In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (28 page)

Several hours later, they drove down the dirt road to what Daniels referred to as his ranch.  The Daniels lived on a thirty-seven-acre spread, south of town, close to Mesa Verde National Park.  They passed the main house and drove up to a large sheet metal building that housed Daniels’ motor home and boat.  Daniels opened the large sliding door, and Richter pulled the Explorer inside. 

Climbing out, he heard noises behind him and turned as Derek, Jack, and the president joined them. 

“What happened to you guys?  We were getting worried—Jesus Christ!  Are you okay?”

Richter, aware of the blood on his shirt and pants, ignored Jack’s question as he stepped around them and closed the shed’s door. 

The president grabbed his arm.  “Are you hurt?”   

Richter shook his head.  “No, sir.  We had a run in with some guys who were following us.  But we’re okay.”

Kendall nodded soberly.  “So, they know we’re alive.”  

Richter nodded, then gave them an abbreviated version of the tense morning, leaving out the part where they hid the driver’s body and the blood splattered Suburban in a dilapidated building at the old airfield. 

“Do you think there are others?”

“I don’t know yet.  But we’re going to find out.”  Richter walked to the back of the Explorer and opened the hatch.  He dragged the hooded figure out.  “Bill, I’m going to need a chair and some duct tape.”

As Monahan climbed out of the car, he heard laughter and shouts—the high-pitched, excited voices of girls coupled with the bluster and banter of boys.  He glanced down his tree-lined street and saw the group of children rounding the corner.  Two or three were on skateboards, most had iPod wires dangling from their ears, and all were laden with backpacks.  They seemed happy, carefree as they made their way up the block.  He glanced at his watch.  It was 3:00 p.m.  He shook his head and smiled.

He nodded to his driver then made his way up the front walk.  He had met with Broder and, despite that or maybe because of it, he felt better than he expected.  It was the sense of relief, he decided; the feeling that he wasn’t carrying around the weight of the world—or at least the weight of the FBI and it’s overbearing director—on his shoulders.  He had postponed the meeting a day, partly because he had spent most of the prior day in bed after arriving home at two-thirty in the morning, but more so because he needed time to sort through the emotions and jumble of thoughts in his head. 

He was frustrated that he had been pulled off the case, especially after the progress they had made.  They had uncovered evidence that pointed to a conspiracy involving the Secret Service, the Air Force, and the Mexican drug cartels.  How many others were involved?  He felt an obligation to uncover exactly what had happened and to obtain justice.  But he wouldn’t get that chance now.

Surprisingly, Broder hadn’t fired him.  Instead, Broder told him he was on administrative leave, whatever the hell that meant.  Even more surprising, he had been allowed to keep his credentials, his gun, and his driver. 
If this was the limbo the nuns had warned about back in grammar school
, he thought with a smile,
maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing
.     

He had just stepped into his house when his phone rang.  He debated for a moment whether he should answer, whether he should even check the display to see who was calling, but thirty years of habit won out.  He glanced at the number: Brett Donahue, the SAIC from San Antonio.

“What can I do for you, Brett?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.  “Sir, I know you’re no longer on the case, and I’m sorry to hear that.” 

There was another pause and Monahan sighed.  It was the first of a string of pity calls, something he should have expected, but also something he had no desire to hear right now.  Before he could say anything, Donahue continued.

“I thought you would want to know about something else we just came across.”  Donahue sounded excited.

Monahan felt his pulse quicken.  “What have you got?”

“Early this morning, we found a pickup truck about ten miles from where we found that body.  It was on a ranch about two miles from the border, hidden in some brush.  Mexican tags.”  There was a pause.  “We found a head inside: male, decomposing….”

Having witnessed some gruesome scenes in his years as an agent, Monahan had a good idea of what the inside of the truck must have looked like.

“We’re doing the DNA testing now, but it looks like it belongs to the body.  But even more importantly,” Donahue continued, “we found a cell phone.  We’ve been reviewing the contact list and call log all day and, so far, two numbers are very concerning.”

Monahan glanced up.  His wife was in the hallway.  He held his finger up and shook his head.  It was a signal that after thirty-two years of marriage she knew all too well.   A bit put out, she turned away.

“Go on,” he prodded.

“One of the numbers is for a cell phone that belongs to Secret Service Agent Cal Mosby.”

Monahan felt a sudden excitement, the rush he always felt as the pieces of the puzzle began to come together.

“And the second is for a bank in Luxembourg.  In the contact details, there was an account number.  We contacted the bank.  It took some effort, a lot of twisted arms, and some help from Interpol, but we found out that the account belongs to Cal Mosby.”

Bill and Derek spent the afternoon acquiring the items on Richter’s list.  They weren’t ready until almost 9:00 p.m. 

The black man sat in a wooden chair, his arms handcuffed behind him, his legs duct-taped to the chair.  A bandanna covered his eyes.  Richter sat across from him.  He placed the man’s cell phone on the table between them and connected it to a digital recorder, then sat back and studied his prisoner.  He had confirmed his suspicions earlier in a private, somewhat physical conversation.  The man’s real name was Joe Reed.

Richter leaned over.  Reed flinched as he felt Richter’s hot breath on his face.  Richter let him stew for a moment. 

“Okay, Reed.  One more time.”

After Reed finished, Richter stood, then without warning thrust his straightened fingers into the man’s solar plexus.  Reed doubled over, as if kicked by a mule, his face contorted in pain.  After several seconds, Richter pulled his hand away.  He watched Reed wheeze and struggle to breathe.  It took another fifteen seconds before his breath finally came in a series of shallow pants. 

Reed shook his head, tears running down his cheeks.  “Okay!  No more!  Please!”

