In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (12 page)

Derek Middleton bit his tongue as he watched Jack Walsh study the trail map.  Friends since the fifth grade, Derek had realized years ago that Jack would never change.  Methodical, cautious, and a bit nerdy, Jack was everything Derek wasn’t. 

“You need to live more,” he used to tell Jack when they were in high school.  “Be spontaneous!  Let whatever happens happen and just enjoy it!”

But Jack had never wavered in his approach to life.  Despite that, and despite the fact that their lives had gone different directions—Jack was now in medical school down in Boise, while Derek still lived at home with his mother—Jack was his best friend.  And this, he thought as he looked out over the vista before them, was one of their shared passions.

Jack put the map away then pulled out a handheld GPS, pressed a button and locked in their current position.  Apparently satisfied, he stowed the GPS but then pulled out a compass.  Derek suppressed a grin. 
Talk about redundancy
, he thought.  Using carabineers, Jack attached his water bottles to the straps on his pack then tied a bandana around his head. 

Jack scanned the gray sky yet another time.  “What’s the forecast?”

“It’s supposed to get up to the high forties, but it will probably drop below freezing at night.”

Jack frowned at the sky.  “No rain or snow?”

“Not that I heard.”  It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.  He hadn’t checked the forecast despite promising that he would.  It wasn’t intentional.  As usual, he had been running late and decided, after a quick look out the window, that conditions were good for backpacking.  Unfortunately, the window was in his mother’s house, one hundred and thirty miles away.

“Ready to go?” Derek asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”  Jack grinned.

Derek resisted the urge to say something sarcastic. 

They began their ascent at the Blackhawk trailhead, which, according to Jack’s GPS, was just over six thousand feet above sea level.  Their goal for the day was to get to Sable Point, about seven miles away by trail.  Their planned route would take them through a series of small descents and ascents over the first four miles, and then they would descend by a series of switchbacks down to about four thousand feet where they would cross Sable Creek.  The final leg, only a mile long, was the toughest as they would have to climb almost two thousand feet to Sable Point.  They planned to camp somewhere below the peak. 

After spending the night at Sable Point, they would hike another eight or nine miles to Granite Peak the following day.  If they still felt good and, if conditions permitted, on day three they would trek twelve-plus miles down to Red River Hot Springs, and then, on the fourth day, they would return to Blackhawk. 

Hikers usually ventured out in the Nez Perce from midsummer through early October, since the winter months could be harsh and snowmelt in the spring made crossing the streams treacherous.  But Derek had pleaded with Jack. 

“You only have a week off from classes and we haven’t been for a while.  Come on, man, don’t wimp out on me.” 

Both men loved Nez Perce National Forest and the Salmon River Mountains and so, while most college students headed to warmer climates down south, Jack had finally agreed to spend his break in the spring thaw of the Idaho wilderness with Derek. 

During the summer hiking season, it would take about three or four hours to reach Sable Point.  More like five to six hours today, Derek estimated, as they had to navigate over swollen streams and deal with the remnants of the heavy winter snowfall. 

He slowed his pace to let his friend catch up.  Jack wasn’t out of shape by any means, just careful.  Derek didn’t complain, at least not out loud.  In his mid-twenties now, he had come to appreciate their differences.  Jack had always been there for him: helping him study back in high school, providing a shoulder to cry on after his father died, even bailing him out of jail once.    

Left to his own devices, Derek would throw on a backpack at the spur of the moment and head off for a four-day hike by himself.  But Jack had to double and triple check all of his gear and plan out his route.  He was worse than a little old lady, Derek mused, which was precisely why he had ushered Jack out of the trailhead shelter before he had a chance to read the entries other hikers had made in the logbook.

Hikers were required to sign in at the trailhead and indicate their planned route, length of stay, and probable camping areas.  All too often, U.S. Forest Service Rangers were called on to rescue stranded and missing campers, and often the only way to find them was to follow their planned routes.  Unless the lost campers happened to be like Jack and considered GPS devices and cell phones essential hiking gear. 

The search and rescue job had become more difficult over the last five years as budget cuts had decimated the U.S. Forest Service and, in many parks around the state, ranger patrols had been scaled back or eliminated.  These days, most rescues were made by other hikers or by the military, which viewed a lost, hurt, and often difficult-to-reach hiker as a training opportunity.

Earlier, when Derek had signed them in, he had noted that previous entries in the logbook warned of ice and heavy, packed snow above the six thousand foot mark.  One camper had scrawled:
Crampons and snow gear recommended
.  That entry was a week old, and Derek knew that if Jack had seen it he would have backed out, especially with the threat of a storm evident in the menacing clouds.  Surprisingly, Jack didn’t question the ominous sky.

Well
, Derek thought,
what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him
.

Lieutenant Francis McKay was one of two crewmembers whose duty station included the lower deck.  Although it was primarily used as cargo space, it was also the way to the middle or passenger deck.  To reach the main cabin, most passengers had to climb a staircase to the rear door on Air Force One, where, once inside, they encountered yet another stairway connecting the lower deck to the middle deck.

