In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (25 page)

“At 11:14 a.m., there is another explosion and the CVR ends.  The FDR continues to record for another twenty-seven seconds and indicates major malfunctions in multiple systems, hydraulics, electrical, power plants, control surfaces.  This is where the recordings end.”

Monahan waited until Burton was done and then looked around the room.  “The critical question is: what exactly was Lt. McKay doing when he was sent to investigate the fuel gauge problem?”

The call came in the morning, minutes before seven.  After working through the night, Pat Monahan had just closed the door to his office and was heading to his trailer for a few hours of much needed sleep.  Wearily, he answered the call.

“Mr. Monahan.  This is Brett Donahue from San Antonio.”

Monahan remembered Donahue when he was transferred to Texas to become the Special Agent in Charge of the San Antonio office five years ago. 

“Sir?  I’ve got something down here that’s going to interest you.  We discovered a body in a house about fifteen miles west of Laredo.  Male, age and identity unknown, decapitated.  Our initial inspection of the corpse suggests he’s of Mexican heritage.  At first glance, this looks like the modus operandi for the cartels, a retaliatory killing.  However, we found something with the body that suggests otherwise.” 

Monahan rubbed his head, unsure where this was going. 

“In a briefcase next to the body, we discovered two pounds of Semtex, plus timers, fuses, and various fake IDs.”  There was a pause.  “Sir?”

Monahan felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck.  “Yes.”

“We also found classified spec sheets and diagrams of Air Force One and the president’s itinerary for his trip to Seattle.”

Behind the dirty strip mall south of Salt Lake City, they found what they needed: another Dodge Grand Caravan, from an earlier model year, but with a similar color pattern.  They had watched the strip mall for some time and noted very little traffic.  The mall was located on a side street and had lost its customers to the more heavily traveled and newer thoroughfares.  There were vacant lots on either side of the strip mall and the few small clusters of retail activity on the other side of the street appeared to be hanging on for dear life.  Except for the wino out front, even the liquor store a block away looked abandoned.

In the strip mall, six of the storefronts were vacant.  Of the businesses that had somehow managed to survive, there was a tax preparation service—a sign indicating it was closed—a computer repair shop, a printer, and a vacuum cleaner repair shop.  There were three cars in the front parking lot and, in the back, a handful more, presumably belonging to the owners and employees.  On the far end, they spotted the minivan.  It was covered with a thick layer of dust, and rust was eating through the sides.  A rag was stuffed into the hole where the gas cap had once been.  One tire was flat, and the crack in the back window was held together with duct tape. 

It took Derek two minutes to remove the license plates.  The odds were in their favor that no one would notice that the seemingly abandoned minivan behind the seldom-used strip mall no longer had plates.  Or so they hoped.

Henry Amalu frowned.  “Do the intelligence services have anything to support this?  The CIA, the NSA?”

“No sir,” the agent answered.  “Not to my knowledge.”

Emil Broder sat back, only half listening.  He knew the answer.  Other than the body found in San Antonio, there had been no other indication that the Mexican cartels were involved in the downing of Air Force One.  At least for the moment.  But that wasn’t unusual.  Libya’s planning and preparations for the bombing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988 had somehow slipped through the intelligence nets.  The USS Cole attack, the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993, and countless other terrorist attacks, including 9/11, had slipped through the nets as well.  It wasn’t until well after the events that the intelligence services were able to connect the pieces of the puzzle.  Yes, the federal intelligence and law enforcement services were reorganized after 9/11, and the Department of Homeland Security was created; the goal being to ensure that coordination and information sharing across almost two hundred separate federal agencies were not impeded by bureaucracy and the desire to protect one’s own turf, something all too common amongst the agencies involved.  Still, there were billions of pieces of data to sort through and somehow connect: cell phone and wire intercepts, satellite images, emails and blogs, news reports, data gathered by agents and operatives…the list went on.  New data mining software helped, but it was a daunting task.

