, a man cut from our bolt of cloth, will be the anointed one and inherit the Oval Office. A few carefully chosen words, and he’ll shred the reports I saw today, and the matter will be closed, permanently.”

  Wingate allowed them time to absorb the irrefutable logic that he had woven, like an ornate tapestry, before them.

  “I propose that we initiate a special project, under my personal direction, to eliminate this threat to the Committee. Any questions?” Wingate asked the assemblage.

  No one spoke up. Not a hand was raised indicating any desire for further discussion.

  The Chairman continued, “Very well, then we’ll proceed to the formal vote. Ms. Rochambeau?”

  Mlle Rochambeau nodded her head. “Aye, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Mr. Ward?”

  “Aye.”

  “Mr. Steiner?”

  The industrialist reflected for a minute on the course they were about to take, and then said, “Aye, I vote that we proceed as planned.”

  The Chairman turned to Grover Albright and queried, “Mr. Albright?”

  Albright sat in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the question put to him.

  “Mr. Albright?” the Chairman exclaimed.

  “Aye, Charles, we go ahead with it,” Albright’s eyes remained fixed on his hands, folded on the table in front of him.

  Wingate solicited the votes of the two remaining members of the Committee, Lawrence Ettleberg and Anthony Crofton. In succession, each man gave his affirmation.

  Wingate summarized the members’ position. “It’s unanimous. We’ll need to bolster our financial position and make arrangements to handle that financing. Our operating account’s current position shows a balance of one point six million dollars. I intend to seek out, and then hire, the best person for this job. Whoever accepts this contract will have to retire immediately upon its execution. My initial foray into the area indicates that to finance the operation, we’ll need resources totaling five million dollars on deposit in Liechtenstein. I suggest, therefore madam and gentlemen that we agree to make available the entire amount to be taken from our stateside investment portfolio. Any objections?”

  Wingate looked at each member of the Committee in turn. No one said a word.

  With no objections to the proposed amount, Wingate continued. “We’ll move the funds through Mr. Ettleberg’s First Union Bank, as we’ve done in the past. Lawrence, once the required funds are on deposit, shift them to your affiliated bank in Liechtenstein so that we can make them available without the usual attentiveness of the Federal Reserve, Treasury, or DEA.”

  Federal law enforcement agencies had been monitoring the flow of cash out of the United States in their latest efforts to crack down on the drug cartels. The transfer amount was not significant by international standards, but there was no sense in raising anyone’s curiosity.

  Committee funds provided the bulwark for one of Liechtenstein’s largest operating banks. For decades, savings and loan magnates as well as the drug cartels had found Switzerland, with its bank secrecy laws, the place to funnel their ill‑gotten gains. When U.S. government attention became focused on the Swiss banking system, the banking secrecy laws were eased. Aware of the pending changes, the Committee had quickly established an entirely new and larger financial operation in nearby Liechtenstein, where stringent laws protected the ownership and control of bank accounts. There, the government was more attuned to collecting the fees and taxes that had previously been paid to the Swiss.

  “Is there any other business to be transacted tonight?” Charles Wingate scanned the faces of the membership. All eyes were on him. “Then this meeting’s adjourned,”
he said. “I would be honored if you would join me for dinner. For those of you who wish to stay the night, we have ample accommodations,” he offered magnanimously.

  The members began to file out of the library and over to the formal dining room; all except Grover Albright who remained seated until the others in the group had left the room.

  “I’m not sure we’re doing what’s best for the country.”

  “Grover, I don’t know what more I can say,” Wingate said impatiently. “You voted that we proceed with the project. We’re going forward.” Albright, in spite of his position with the multinational farm implement manufacturer, was totally ineffectual in business. He remained the chairman only because of the tremendous support he sustained from the highly compensated management team reporting to him. In fact, all the key strategic decisions were made not at his level, but at more functional levels of general management. By the time that the limited number of problems made their way to the chairman’s office, the course of action was well defined and clear, even to Albright. That he had managed to retain his position, as chairman was more the result of the large block of common stock he controlled through the family trust than of the expertise he provided to the firm’s management. Since his installation on the Committee, his lack of resolve had caused many problems. The Committee was used to decisiveness on the part of its fellow members. They got none of that from Grover Albright, who could not, for obvious reasons, attend the Committee’s meeting with his staff.

  “I think I’d better skip dinner tonight. I’m going to head back to town.”

  “We’ll miss your company. Have a good trip. I’ll have one of my people drive you,” Wingate said, his tone carefully devoid of any hint of menace. The two men did not shake hands as they parted in the foyer outside the library.

  . . . . . .

  Early the next morning, Wingate entered his study. Closing the double doors, he engaged the lock, checking to make sure it was secure. Wingate had carefully evaluated the Committee’s communication needs and decided that one of the larger commercial networks, in this case, UniNet, could best handle their messages. Nonetheless, each message, no matter how insignificant, was encrypted.

  Wingate paused while his desktop computer loaded the comm program, the latter also protected by a unique password known only to him. Once the computer was up and running, the CRT screen in front of him requested that he enter his password. Wingate typed his personal password, and then pressed the Return key.

  With the computer up and running, Wingate typed in Grant’s E‑mail address followed by the message that was the Committee’s opening gambit.

  CHAPTER 2

  September 26th

  Steven Payton dragged his weary body down the hall toward the condo that had been his home since his separation from Cynthia. Somewhere in those few short steps, he decided there had to be a better way to live. The question was could he find it.

