An Eye For An Eye (5 page)

It was almost 9:00 p.m. when Matthew Richter pulled into the space in front of his condo. It had been a long week as his team reviewed intelligence on the New Jersey Free Nation and worked through possible approaches to the raid. They had run over a dozen simulations in the forests and fields of Camp Smith. He was beat.

As he climbed out of his car, he hesitated as he tried to remember if there was any food left in the fridge. He wasn’t sure if he had finished the rest of the rotisserie chicken. He stood by the car for a few seconds then closed the door. He had no desire to go to the store. There were several cans of soup in the cabinet. So, chicken or soup and a beer, he thought as he walked up the concrete pathway to his door. Then he remembered the four slices of pizza in the plastic bag in the freezer.
Better yet
, he thought. The Yankees were playing that evening, he remembered, and although the game would have started already, he had recorded it. He yawned as he reached for his door.
Who was he kidding?
he thought.  He would be asleep on the couch before the seventh inning stretch.

As he pulled the screen door open, he saw the note taped to his door.

Are you up for a ride tomorrow?

Call me.

Patty

He flexed his shoulder—no pain today—and smiled. Yes, he was definitely up for a ride.

“You’re an adrenaline junkie, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Richter called over his shoulder. He leaned his bike against a tree and slipped off his backpack. He pulled out a water bottle and joined Patty on the rock. Despite the temperature—a chilly fifty-nine degrees—the sun felt warm. They both sat and listened to the rustle of the wind in the trees. Although it wasn’t even October yet, the leaves of several trees already showed hints of yellow.
So much for an Indian summer
, he thought.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she finally said.

“What’s that?” he asked with a smile.

“You spend the week kicking in doors and fighting bad guys, and on the weekends, you’re doing something active—riding, racquetball. I see you running all of the time. Do you ever sit still?”

He grinned. “I’m sitting still now.”

“You know what I mean,” she responded.

He wiped the mud off his shin before he looked up. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Partly it’s the challenge, you know? Can I do it? Can I finish? Can I win?”

She waited a moment. “And the other part?”

He stretched as he thought about the answer. There were many reasons. For a while, a few years back, it was his way of coping with the tailspin his life had been in, his way of dealing with loss. And now? The truth was, he wasn’t sure. He had a great job. He enjoyed the people he worked with. While risky, he thrived on the challenge. There was something that resonated with him—something just about it, a sense of good versus bad, of right versus wrong. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his life was on hold, that he was in a rut, unsure which direction he was heading.

“I don’t know,” he finally responded. “Fighting middle age, I guess.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Right. What are you? Thirty?”

“Thirty-two,” he answered sheepishly.

They heard voices through the trees and both turned to watch as a group of bikers rode into the trailhead. As the riders dismounted, their banter and laughter carried across the parking area.

“What about you?” he asked. “I imagine you’re not like most other college professors.”

“No. I guess I’m not.” She chuckled. “I’m not really sure how I ended up in front of a classroom. I taught some classes when I was in grad school and found that I enjoyed it. I had done two internships in Washington, and after I graduated, I worked as an aide for Senator Tanner. Then one day, I was invited to Princeton to speak at a seminar. One thing led to another and I found myself in front of a classroom again. It was only supposed to be for one semester.” She chuckled again. “Next thing I know, two years have gone by and now I’m not sure I want to leave.”

They watched, silent for a moment, as the group across the lot prepared to leave.

She turned back to him and smiled. “I know they say those who can’t do, teach. But I’m not hiding behind the ivy-covered walls, stuck in academic discussions and theory all day. We do some interesting research projects. At least I think they’re interesting,” she added with a grin. “I also do some consulting work. I’ve done a couple of projects—one in Trenton and one in Washington—both for the challenge and to keep my options open.”

He hid his surprise. It was amazing how similar their lives seemed to be, he thought. Could they both be going through some sort of midlife crisis? That didn’t make sense. She seemed happy; always smiling, cheerful. But what about him? Was he happy?

He watched as the other riders climbed into their cars. Seconds later, after two or three horn toots were exchanged, the cars drove away. Well, he thought, he wasn’t
unhappy
, if that meant anything. More like unsure. He was still trying to figure out what was next for him; where his life was going. But did there always have to be a plan; a goal? Or was it okay to coast for a while? He shook his head.
Too much introspection for one day
, he thought. He turned back to Patty.

“So there’s more to the college professor than meets the eye?” he asked.

“Just like there’s more to the federal agent than his gun and his badge,” she answered immediately.

They shared a laugh and he realized once again how much he enjoyed her company. The discussion left him wanting to know more about her.