Were the Mexican Cartels behind this?
he wondered as he rubbed his chest.  They had a history of targeting the police and the Army in retaliation for raids and arrests.  They also targeted informants, local government officials, and political candidates, going after the political structure behind the Mexican government’s war on drugs.  Was this retaliation for Project Boston?  Could they be sending the U.S. a clear message to stay out of Mexico’s drug battles?  Or was it a matter of survival, fighting back to protect their livelihood?   So far, their response to the Boston raids had been subdued.

He popped another Tums in his mouth as he turned his attention back to the meeting.  As he listened, he began to notice several stolen glances in his direction.  It was time to end this.

When he sat forward, a hush came over the room.  “This is clearly a lead that we need to pursue.”

With their first task done, they drove to Walmart where they purchased more clothes, several newspapers and magazines, some food, more painkillers, and a knee brace.  Derek tossed the Idaho plates into the dumpster behind the store.  Back in the car, they continued south.  Two hours later, they pulled into a roadside motel.

“Sir, we got something.”

Monahan turned to see Agent Connolly.  His mouth full of bagel, he nodded and pointed toward the conference room.  This was his third bagel and it was only 5:00 a.m.; the night wasn’t over yet.  Eating like this, he knew, would kill him.  He swallowed, refilled his coffee, and followed Connolly into the room.

“What do you have?”

Connolly sat at the computer and clicked the mouse.  “We found another body,” she said over her shoulder.  “He was discovered quite a distance from the crash site.” 

Finally some good luck
, Monahan thought.  Frustrated that they hadn’t recovered more bodies, he had asked General Trescott to expand the search. 

He leaned over Connolly’s shoulder and examined the picture, noting the circle of light around the body fading into darkness.  This was a nighttime shot taken with a lighting system.

“When was this taken?”

“Forty minutes ago.”

The CSAR team, Monahan knew, was working around the clock.  Connolly pointed to the screen. 

“That’s how they found him, naked and buried below the snow.”

Well that wasn’t so unusual, he thought.  Many passengers had been stripped naked by the gale-force winds that had torn through the plane.  And almost all had been buried in the snow. 

As if reading his thoughts, she continued.  “A number of things make this significant.  First, he was found about nine miles west of the primary debris field.”  She walked over to the large map on the wall and stuck a red pushpin in it.  “Right about here.”  She traced her finger east across the map to a blue pushpin.  “The next closest body, Lieutenant McKay, was found seven miles to the east, right here.”  She tapped the map.  “Senator Dykstra was found another mile further east.”  

Monahan nodded as Connolly returned to the computer. 

“He was buried in the snow outside of an old mining cabin.  It appears that he was purposefully buried.  What’s more disturbing is that it appears that he was shot,” she added.

Monahan studied the picture, grabbed the mouse, and clicked through several shots.  Other than the dark holes in the forehead, there didn’t appear to be any other significant injuries to the body. 

“Could it be an injury from the crash?”  He felt obligated to ask.

“I don’t think so.  I told the coroner that this is a priority, so we should know soon.  As for the cabin, it appears that someone has been camping out there.” 

Monahan clicked the mouse again until the cabin appeared.  He studied it for a moment and then clicked back to the pictures of the body. 

“Have you ID’d him yet?”

“That’s the disturbing part.  We compared him to the eight missing passengers.  Three of those, as you know, are female.  Of the remaining men, he bears a striking resemblance to Secret Service Agent Cal Mosby.”

“Shit.  Really?”

She nodded soberly.  “Yes, sir.  We should know for sure soon.”

Monahan shook his head.  The investigation had just taken another ugly turn. 

They arrived in Durango, Colorado, in midafternoon.  After driving along the river for several miles, they turned into town and, minutes later, pulled up in front of the public library.  As Jack climbed out, Richter caught his eye.

“We’ll be back in half an hour.”

Jack nodded then jogged towards the door.  Once he was safely inside, Derek put the car in gear.  As they pulled out of the lot, he turned to Richter and grinned.

“Time to go car shopping again?”