McKay’s duties included greeting passengers as they initially boarded the plane and directing them up the staircase to the main cabin.  Even though the cargo hold was pressurized and climate controlled, the Air Force did not want passengers getting lost and wandering around. 

McKay was more than a glorified doorman, as some of the crew had joked.  He was also an on-board technician who would troubleshoot and make temporary repairs in the aircraft’s flight systems while the plane was in service.  

“Secure the boarding doors.”  Major Lewis’s voice came over McKay’s headphones.  He closed and locked the rear hatch, then climbed the staircase to the passenger deck, securing the door to the cabin behind him.  He took his seat next to Brandt in the back of the press section.

Immediately after takeoff, Richter unbuckled his seatbelt.  As he stepped out into the aisle, Mosby shot him a look then turned away.  That’s weird, Richter thought, as he began a routine security patrol. 

Mosby had been acting different recently.  They hadn’t been on the same shift—Richter needed to thank O’Rourke for that—and usually only crossed paths in the command center, or, like now, when the president traveled.  Mosby hadn’t extended the olive branch by any means, but he had been far less hostile than usual. 

When Richter reached the White House section, he spotted Stephanie sitting outside the president’s office. 

She looked up.  “All clear here.”

Richter nodded and turned to head back when she pointed to the open seat. 

“Why don’t you join me for a second?  POTUS is in the office with Howell and Breen.”

Richter did a quick scan of the cabin and then sat. Both agents were on alert even as they chatted.

Sartori frowned.  “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Richter laughed.  “Am I that transparent?” 

“Sometimes.” 

He hesitated.  For the Protective Detail to be effective, they had to trust each other, and he didn’t want to jeopardize that by bad-mouthing other agents.  But Mosby was different, and this was Stephanie he was talking to. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice low, “but Mosby seems to be acting strange.”

She frowned.  “I’ve noticed that.  Rumor has it you two don’t get along.”  When he nodded, she continued.  “The guy’s an asshole.  I think he’s threatened by younger agents like you and me.  He barely gives me the time of day.”

“You too?” 

“Yeah.  He doesn’t get along with too many people.”    

Richter shook his head.  “It’s not that.  If anything, he’s been less of an asshole these last few weeks.”

Sartori looked at him.  “I heard that O’Rourke’s been on his back.”  She patted Richter’s arm.  “I also heard that he might be retiring.”

Richter smiled.  “Boy, wouldn’t that be nice?”

Shortly before dusk, Jack and Derek were about three hundred yards from the peak of Sable Point.  Their hike had taken longer than planned as they were forced to navigate around Cobb’s Creek.  Normally only a trickle and often dry in late summer, the stream was swollen this time of year, forcing them half a mile off their planned route to find a safe crossing.  The sun was setting when they reached their destination.  They used the remaining daylight to find a suitable camping spot, set up their tent, gather firewood, make dinner and prepare for the cold night ahead. 

Unlike the pressed chinos and sports shirts he typically favored when not in uniform, McKay was wearing baggy cargo jeans, and an oversized plain blue tee shirt.  While he may have looked odd to his fellow officers, he was dressed like many other males between the ages of thirteen and thirty.  As he left the hotel, he donned a pair of sunglasses and pulled a baseball cap over his head.

Earlier that morning, during breakfast with the crew, Lewis had invited him to a matinee in the theater district.  Zweig and Thomas had accepted Lewis’s invitation but McKay had declined, stating that he wanted to visit a sports memorabilia store.  If he had time, he would stop by the store later in the afternoon, but for now, he had work to do. 

McKay dodged the throngs of shoppers as he walked to the center of the mall.  Minutes later, he found the large balcony overlooking the food court below.  He stopped by the railing, across from the escalators, and casually surveyed the scene.  There was the usual assortment of fast food restaurants surrounding a communal dining area.  He watched the parade of people carrying orange trays, the mothers pushing strollers, and the groups of teenage girls talking excitedly to each other as their thumbs played across the screens of their phones.  McKay’s eyes continued past the diners and the restaurants to the far wall, where he spotted the restroom sign at the entrance to a hallway.  The right hand side of the hallway held a row of storage lockers. 

He followed the balcony around past the escalators and stopped again.  As he looked down this time, he noticed two police officers talking as they sipped cups of coffee.  He studied the cops for a moment or two before stepping on the escalator.

He threaded his way through the crowds over to the lockers and found number sixty-seven.  Without looking around—he didn’t want to appear nervous—he opened the locker and retrieved the small blue bag with the Nike emblem on the sides.  As he made his way back to the escalators, he noticed that the two cops hadn’t moved.  They seemed more interested in their coffee and their conversation than the crowds streaming around them.

Outside the mall, he let out the breath he had been holding and hailed a cab.  He had over seven hours until dinner.  He would return to the hotel and review the bag’s contents, go over his plans again, and then find somewhere safe to store everything.  Then he should have more than enough time to visit the sports store.  After that, maybe a workout, and if he still had time, a ballgame on TV.  He would need something to keep his mind occupied.

