In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (3 page)

The Secret Service Command Center was located on the ground floor of the West Wing, directly below the Oval Office and the Cabinet Room.  Matthew Richter had just signed out at the end of his shift and was anxious to leave.  As he stepped into the hall, he heard a voice behind him and tensed. 
Oh, shit
, he thought. 
Not again
.  He turned to the hostile face of Agent Cal Mosby.  What the hell did he want now?

“Did you put in for the transfer yet?”  There was no disguising the threat in Mosby’s tone.

“Back off, Mosby,” Richter hissed then turned to walk away.

“Face it, Richter.  You fucked up.  You’re not cut out for this.”

Anger flaring, Richter spun back around.  Before he could respond, Keith O’Rourke stepped into the hallway.

“Mosby!  Get your ass in here, now!”

Mosby glared at Richter then backed away, leaving him cursing under his breath. 

Mosby was an old-timer in the White House.  Currently assigned to the vice president’s protective detail, he had guarded presidents and various First Family members over the years.  Richter had heard that Mosby had worked for the New Jersey State Police at one time, then the FBI, before he joined the Service.  When Richter joined the White House team, Mosby had been cold and distant, having no time for rookies.  From his time in the military and in a field office, Richter was used to hazing.  He had to prove himself first, before the old guard would admit him to their circle.  He had put up with the practical jokes and the teasing, stoically accepting that it came with the territory.  It hadn’t taken long before the older agents welcomed him as part of the elite guard.  All except for Mosby; he had never acknowledged that Richter had earned his spot on the president’s detail.  After President Walters’ death, other agents had been sympathetic, assuring Richter that there was nothing he could have done.  Not Mosby. 

To make matters worse, shortly after Walters’ death, Mosby had been transferred to Vice President Rumson’s detail.  If anyone should have been transferred, Mosby had told him angrily, it should have been Richter.  After all, Richter had been the closest agent to President Walters, the only one who might have had a chance to prevent his suicide.  No one else saw it that way, but Mosby’s words kept coming back to him. 

“You froze.  And now the man’s dead.”

Although he tried to ignore it, the confrontation and Mosby’s stinging words followed him home.

Richter woke the next morning to noises coming from the kitchen.  Feeling disoriented, he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face while he waited for the feeling to pass.  The sheets and quilt, as usual, were on the floor.  He shuffled to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, not liking what he saw.  The bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks made him look hungover although he hadn’t had anything to drink. 

He made his way to the kitchen and found Karen, dressed and sitting at the counter. 

She handed him a cup of coffee.  “You look awful.”

Richter grunted as he sat.  Her bag, he noticed, was sitting by the door.  A pillow and blanket lay on the couch.  They sat quietly for several minutes. 

“Matthew, you’re making this too hard.”

He sighed and put his cup down.  “What do you want from me?”

“You know what I want.”  She paused.  “I want you to quit.”

He had met Karen Boyle seven months before at a SCUBA certification course.  She was a flight attendant, twenty-nine years old, and gorgeous.  They had been dating ever since. 

“You’re not going to say anything?”

He shook his head.  “I can’t quit.  You know that.”

He put his head in his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs.  He heard the scrape of her stool and the jingle of keys.

“Call me when you figure yourself out.” 

The door shut—not quite a slam, but hard enough to let him know she was pissed.  He frowned.  The trouble was they had fun together, or at least they used to. 

When they first met, they were excited to discover that they were both active and adventurous.  Their first date had been a hike along a section of the Appalachian Trail.  This was followed by horseback riding, hang gliding, and mountain biking.  Despite their conflicting schedules, they usually found time for each other once a week.  They had planned on playing racquet ball this morning before Karen’s flight, Richter remembered with a sigh. 

For the last few months, he had been preoccupied and tense, and their times together had been strained.  He knew that it was his fault, but now, when he needed her support and understanding, it had become clear that it was more than she was willing to give.  

