The Cassandra Conspiracy Read Online Free Page A

over, checking the tamper seal. Then he compared the face of the man in rear seat against the computer-generated color photo on the front of the credential. Same silver gray hair professionally coiffured, dark eyes, and patrician nose, sculptured face, all packaged in what had to be a two thousand dollar suit.
    Satisfied of its apparent authenticity, he inserted the badge into the credential verifier. A computer elsewhere in the Complex compared the credential’s ID number to a list stored in its memory. In milliseconds a match was obtained, and a verification signal was sent to the gatehouse. The man in the back of the limousine had passed the first stage of the screening process.
    The officer handed the passenger a wireless keypad similar to the ones used on telephones. The visitor to the Oval Office punched in several digits, his personal identification number. When he hit the “enter” button, a small transmitter in the base of the unit transmitted the data to a special radio receiver in the gatehouse. From there, the PIN was sent electronically by hardwire to the host computer for comparison. Only after obtaining a match would the computer allow the next stage of the identification process to begin.
    Finally, software operating the Workers and Visitors Enrollment System, WAVES, automatically cross-checked the President's appointment schedule. The link verified that the visitor was scheduled to meet with the President today. When the automated system finished its three checks, a green light flashed on in the security cubicle. The system then displayed the visitor’s name and agency affiliation–in this case “CIV” for an unaffiliated civilian–on a small computer display in front of the officer at the West Executive Avenue entrance. The whole process took less than ten seconds.
    The security officer glanced at the display and then turned to the President's guest. “Have a good day, Mr. Wingate,” the officer said, handing the pass back to its owner. Nothing was said in response. Charles Wingate didn’t appreciate anything short of instant recognition–not even at the White House.
    Since the driver would also be entering the grounds, the officers checked his driver’s license against the information provided by the Secret Service’s Pass and ID Section. Once they verified the information, the UD officer directed him to park six spaces from the West Wing entrance, on the left side of the road.
    Before he returned to his post, the officer spoke again to the chauffeur. “Please remain with your vehicle. We have to check the car for explosives.” The driver nodded, acknowledging the request. Within minutes, a canine patrol consisting of the dog and his handler would go over the car. At all other entrances to the Complex, packages were checked for concealed weapons and explosives. On West Executive Avenue, where access was limited to high-level staff, members of the Cabinet, and VIPs, the Secret Service relied on canine patrols to screen for hidden explosives.
    A command from the gatehouse lowered the three pylons into the ground. Once they were flush with the road surface, the gates were opened and the limousine allowed to enter. The Cadillac pulled into the Complex past some tourists who peered at the limousine, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever dignitary was in the car.
    Charles Wingate III didn’t wait for his driver to come around to open his door, but got out of the car and made his way quickly under the green awning portico and over to the West Wing’s lower level entrance. Wingate knew his way around the White House. Since his friend Daniel Varrick had been elected to the presidency, he had been there on many occasions, some business, others social.
    At the top of the steps, he encountered two plainclothes Secret Service agents. He knew the closer he got to the hallowed office, the heavier security would be. Wingate walked through a wooden portico that housed special weapon detection equipment, and