  For the past six months his law practice had been in a flurry of activity, cutting into all his free time. He used to manage an occasional tennis game with an up‑and‑coming member of the district attorney’s office, but no longer. He had too many motions to file, depositions to take, and meetings to attend. Tomorrow would be a rehash of today, the same the day after.

  At thirty-six, Payton had a face that belied his age. His hair had begun to show the ravages of time, with more and more alien gray intermixed with its dark brown. Some might consider his hair predominately gray, but he liked brown better. Worse, his schedule had prevented him from taking his usual workouts–with a direct impact on Payton’s waistline. He swore he’d take off the few pounds he had put on. The question was how.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Payton glanced around. When he moved in, he figured that he’d only need the basics: a place to sack out, a chest of drawers, a couch, one decent easy chair, and a dining room table that doubled as a place to work when the office drudgery spilled over. That was three years ago, and he hadn’t added a single piece of furniture since. There were still no pictures on the walls, nor any signs that the condo was anything other than a place to sleep or eat an occasional meal when he was too tired to go out.

  Marriage breakups were difficult and often dirty things. Until recently when the sister of one of Payton's closest friends needed help, he had successfully navigated the legal waters without stepping into any divorce cases. Cornered, Payton couldn’t deny her request. She and her estranged husband haggled over terms for months; each negotiating session served to remind Payton why he hated handling divorces so much. Finally, they reached a fair settlement. Now both parties could get on with their lives.

  Counterbalancing the divorce case was a complicated corporate acquisition Payton was handling for his old college buddy Mark Albright, executive vice President of Worldwide Agricultural Products. Albright’s father was grooming his son to take over the company’s helm. This acquisition was the first of several the younger Albright would be making. If everything went as planned, there would be more deals in the future, and Payton would be handling them.

  Payton settled at the dining room table. From his attaché case, he removed his Apple MacBook portable computer and plugged it in. Like most attorneys, he had resisted buying a computer. But his good friend and computer guru Matt Evanston had hung tough. Payton finally acquiesced. Now he had no idea how he’d ever managed before.

  In addition to the usual stuff–word processing, spreadsheets, and accounting–Payton used the MacBook to tap into the mammoth databases that were only a phone call away. His heaviest usage was on the Lexis network, which provided him with all the legal case references an attorney would ever need. He accessed Lexis through UniNet’s main computer.

  Payton clicked on the modem, initiated the dial‑up process, and waited for the UniNet host computer to finish its handshake. Seconds later, the screen in front of Payton blanked. Another second, and it filled with a menu listing his available options.

  He intended to research the case law for a new client, but decided to first check his E‑mail for any messages. Since the MacBook had become part of his life, Payton had even come over to using UniNet’s E‑mail service. Although it was not state of the art, Payton felt that sending and receiving messages by computer had a certain appeal. Besides, it dramatically cut down on the amount of paper his practice consumed as well as the number of faxes he sent.

  When the E‑mail screen appeared, Payton deftly typed in his mailbox number, and watched as the computer went through its gyrations. The tally on the screen showed that two messages waited patiently for Payton's review. He called up the first.

  It was from Mark Albright, about the merger agreement Payton had prepared for Worldwide Agricultural Products. Apparently the last draft he had furnished Albright was acceptable, and would serve as the final agreement.

  Throughout the lengthy negotiations, Albright and Payton had kept each other posted using UniNet’s E‑mail. Albright had outlined the basic tenets of the agreement, which Payton then translated into legalese and sent to Albright’s E‑mail address.

  The executive made any needed changes then transferred the file back to Payton. Using the computer network streamlined the entire process. Payton saved the message to his hard disk, and then called up the second.

  Unlike the typical E‑mail message, this one did not show the header listing the addressee, mailbox number, and the message details. Instead, the MacBook’s screen filled with groupings of five digit numbers–each in perfect symmetry as if it were a product of nature and not the byproduct of some mass of wires, silicon chips, and plastic.

  Payton blinked, wondering if he had somehow made a mistake. But he had done nothing unusual. The number sequence on the screen stared passively back at him as if to ask what was next.

  Payton's hand started toward the sequence of keys that would result in the errant message’s deletion and expulsion to the most distant ether or wherever such digital garbage ended up. In midstream, he stopped, shrugged, and then save
d the garble‑gram to his hard disk.

  . . . . . .

  Two hours later, Payton had completed his survey of Lexis’s applicable case law and shut down his computer. He was about to call it a night when the fouled up E‑mail message pierced his conscious. Curiosity got the better of him. Payton picked up the phone and dialed the number of his computer mentor. Matt Evanston answered on the second ring.

  “Matt, it’s Steve,” Payton said.

  “What can I do for Baltimore’s answer to Clarence Darrow?” Matt Evanston answered, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  “Very funny. There’s something weird going on with my E‑mail, and I thought that you, being the city’s foremost expert in computers and software, might be able to shed some light on it.” Two could play the game.

  “For you, I’ll be glad to give it a try,” Evanston replied.

  Payton summarized his actions, and then explained how the first message had come through crystal clear while the second one was garbled beyond recognition.

  “Download the file over to me,” Evanston suggested. “I’ll give it a quick look and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Matt. I’ll send it over as soon as we hang up.”

  Payton returned the phone to its cradle, then, using his modem’s auto-dial feature he called Matt Evanston back on his modem line. After downloading the E‑mail message, Payton returned to his homework. A half hour later, his phone rang.

  “Steve, it’s Matt. I’ve been over this several times, and I’m not sure what you’ve got there. Could be anything. Most likely it’s system garbage that somehow ended up in your mailbox instead of the trashcan. If it’s really bothering you, I’d suggest you give Janet Phillips a call.”