The rest of the day, Matthew Richter felt like he was in a fog.  Exhausted, he checked in at the command center at the start of his shift and was just leaving when Keith O’Rourke motioned him over.

“Hey, do you have a minute?”

He followed O’Rourke to his office.  

“You don’t look good,” O’Rourke said.  “Everything okay?’

Richter hesitated a moment.  O’Rourke was in charge of the command center.  Although he wasn’t technically the boss, he was a senior agent and was well respected within the Service.  Richter enjoyed working with O’Rourke and, over the past year and a half, had come to value his guidance.

“I’m fine.”  Richter covered a yawn.  “Sorry.  I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

O’Rourke studied him for a moment.  “Walters still weighing on you?”

Richter hesitated.  “Yeah.  I guess.”

“You were cleared by the review board.  There was nothing you could have done.  I don’t care what Mosby says.”

Richter shook his head.  “I know.  I know.”

O’Rourke sat forward.  “Listen, Matthew.  Go see the doctor.  The Service is paying for it, and it’s confidential, so you have no reason not to go.  You’ve got to work this out.  If you’re not one hundred percent on top of your game, you become a liability.”

Richter’s stomach felt hollow.

“Why not take some time off?  You know, go somewhere.  Decompress.”

Richter nodded again as he stood.  “I’d better get upstairs.”

Pat Monahan, Deputy Director of the FBI, frowned at the traffic, looked at his watch, and swore.  Being late for a meeting with the president would not be wise.  Unfortunately, thirty minutes ago he hadn’t known that he would be going to the White House today.  He had been on his way to CIA headquarters for the weekly meeting of the Project Boston Task Force when FBI Director Emil Broder had called. 

“The president wants an update on Project Boston.”

“When?” Monahan had asked.

“At nine,” Broder had barked then hung up before Monahan could protest.

What a way to start a week!
  Monahan had told his driver to turn around.  His position as deputy director came with a driver, who also acted as his bodyguard.  There was nothing he could do about the traffic, so he decided to let the young agent worry about it while he focused on Project Boston.

The goal of the task force was to put so much pressure on the Mexican drug cartels that they would re-evaluate their desire to distribute narcotics in the U.S.  Daunting, to say the least.  But for the first time, they weren’t bound by the rules that had hampered previous efforts.  The Boston team employed guerrilla warfare tactics: cutting communication, jamming cell phone transmissions, kidnapping high-ranking cartel members, fire-bombing cartel processing and storage sites, confiscating cartel assets, freezing bank accounts—in effect, just about everything short of assassination.  Their goal was to so decimate the cartel, effectively strangling it, which led one task force member to suggest the code name.  The team was named after the Boston Strangler. 

While it might appear odd, corrupt even, that the FBI would participate in what appeared to be illegal activities, Monahan’s very presence on the task force was to ensure that they operated within the boundaries of the presidential directive.  The plan was unusual in that it had the explicit agreement and participation of the Mexican government.  All operations were carried out jointly between teams from both countries, including U.S. Navy Seals and CIA Field Operatives, as well as Mexican Special Forces.

Monahan had been summoned to explain to President Kendall exactly what Project Boston was.  He glanced out the window as they pulled up to the gate.  After showing their IDs, they waited as Uniformed Secret Service officers checked the trunk of the car and looked underneath with large rolling mirrors. 

“Thank you, Mr. Monahan.  Mr. Broder is waiting for you inside.”

As Monahan jumped out, he glanced at his watch again.  Damn!  He was cutting it close. 

“We have a problem, sir.” Howell began with a frown. 

The Chief of Staff was one of the few people who were permitted to interrupt what was normally a quiet time in the late afternoon that the president reserved for reading or making phone calls.

“I had a conversation with Melinda Lentz.  I don’t know if you remember her, but she was an intern in your office five years ago.”

The president shook his head.  The name didn’t ring a bell. 

“Anyway, she’s now an aide in Senator Miller’s office,” Howell continued.

“Arnie Miller?  From Georgia?”