“Are you free this evening?” he asked abruptly.

She smiled. “I might be. What do you have in mind?”

“I thought dinner would be nice.”

She laughed. “On one condition.”

He arched his eyebrows.

“You pick the restaurant this time.”

Richter listened to the distant sounds of the clock coming from another room. Key-wound, driven by gears and springs, it was an antique in a digital world. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, he found the soft ticking of the pendulum reassuring. He stared at the sliver of light on the ceiling, the gap in the curtains allowing a faint shaft in from the streetlight below. A car drove by and then it was silent.

Patty stirred, rolled over, and nestled against him. Her head settled on his shoulder, she draped her arm across his chest. He could smell her hair, the soft scents of her perfume. Her body felt warm next to his. He listened to her breathing, slow and rhythmic—in tune with the clock—as she settled back to sleep.

He thought back to what had led him here, to her bed. Dinner then a stroll along the path behind the condo. The stars bright in the chilly night sky. Another glass of wine. Then a desire to be close; a sharing, slow and gentle.

But it was more than an evening, he knew. For him it had been a journey. Ever since Stephanie, he had felt empty. He hadn’t wanted anyone else. And then he met Patty.

“You’re awake?”

He turned. Even in the darkness, he could see her smile.

“For a while,” he said.

“Everything okay?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“More than okay,” he responded. He was silent for a moment. “I was just thinking…it’s been a long time.”

She shifted, rolling over so she could see him. “Care to tell me about it?”

He was quiet for a few seconds, unsure where to begin. “You probably didn’t know, but before I moved here, I was a Secret Service agent.” He paused, searching for her reaction. “I used to guard the president.”

She feigned surprise then grinned. “Of course I knew,” she said. “Your picture was in every paper. You were on the news.”

“So that’s why you like me?” he teased.

“Actually,” she said, suddenly serious. “What you do, the gun you carry, the world you live in…that stuff scares me.” She tapped his chest with two fingers. “It’s what’s in here that I’m attracted to.”

“But that other stuff—my job, my gun—it’s part of who I am.”

“I know that now,” she said. She kissed him, then traced her fingers across his chest. “So why so long?”

He told her about Stephanie.
Never far from his mind, he felt the emotions just below the surface as the memories came flooding back.
Save the president or save his lover?
Two years ago, as a Secret Service agent on the president’s security detail, he had faced the most difficult choice of his life, knowing that by saving the former, the latter would die. Even today, he still wasn’t quite sure why he and the president had managed to survive while everyone else, including Stephanie, had been killed. In the aftermath, he had fled Washington and the agency that had failed him.

“
I’ve been kind of coasting along for the last two years, not quite sure where I was going or what I wanted.”

“Until you met me?” she asked with a grin.

“Until I met you,” he said with a smile. He kissed her. “Until I met you.”

He sighed as she put her head back on his chest. Some things just felt right. They lay like that for a while and after some time he noticed the sound of the clock again. He heard her breathing, slow and rhythmic. After a while, he noticed that his own breaths seemed to match hers. They were breathing together.

Some time passed and he thought she might have fallen back asleep, but then she rubbed her hand across his chest slowly.

“It’s been a long time for me too,” she whispered.

“What do you think?” the president asked as they stepped into the Oval Office.

Burt Phillips was silent for a moment as he considered the question.

“I think the difference this time,” Phillips responded, “is we would be taking a more holistic approach.”

The president sat back on the couch. They had just left a briefing on the proposed change in the war on drugs. Phillips was right, he thought. Anti-drug policy in the past had been inconsistent and piecemeal. Too much emphasis had been placed on attacking the supply, going after the drug dealers here, in the U.S., and trying to dismantle the drug cartels in Mexico and Colombia. Scarce resources had been allocated to reducing demand and those that had been made available had been spent creating a criminal justice system that took a harsh, zero-tolerance approach. But more police and stiffer penalties had only succeeded in filling the jails, disproportionately so with minorities and African Americans.

This was the first time, in his memory anyway, that equal emphasis had been placed on treatment and prevention. What did the studies say? Treatment and prevention were what? Something like twenty times more effective at reducing drug usage than the traditional supply-side focus? And apparently that wasn’t new news. But treating drug addiction as a disease had never been the politically expedient answer. That took time and a community-oriented approach, and progress—measured one recovered addict at a time—was slow. It had always been far easier to demonstrate that the government was making progress through a show of force, a
get tough
approach which meant lots of cops, lots of soldiers, and lots of guns.

Not that those weren’t necessary too, the president thought with a sigh.

“Do you think we can get the money from Congress?” he asked.

