The Cassandra Conspiracy Read Online Free Page B

toward the agents, smiling as the agents’ eyes scrutinized the annunciator panel built into the desk. Everyone, despite position or rank, who sought an audience with the President of the United States, was surreptitiously screened before being allowed to enter the Oval Office.
    “The President will be with you in a minute, sir.” He recognized Wingate-code name “Stockman”-as one of the President's oldest and most trusted friends and advisors. Wingate exuded an aura of power that seemed to equalize, if not dwarf, that of the Oval Office.
    His ego mollified, Wingate smiled. “Thank you.” A few minutes later, the President's secretary came out to escort him into the Oval Office. Wingate followed the woman down the hall. He approached the door to the Oval Office and had started to knock, when it opened. Daniel Varrick stood there, a wide smile on his face.
    At slightly over six feet in height, Varrick wasn’t exceptionally tall. In spite of the Oval Office’s hectic schedule, Varrick had put on a few pounds, most likely the result of too many state dinners. At his first inauguration, Varrick’s hair had been peppered with gray. Now, well into his second term, the gray was winning the battle. The President wore a charcoal-colored Armani suit, pale blue shirt, and dark gray tie accented by light blue stripes.
    President Varrick clasped Wingate’s hand in his. The warmth of his handshake and the glint of his hazel eyes signaled his joy at seeing his old friend again. “Charles, it’s been too long since we’ve had a chance to sit down and shoot the bull. Oops, probably shouldn’t have said that out here,” Daniel Varrick said looking around to see who might be within earshot. “I could find myself being quoted on the seven o’clock news. Come in.” The President of the United States stood aside allowing his guest to precede him.
    Wingate thought the Oval Office always seemed smaller in real life than on television. Maybe it was the slightly domed ceiling with the bas -relief Presidential seal that made the room look larger when captured by the television cameras. To the right of the door stood the President's desk, chair, and credenza. Like many of his predecessors, Daniel Varrick elected to use the historic Resolute desk. A gift from Queen Victoria, the desk had been presented to President Franklin Pierce by the British monarch.
    As far as he could tell, Daniel Varrick really hadn’t made many changes in the furnishing of his office since his election. The gold draperies and white carpeting were still there. Of course the two flags were in their positions alongside the credenza. The American flag was on the credenza’s right side while the flag of the President of the United States stood on the left.
    An eerie feeling came over Wingate as he looked out the green laminate bullet-resistant windows behind the credenza and across the White House lawn. The green tint served as a constant reminder of the perils that went with the job Daniel Varrick had sworn to perform to the best of his ability.
    Wingate started toward one of the chairs next to the President's desk until Varrick motioned him toward the office’s sitting area–the latter consisting of two facing couches separated by a small oval coffee table. After the men sat, the President asked, “How about some coffee? Or something stronger?”
    “Coffee would be fine, thanks. But no decaf,” Wingate added as an afterthought. “The last thing I need is to fall asleep here.”
    The President laughed. “That’s right you’ve wanted a fair number of jobs, but never this one. Can’t blame you. William H. Taft called the Oval Office “The loneliest place in the World”. I guess it is, unless you include the Kremlin.” The President reached under the end table to the right of the couch. He uncradled the telephone handset, punched a button on the comm console, and then spoke briefly.
    Over the years, each man had found his road to success. Wingate had