“Yes, sir.  We’ve kept in touch over the years.”  Howell paused a moment.  “She told me that Miller isn’t going to support Hettinger’s nomination.”   

The president flinched. “They haven’t even had the hearings yet!”

“What’s more concerning,” Howell continued, “is that she overheard part of a phone conversation between Senator Miller and the vice president.  Before the Senator closed the door, she heard him say…” he glanced down at his notes, “…‘don’t worry.  I have no intention of voting for her.’”

The president took a deep breath.  “How does she know it was Rumson?”

“She answered the phone, sir.  She transferred the call in.”

“God damn it!” the president swore softly.

Howell shook his head.  “That’s not all, sir.  I also spoke to someone in Senator Broussard’s office,” he said.  “Apparently he’s already made up his mind too.”

“Shit!  I thought we were aligned on this!”  The president sat back and stared at the ceiling for a moment.  “He’s trying to sabotage my nomination?”

Howell’s face was grim.  “It would appear so.” 

It was cold and dark as Monahan left his office and climbed into the back of the Suburban.  Not a fan of winter, he was looking forward to the glass of wine he would have when he got home.  That would warm him up, he thought.  As the driver pulled out into traffic, he reflected on the day.  It hadn’t been too bad.  The meeting with the president had gone well, even though he hadn’t been given any opportunity to prepare.  At least that was his impression.  Unfortunately, the occasional pat on the back wasn’t Director Broder’s style.  He shook his head as he recalled Broder’s pep talk, a harsh whisper right before they entered the Oval Office.

“Don’t fuck this up, Monahan!” 

Motivation through fear—and public humiliation when you slipped up—wasn’t the style leadership consultants were recommending these days.  Still, Broder had let him meet with the president, which was something he had never expected.  It must have been at the president’s request, Monahan figured.  Oh well, he sighed.  Everyone has a cross to bear.  He just needed to hang on a few more years before he could retire. 

His cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

“This is the White House Operator.  Please hold for the president.”

Monahan sat upright; seconds later the president came on the line.

“Pat.  It’s Dave Kendall.  How are you?”

“Good, Mr. President.  Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

“I wanted to thank you for the update today.  Your summary was concise and to the point.”

Monahan smiled.

“I know I said it earlier, Pat, but your role on this team is crucial.  While I agree with the intent of President Walters’ directive, we need to make sure that the team does not cross the line.  Okay?”

“Absolutely, sir.  You have my word.”  In the rearview mirror, Monahan noticed the young driver was smiling too.

After he hung up, Monahan sat back and sighed contentedly.  No, today wasn’t too bad after all.

In the Oval Office, President Kendall hung up the phone.  He picked up the file on Carol Hettinger.  He stared at it for a second before dropping it back on the desk with a sigh.  Despite his conversation with Pat Monahan—the only bright spot in the last fifteen hours—his day had not gone well at all.

It was almost 9:00 p.m. when President Kendall left the Oval Office.  Agents Brad Lansing and Stephanie Sartori snapped to attention and began to scan the quiet hallways for any signs of danger.  Lansing brought his hand up to his mouth and, using Kendall’s Secret Service code name, spoke into the microphone on his wrist.

“Falcon’s moving.”

Richter, standing watch at the foot of a stairway to the second floor residence, heard the call in his earpiece and scanned the hallway.  A moment later he saw the president round the corner, Agents Lansing and Sartori trailing behind.

“Hey, Matthew!”  Unlike some of his predecessors, President Kendall treated the Secret Service agents who protected him with both fondness and a deep respect for their mission.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Did you catch the Flyers game last night?” 

“Just the last few minutes of the third period, sir.” 

The president patted Richter on the shoulder.  “That’s about all I caught too.  See you tomorrow.”

Richter remained at his post while the president climbed the stairs.  Lansing and Sartori followed.

Although the president could have taken the elevator, Richter noted, he always chose the stairs.  And unlike many before him, President Kendall was enjoyable to work for.  This was the biggest factor that kept Richter from leaving.