Rumson considered the news.  Mosby had been found; apparently shot and killed and his body dumped.  He was certain that wasn’t part of the plan.  It sure wasn’t part of Mosby’s plan.  In fact, disappearing in South America was.  But he had known Mosby for over twenty years and, despite the fact that he was trained to be skeptical, Mosby had been easy to manipulate.  Like a pawn on a chessboard, it had been easy to move the hapless agent in the direction that best suited his purposes. 

It had started small, years ago, a series of tests to see how far across the line Mosby was willing to go.  Each time, he had pushed Mosby a little further: fixing a ticket, leaving certain facts out of an official report, presenting false testimony at a trial, planting evidence to frame a local politician.  When he joined the FBI, the stakes had risen.  Mosby had helped to steer the investigation into an Ohio gubernatorial candidate’s alleged misuse of campaign funds—to, among other things, pay for hookers—into the poor records maintained by an inexperienced staffer who, unfortunately, had died weeks earlier in a car crash.  The candidate won, served two terms as governor, and was now the Ambassador to Japan.  And that was another chip that Rumson could cash in whenever he needed.

When Jane began doing private security work, he had decided that Mosby might be more useful to him in the Secret Service.  Even back then, his ultimate goal was the White House, and he started planting the seeds early, unsure at the time when or how he would use Mosby in the future.  He only knew that he could.  When he moved into the White House, he had maneuvered Mosby again, having him moved from the president’s security detail onto his own.  Mosby, who had always been moody and irritable, had grown bitter over the years, upset that he hadn’t risen further in the Service.  Rumson had been able to use that against him.  A loner now—his wife had died ten years ago from breast cancer—it hadn’t taken much effort to harness Mosby’s anger and resentment. 

When he shared with Mosby a confidential reorganization plan drafted by the Director of the Secret Service, at first Mosby had been stunned.  The plan—a fabrication, complete with organizational hierarchy charts—included a list of older agents who would be let go.  Mosby’s name was on the list.  Rumson had promised to see what he could do and Mosby had stewed for a week.  When they met again, he had shaken his head and watched as Mosby’s eyes burned with anger.  Then, he offered Mosby a way out, and the disgruntled agent had jumped at the opportunity. 

He frowned.  Mosby would have died anyway, but it was supposed to appear that he died in the crash—or at least it was supposed to be assumed.  Just like that Air Force guy.  But something had gone wrong and, now, they would have to do some damage control.   He glanced at his phone.  He needed to speak to Jane.

He had to admit, her plan was brilliant.  Frame the Mexican drug cartel.  If they did it right, not only would he avoid any suspicion falling on him, it would give him an excuse to bring the full might of the United States military to bear against the cartel.  Instead of merely lopping off a few heads—which, like the Hydra of Greek mythology, only sprouted more as other criminal elements moved in to fill the power vacuum—he could not only avenge Kendall’s death, he could significantly reduce the flow of drugs from Mexico.  That alone would guarantee another term and further ensure that history would judge him as one of the great ones.

Now, the challenge would be to somehow connect Mosby and the Air Force guy to the Mexicans.  He would have to speak to Jane.  But she would have to scramble to connect the pieces for the FBI before the investigation got too far off track.

In the meantime, he thought, it would make sense to rattle Broder’s cage a little.  There was no way he could derail the investigation into Mosby, or into his connection to the Air Force, or his likely motivation.  Now that Mosby’s body had been discovered, the FBI would be like a dog with a bone.  But he could slow them down a little and give Jane some time. 

He picked up the phone.

“Get me Emil Broder.”

Three hours later, they were in a motel room watching the news.  They sat in silence as pictures of the crash site flashed across the screen.  The announcer told them little they didn’t already know.

Richter stood, lifted the curtain, and peeked outside.  He was on edge.  The irony wasn’t lost on him.  A little over a week ago, he was part a team of over one hundred Secret Service agents plus scores of local police protecting the president.  Sections of Seattle had been virtually shut down as they carefully orchestrated the president’s visit and interactions with the public.  Mostly, they managed the risk by limiting his exposure to people.  Now, Richter was by himself, guarding the president while he ate a barbecued pork sandwich in a cheap motel room.  Hiding in plain sight.