Richter studied him again.  Earlier, after seeing Reed’s bloody face and apparent broken nose, the president had pulled Richter aside. 

“I want him alive.  I know you had no choice with Mosby and with that other one.  But I want him to face justice.  I want to know who’s behind this.”  The president’s tone was stern.  “I will not condone torture, Agent Richter.”  

Richter wanted Reed alive as well.  He had been trained to subdue a person without inflicting permanent physical damage.  And if he needed to inflict a little pain?  Well, he thought as he studied Reed, the president wasn’t here now.

When Reed finally recovered, Richter sat down.  “Are you ready to make the phone call?”

The blindfolded man nodded.  Richter stuck an earphone in his own ear and dialed the number.  The call was answered on the first ring.

“Where the hell are you?  You were supposed to call me this morning!”  Richter heard the fury and watched as Reed stiffened. 

“I tried to call you, but I couldn’t get through.  Then my battery died and I had to go and buy another.”

“Why didn’t you call me from a land line?”

“You told me never to use a land line.”

There was silence.  “Do you have anything?”

“Nothing yet.  We visited most of the motels and hotels in town and quietly checked around to see if anyone fitting that agent’s description had checked in.  We spoke to the local police, too, but there’s nothing on the car.  We checked the hospital as well.”

“Why the hospital?”

“It struck me that they may be injured.”  Richter watched as Reed paused for a moment.  “Were you able to confirm that it’s him?  In the bank video?”

“Yes.  It’s him.  And if he’s alive, then the president is alive as well.  What are you doing now?”

“We’re going to check into a motel to get some sleep.  We’ve been up for over forty hours.  Then, tomorrow, we’re going to check surrounding towns.” 

Richter nodded.  Reed was following the script.

“Keep your phone on tonight.  I’ll check surrounding towns to see if anything has been reported stolen.”  The phone went dead.

It was just after midnight when Monahan jumped out of bed, grabbing his phone.  He checked the caller ID.  Area code 970.  No name.  He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

“Monahan speaking.” 

“Mr. Monahan.  My name is Bill Daniels.  I need to speak to you about the crash.”

“Mr. Daniels, do I know you?”

“No.  I’m a newspaper columnist.”

Damn.  Another media vulture. 
For Christ’s sake
, he wanted to scream,
it’s midnight!
  Instead, he took a breath.  “Look, I’m not prepared to make any comments or answer any questions.  You can try calling the FBI Media Affairs Office.” 

Monahan was about to hang up when he heard something.  He put the phone back to his ear. 

“…I have some information related to the accident.”

“Say that again please.”

“I said I’m not calling as a journalist.  I’m calling as a friend of…let’s call him Dave.  I have some information on the accident which I think you’ll want to hear.”

Five minutes later, Monahan hung up, stunned.  His mind raced as he wrestled with the implications.  The caller, Bill Daniels or whoever he really was, had mentioned several things that only a few people were supposed to know.  Daniels knew about Project Boston and Monahan’s meetings with the president.  More disturbing, he had confidential information about the crash investigation, including the fact that Agent Mosby had been shot and killed and the location of his body—exactly where they had had found it outside the miner’s shack.  Was there a leak in the FBI? Monahan wondered.  What was most chilling was the man’s response when asked how he learned this information.

“There’s only one way, Mr. Monahan.  Our friend Dave told me.”

The caller had insinuated that the president was alive and that he had seen him recently. 
This could be a crank call
, Monahan realized.  They had received so many false tips over the last week.  Most of the callers were insane, with theories of aliens, the Russians, or Mafia involvement, and even one who swore that a descendant of Lee Harvey Oswald was responsible.  Of the hundreds of calls they had received so far, over ninety percent had been discounted immediately.  The rest were assigned to a team of investigators, but as of yet, no credible leads had surfaced. 

No one could have survived that crash.  He had not only flown over the debris field by helicopter, he had walked through sections of the crash site with the NTSB investigators.  He had seen the size of the crater and the torn and twisted metal of the airplane.  He had seen the bodies, or what was left of them.  Even though both McKay and Mosby had survived—for a short while at least—logic told him that the president was dead. 

But then how did Daniels know about Project Boston?  How did he know about his conversations with the president?  How did he know about Agent Mosby?  And how did he get Monahan’s cell phone number? 

In the kitchen, Monahan made a pot of coffee as he contemplated what to do.  Daniels told him to expect another call within thirty minutes and not to speak to anyone until then.  While he waited, he did some research on his Blackberry and found that the area code was in Colorado.  He made a note to have the number traced.  He also learned that Bill Daniels was a syndicated newspaper columnist, living in Colorado.  As Monahan poured a cup of coffee his Blackberry buzzed.  Same area code, different number. 

“Monahan speaking.”

There was a long pause, then: “Pat.  It’s Dave.  I realize that this is tough to swallow, but it’s me.”

Monahan recognized the voice.  “But…how?”

“I can’t go into that now.  Suffice it to say that one of my friends, Matthew, saved me.  I’m sure you know who I’m referring to.  He’s on the line with us by the way.”

“Sir, where are you now?  Why don’t you go to the local police?  They’ll protect you until I send my people.”

“This is Matthew.  You need to understand our reluctance to share that with you.  There appear to be a number of people involved in this…situation.  More than you can imagine.  We ran into two more today.  One of them used to work in Dave’s house.  At this point, I don’t trust anyone.”

“Okay.  I think I understand.”  Monahan paused.  “What are you proposing?”  

“We need to find out who’s behind this.  Then we need to figure out how to get Dave home.”

“Okay.”  Monahan was unsure what to do next.  “Do you have any ideas?”