On the landing just below the second floor, Lansing radioed the Secret Service Command Center and all other agents on duty that night.

“Falcon’s in the nest.”

In the command center, another agent updated the Location Board, noting that “POTUS,” the Secret Service acronym for President of the United States, was now in the residence section of the White House. It was a low-tech way of making sure every agent on the protective detail knew exactly where the President was at all times. 

If they didn’t know, they couldn’t protect him.

Stephanie Sartori walked back to her post.  She had been on presidential detail for two years.  Thirty-two years old and divorced, the prospect of another marriage, let alone any halfway serious relationship, was dim, given her job.  In fact, her commitment to being an investigative agent and her desire to further her career were the primary reasons her marriage had failed three years before.  Shocked when her husband had demanded a divorce, she soon began to look on it as a blessing.  Without the distraction, she devoted herself to her job, distinguishing herself on numerous occasions, eventually earning the coveted promotion to presidential bodyguard.

Relationships were tough for those in the Service, she knew, especially for those on presidential detail.  Many agents burnt out and, after paying their dues, were eventually reassigned to a field office.  Hopefully their families were still with them, but not always. 

To make matters worse, many agents were still haunted by President Walters’ death.  Although she hadn’t been on duty when he took his life, she still experienced the feelings of failure.  After all, the Secret Service was a team job, and the only way to win was to never lose.  Unfortunately, the team had lost big time last year when Walters had pulled the trigger.

With his wife and daughters in bed, the residence section of the White House was quiet as President Kendall stepped into the Treaty Room.   Located down the center hall from his bedroom, he had been using the room as his private study.  Filled with antique furniture dating back to the eighteen hundreds, including the table that had been used in 1898 to sign the peace treaty ending the Spanish-American War, the sense of history was powerful.  As he sat, he glanced at the oil painting depicting the event over the fireplace; then his eyes swept over the paintings of Lincoln and Grant and over the various treaties and historical documents displayed around the room.  More of a place to think and reflect than to plow through paperwork, he had found himself drawn to the room in the evening. 

He left the lights dim, reminiscent of the gas lighting that had been used in Lincoln’s time, and sat quietly in the armchair behind the Treaty Table.  As he rubbed his hand across the polished surface, he reflected on the day.

He had to make a decision on Project Boston.  He had cautiously supported the program when it had been proposed three months earlier but had counseled his predecessor to be careful with how much leeway he granted to the Drug Enforcement Administration and to the CIA.  Now that he had inherited the program, he had to be certain that they were still able to achieve their objectives while operating within the law.  He had insisted that someone from the FBI, not a Justice Department lawyer, be involved.  He didn’t want to deal with shades of gray and had reasoned that a by-the-book agent would be better suited for the role.  After speaking to Pat Monahan, he knew he had made the right decision.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day had not gone as well, starting with the news that his vice president might be trying to undermine him. 

“Absolutely not, Dave,” Rumson had said defensively when Kendall confronted him.  “I’ve spoken to a few people and explained how important the Hettinger nomination is to this administration and that I personally believe she’s the right person to head up State.  Never once,” he said, his voice firm, “did I give anyone the impression that I wasn’t one hundred percent behind Carol.”

The president noted the anger in Rumson’s eyes.  It was clear that he felt his integrity was being called into question. 

Rumson demanded to know who was spreading false rumors about him.

The president considered the source.  He had known Charles Howell for over ten years, having met him when he was a money manager and Howell was the President of Cornell University.  Then, when he had been elected to the Senate, he had convinced Howell to join his staff.  Of all of his advisors, he spent the most time with Howell.  From their morning coffees to countless impromptu meetings throughout the day, Howell was always there offering his opinion, his advice.  He trusted the man and never had reason to doubt him.

“Tyler, I have it from a source I trust.”

“For God’s sake, Dave!”  Rumson threw his hands up in frustration.  “This is the same thing that happened to Duggan!  Someone over in the Senate is out to get me!”

He sat back in the darkened room and sighed.  It was a long time before he finally stood and made his way down the hall.