He watched a pickup truck pull into a space across the lot.  A young man climbed out, a six-pack in one hand and a pizza in the other.  After the man disappeared into his room, Richter stared out at the dark lot for another minute.

They had made it to Colorado—they were a thousand miles from the crash site—but he was still nervous.  The face kept coming back to him: the black man in the crowd in Seattle, the federal agent in the mountains of Idaho.  He knew he had seen the man before, somewhere, sometime, years ago.  Was he on the Threat List?  Was he really an agent?  And in the mountains, he had partners.  He hadn’t recognized either of their faces, but they were two more on his growing list of people to worry about. 

He glanced at the president.  He could see from the president’s eyes that he understood.  While the world held its breath and waited and wondered what had happened to the president, they had successfully eluded the thousands of people who were searching for them.  They had also eluded those who were somehow involved in the downing of Air Force One: a group that seemed to be growing and one whose tentacles seemed to reach far and wide.  There was no way to tell how much of the latter had infiltrated the former.

But they couldn’t run forever.  The more he thought about it, the president was right: Monahan was their best opportunity.

“If you need more people, you’ve got to let me know!”

Monahan took a breath before he answered.  He was both exhausted and frustrated, and it took all of his effort to hold his tongue.  “Emil, the last thing I want is more people tramping around the mountain.  This is a crime scene, for Christ’s sake, and we’re already running the risk of compromising evidence as it is.” 

“God damn it, Monahan!  You need to manage both!” 

There was a silence on the line, but Monahan resisted the urge to fill it.  It was a second or two before Broder spoke again.

“Canada has one of the best cold-weather search and rescue teams in the world…”

“Are you serious, Emil?  I have too many people here right now and you want to send more?  Jesus, if you want to help, send Pearson out here!  Let her manage the coordination from the ground while I focus on the investigation! That would be a hell of a lot more effective!”  He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down.  “Look, we’re doing everything we can.  We’re using body-sniffing dogs, infrared and heat detection, acoustic and seismic imaging, fiber-optic cameras, and biometric detection probes.”  He felt his anger rising again and took another breath.  “We’re using robots that can burrow through the snow.  I even commandeered an NRO satellite and a Predator Drone.”  He sighed.  “We’ve been through this already, Emil!  We’re working as hard and smart as we can, but you’ve got to accept the fact that we may not find him.”

Broder exploded.  “Are you fucking insane!  We cannot tell the nation that the president’s body just disintegrated!”

The frustration and fatigue had been mounting, and Monahan erupted.  “What the hell do you want from me?  I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long, and I am going to start losing people if I drive them any harder!  But if you think someone else is more capable than I am…if you think that they can somehow magically produce a missing body out here…well, then for Christ’s sake, take me off the case and send them out here instead!  It’s your call!”  He knew the moment the words were out of his mouth that he had crossed the line.

There was a long pause before Broder responded.  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.  You are now off the case, Monahan!  I’m sending Kaitlyn Pearson to replace you.  When she gets there, you’re to brief her, introduce her to the team, and then get your ass back here ASAP.  Do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear!”  Monahan slammed the phone down. 
Screw him!  Jesus!  What an asshole!
  He tossed his pad of paper on the table and sat back, exhaling loudly.  Sure, people in Washington were demanding results, but it was Broder’s job to manage that so that the investigators could focus on their work.  He had never known Broder to cave in to political pressure before.

Monahan walked over to the map, covered with notes and clusters of pins.  On one hand, he understood Broder’s frustration.  The nation needed closure.  It would be horrible if they declared that the president’s body was consumed by the crash, only to have some hiker discover his remains later.  That was one of his worries.  But the search had been exhaustive, and his gut told him that there were no more bodies to be found.

He shook his head and sighed.  This was not how he wanted to end his career.

Jane arrived at eight o’clock and was escorted into Rumson’s study. 

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  “Your security has increased considerably since I was here last.”

“Are you surprised?”

She ignored the condescending tone and sat on the couch.

“You sounded troubled on the phone earlier.”