The man known as Vernon Jackson sat at the table, sipping a cup of coffee.  The food court was noisy, the vaulted design of the atrium causing the sounds of hundreds of conversations to echo off the largely tiled and glass surfaces.  The occasional high-pitched shrieks of pre-teen girls pierced the air.  He sipped his coffee again as his eyes scanned the crowd, stopping for a moment on the two police officers before moving on to a group of teenage boys.  The boys kept glancing over their shoulders at the table with four teenage girls, trying, Vernon guessed, to get up the nerve to go over and say hi.  His eyes continued on to a group of moms and strollers, clustered around three or four tables.  A few young mothers were snuggling sleeping babies to their chests while others were discreetly nursing theirs below small blankets. 

To anyone watching, he was just another bored husband taking an opportunity to rest his feet while his wife wandered around one store or another.  His eyes passed over the cops again then onto his right where a steady stream of people were either coming from or going to the restrooms—and the storage lockers that lined the wall beyond them.  He glanced at his watch, took another sip, and then he saw what he had been waiting for.  The young man with the sunglasses, cap, and cargo pants made his way over the lockers.  Jackson studied the young man’s face.  Despite the obvious attempt to disguise himself as a younger, hipper college-aged kid, the young man’s movements and mannerisms gave him a way.  He was military.  And despite the disguise and angle, Jackson saw enough of the young man’s face.  He was the one.

Less than a minute later, he watched as the young man disappeared into the crowd at the top of the elevator.  Jackson pulled out his phone and typed
Pickup complete
onto the text screen then pushed send.  He waited another minute before rising, throwing out his half empty cup and making his way over to the escalators.

Game on
.

As usually happened, people were excited to be so close to the president.  Today was no exception.  Richter scanned the crowd, quickly examining each face, noting the expressions, watching the hands, wary of sudden movements.  His eyes passed over a group of college students in jeans, all wearing smiles, most clapping.  Then, a professor in a sports coat pointing, a child at his side.  Next was a young man with a beard and leather jacket, waving.  Then an Asian businessman dressed in a suit—no smile, but hands folded, respectful.  And in the back, a tall, black man, muscular, arms folded across his chest, a faint smile on his face.  Richter looked again at the hands, then the face.  Despite what appeared to be a smile, the man’s eyes were cold.

President Kendall took another step along the rope line when a young man wearing a heavy blue sweatshirt and a Seattle Mariners cap grabbed his outstretched hand in both of his own, all the while shouting.  Richter’s eyes darted from the black man to the Mariners fan.

“Mr. President!  Mr. President!  I’m so glad you’re here! I really need to speak with you, Mr. President!”

The Mariners fan was in an almost hysteric fervor, all the while rapidly shaking the president’s hand.  Kendall, having been coached well, smiled warmly.  Although the man was likely just excited to meet the president, alarm bells sounded in Richter’s head.  The man didn’t even realize that he was gripping the president’s hand like a trophy he had just won.  But Agents Richter and Lansing did.

Before Kendall had a chance to say anything, Lansing grabbed the president’s arm while Richter reached down and flicked the man in the testicles.  No one in the crowd saw Richter’s hand, and even the Mariners fan wasn’t sure what had happened.  Involuntarily, he released the president’s hand as Lansing pulled it away.  After Agents Lansing and Richter moved the president away, another agent stepped up and handed the man a card.

“I’m sorry but the president’s running late.  If you’d like to speak to him, why don’t you email or write to him at this address and he’ll get back to you.”

The Mariners fan, barely able to contain his excitement, took the card.

Richter and Lansing continued to move the president down the line towards the waiting limousine for a ride over to Bellevue and his meeting with Bill Gates.  Agent Richter glanced back to the crowd, but the tall black man was gone.

Later that afternoon, Charles Howell and President Kendall sat in the back of the limo as the motorcade made its way through the rain-soaked city.

“I think things went well today,” the president said.  “I got a note from Felicia.  She believes the Chinese may consider softening their trade position.”

Howell looked up from his notebook and nodded.  “I heard the same thing, sir.  I think the fact that they were willing to sit down with us at all is a big win.”

“Please schedule time for me to debrief Felicia on the trip home.”

“Yes, sir.”  Howell scribbled a note.

“The meeting with the Gateses went well.  You’ll need to coordinate with them on the timing for a visit to Washington.”

Howell made another note.  “Are you ready for your dinner with the governor?”

“I think I’m set.  Education is number one on her list, then foreign trade.  We should have a lot to talk about.  Is she looking for anything else?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

The president sat back and looked out the rain-streaked window.  The gray clouds were ominous and foreboding.  He had heard something about a storm that was forecasted to hit the area.  This must be the start of it, he guessed. 

So far, the trip had gone well, he thought, then chuckled to himself as he remembered his apprehension a week earlier. 
Where did that come from?
he wondered.  Oh well, even with the bad weather forecasted, he was sure that the Air Force would get him home safe and sound tomorrow in time for Angela’s ballet recital and their weekend getaway to Camp David.