“It will take some selling,” Phillips said then smiled, “but I think you might be able to sweet talk it out of them, sir.”

Kendall smiled briefly, then his face clouded. “It’s not just about the drugs. If the intelligence estimates are right, we could have an even bigger problem on our hands.”

Phillips nodded somberly. “I think that’s how you sell it, sir. We can’t do one without the other.”

The president nodded slowly. Phillips was right again. If the drug cartels were on the verge of overthrowing the Mexican government, the U.S. would have no choice but to intervene. National security and the stability of the Americas were at stake, as were the lives of one hundred and twenty-five million people living south of the Rio Grande. But to go after the narco-traffickers—to attempt to dismantle the cartels, as Mexico had been trying to do for years—without addressing demand in the U.S. was foolhardy. And turning a blind eye to the systemic corruption in Mexico’s military and police forces, failing to overhaul its weak criminal justice system, and without addressing the foundation of its economy—which despite recent growth, left a large portion of the population still struggling day to day, stuck in poverty—was just as foolhardy. The insatiable and growing demand for drugs in the U.S. was too profitable to ignore and, if the current drug cartels were eliminated completely, it wouldn’t be long before other criminal elements stepped in and filled the vacuum.

They exchanged a glance. “Set up some time with Barbara Tanner,” the president said. Tanner was the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee. Kendall would have to consider the best approach—Tanner could be a challenge at times—but, one way or another, he would have to find a way to get the funds needed. The stakes were too high.

Phillips nodded and made a note.

“How’s Brett?” the president asked. Watson had been out sick for the past week.

Phillips frowned. “He’s having a series of tests done.” He paused then shook his head. “But it doesn’t look good.”

Kendall let out a breath. “I’ll call him this evening.”

Brett Watson couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling as he waited in the examination room. It wasn’t the pain in his stomach—a pain he could no longer ignore. It wasn’t the queasy feeling that he’d had for the last ten days, the nausea that made him throw up everything he ate.

He looked up at the mirror and didn’t recognize the face staring back at him. With sunken cheeks and pale skin, the gaunt look reminded him of the last image of his grandfather, right before he died. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t had the energy to shave that morning. As he pulled his hand away, he watched in the mirror as the material of his shirt sleeve swung loosely. Another image popped into his mind: he was eleven years old and his mother was insisting that he wear his big brother’s hand-me-downs. He shook his head. His shirts and his pants suddenly seemed to overwhelm his diminishing frame.

He turned at the noise as the door opened. The doctor stepped into the room. He closed the door, turned slowly, then Brett caught his eyes. There was a moment of silence—a split second that said more than the doctor ever could with words. Then the doctor slowly shook his head, and Brett suddenly felt like he was falling.

President Kendall stood at the window looking out over the South Lawn of the White House. Although the sun had set an hour earlier, the grounds were illuminated below the soft glow of lights. The marigolds were still vibrant—their yellows, purples, and reds foreshadowing what would soon happen to the trees around them. It was starting already, he noted—a few trees had already begun to turn. With the exception of the marigolds, most of the summer plantings had already been trimmed back.

Two uniformed Secret Service officers stepped into view, a routine patrol, he knew. Despite the serenity of the scene before him, the two officers reminded him that the elaborate security apparatus that protected the White House was ever vigilant. Over the years, the U.S. had become a target for violent extremism and for terrorists from around the world. To many, the White House
was
the U.S. But tonight, the president thought with a sigh as the two officers disappeared from his view, he wasn’t worried for his own security. He was worried about the three hundred million citizens who depended on him to keep them safe.

He turned away from the window and stepped back to his desk and the Top Secret folder sitting in the middle. The military operation was being called Night Stalker. He had shared his concerns—a handful only—and felt confident that they would be addressed. Of course, he still needed to meet with President Magaña. Although his phone calls with the Mexican President left him in no doubt that they were aligned, he wanted to meet face to face. There were still one or two aspects that he needed to clarify and, more importantly, he needed Magaña’s assurances that the structural reforms Mexico was proposing were real.

His meeting with the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee had gone better than expected, and he was optimistic that Barbara Tanner would be able to quietly secure the votes—and the funding—he needed.

Still he was troubled. Operation Night Stalker along with the domestic program—code-named Twenty-Twenty—would represent a dramatic change in the war on drugs. Two years ago, they had tried something similar—to Night Stalker at least—but they had only succeeded in making matters worse. Since then, the situation in Mexico had deteriorated, and he knew that he was largely to blame. He had opened Pandora’s box, and now he had to close it.

Not any closer to the clarity he was seeking, he dropped the folder back on his desk and stepped out of the Oval Office onto the West Colonnade. He nodded to the agents outside. He paused for a second as he stared out again over the lights on the South Lawn before he turned and headed toward the Rose Garden. It was cold—he probably should have grabbed an overcoat—but the air felt good. He needed a few minutes to think, and over the last year, he had found that a stroll in the Rose Garden, in any season, often helped to clear his head.

He sighed, chastising himself as he thought about Brett. He should have noticed earlier. He should have said something sooner. Would it have made any difference? The doctors had offered little hope, telling Brett Watson that the tumor was too large, that the cancer had already metastasized. He had called Brett right away and had visited him in the hospital. But he knew there was little that he could say to Brett or to his wife to ease their pain, to ease their fear.

Selecting Brett’s replacement wouldn’t be easy and, the more he thought about it, his options were limited. Jessica Williams, who had been filling in for Brett, was capable—that was his initial impression at least—but he hadn’t worked with her long enough for her to become a trusted advisor. That took time.

He briefly considered someone in his cabinet, but quickly rejected the idea. Half of his cabinet was new; some because hindsight had showed him that the loyalties of people he had trusted lay elsewhere, others because the lives of friends and confidantes had been cut short in the remote mountains of Idaho two and a half years ago.

Building a team was tough, he knew. Finding the right people was critical, and it had taken some time to rebuild his team. The background checks had been far more extensive, something he had insisted on. And although the congressional review of his appointments had been easy—heck, Congress would have given him anything he asked for then—it was still a while before he was able to fill every position. He had the right team now, but several were still learning their jobs and he knew it would take some time before they were fully up to speed.

Trust was built over time. The trouble was, he needed that trust now. He needed some outside counsel, someone independent to bounce his thoughts off of, someone to challenge his thinking, someone who could give him an unbiased opinion. There was one person, he thought—by far the best option he had.
But would it be fair to ask?

He watched as several leaves fell slowly to the ground. Winter was coming and Washington winters could be cold. Nothing like Colorado, where he had lived for over fifty years; in Washington, the coldness went beyond the weather. People took a calculated approach to relationships here and something was always at stake. There was always something to be gained—support for a bill over here, opposition to a policy over there—and he had come to view most interactions as a game. Many times, it was a zero-sum game where you either won or lost and, sometimes, it wasn’t always clear where you stood when the game was over. The lure of power drew some very shrewd operators to the nation’s capital, and their agendas were not always what they seemed to be. That had been a painful lesson.

A cold breeze hit him and he shivered. He turned and began walking back toward the Oval Office.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Maria suggested, “Let him make his own decision?”

“Because I’m afraid he would say yes,” President Kendall responded.

They were sitting in the living room, on the second floor of the White House Residence. A fire crackled in the fireplace and, although the TV was on, the volume was muted. Neither paid attention to it anyway.

“You’re afraid that he’ll feel obligated,” Maria said as she sipped her tea.

The president nodded. They had been married for thirty years, long enough that Maria could read his moods as well as his thoughts. She often helped him sort out the pros and cons of tough decisions.

“He’ll say yes if I ask him, even if he doesn’t want to.” And that was the problem, Kendall thought. After their harrowing ordeal two years ago, he had no right to ask. If anything, he was indebted to Matthew—hell, the man had saved his life—and there was no way he could ever repay him. If there was, asking him to come back to the White House certainly wasn’t it. Matthew had made his feelings fairly clear two years ago. After the investigation, after the congressional hearings, after the head of the Secret Service and the FBI had both resigned, Matthew had told him that there was nothing left for him in Washington. It had been more than the corruption in the Secret Service, Kendall knew, more than the corruption in the vice president’s office. It had a lot to do with Stephanie.

“You miss him,” Maria said. It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” the president admitted. He had come to see Agent Richter as more than his protector—Matthew meant so much more to him. He knew that a psychologist would tell him this was normal, that it was something that soldiers who had survived combat together experienced. After surviving the horrors of war together while others around them came home in body bags, after being forced to make terrible choices as they faced life and death side by side, after being forced to dig deep and find the courage to survive when it seemed there was nothing left, combat veterans shared a bond that few others understood.
Hadn’t he and Matthew experienced the same thing?

Although he had respected Matthew’s wishes two years ago, he had carried an emptiness inside ever since.

“Can I make a suggestion, Dave?” Maria said.

Despite his mood, Kendall offered a weak smile, “Do I have any choice?”

Maria smiled back and playfully smacked him on the arm. “Invite him to dinner,” she said. “I’d like to see him again too.” She put her hand on his. “I don’t think I can ever thank him enough for what he did.”

“Neither can I,” the president responded. “Neither can I.”