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

by L. D. Beyer

  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?”

  “I recorded a phone call that…our visitor made.”

  “Matthew, if I understand you correctly, that recording may not be admissible….”

  “I don’t give a shit right now about rules for search and seizure or rules for evidence! I don’t care about Miranda rights! I need to know how big this thing is and who I can trust!”

  “Okay. Okay. I understand. How do you want to do that?”

  “I’m going to give you a phone number. I want a wiretap on it ASAP, within the next hour.”

  Monahan jotted down the number.

  “I want to know who this person calls and who calls them and what they say. As soon as you have anything, call us back.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  “One last thing. Whoever handles this must report to you and you alone. I don’t want anyone else involved yet. Not even your boss.” A pause. “Especially not your boss. Are we clear?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, May 5

  Like a soldier, Richter woke instantly, his body tense as he scanned his surroundings. He reached for the phone, noting the time. 3:30 a.m. He had been dozing on and off in a recliner for the last several hours, waiting for the call.

  “Matthew. This is Pat. I have some information. There was only one outgoing call from that number. Not good news. They’re expanding their search. They’ve added more…. resources.”

  Richter sighed. “Okay. I was expecting that. Anything else?”

  “Yes. What time was the call that you recorded?”

  Richter picked up Reed’s phone and scanned the call log. “8:33 p.m.”

  “Are you in Mountain Time?”

  Richter hesitated. “For the moment.”

  “I thought so. We accessed the record of calls made before we put the tap in place. There were two calls last
night, both to the same number. The first was at 11:07 p.m., Eastern Time. That’s thirty-four minutes after your visitor’s call. The second was at 11:59 p.m.”

  “Who did she call?”

  “That’s the disturbing part. I’d rather not say over the phone.”

  “I assume this goes all the way up, possibly to the number two man.”

  There was a pause. “Yes. How did…..? Never mind.”

  “Continue to monitor the number, but don’t do anything else. I’ll contact you later.” Richter hung up and hurried to the president’s room. Kendall woke with a start.

  “Sir. We need to leave. Right now.”

  ___

  At 10:00 a.m., as they were nearing Albuquerque, New Mexico, the president placed the call. He heard the phone click but didn’t give the other person a chance to speak.

  “Hi. It’s me. No names. Okay?”

  “Okay.” There was a brief pause. “You got a new phone?”

  “Yes. We picked up several.”

  “That was smart.”

  “I’ll pass that on. Listen. I’m sure you understand now how big this might be.”

  “I do. But, sir, I’m at a disadvantage. I’m only using one person, and she reports directly to me. The phone we’re monitoring is a cell phone. If I could put some men on the ground, with the technology we have, there’s a good chance we would be able to chase this person down.”

  “First things first. From the calls that you listened to, do you have enough evidence to tie this back to the source?”

  “Not yet. We need to complete a voice analysis. I would also like to monitor the number she called. And it would help if we could pick up the caller and interview her. Then we might be able to build a case. Right now, I don’t think we have enough to directly tie your…assistant to this.”

  “Hang on.” The president relayed the information to Richter. “Okay, continue to monitor the caller’s phone. Can you monitor the recipient’s phone without anyone else finding out?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Do it now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need you to do something else as well.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “I need you to commandeer a plane.”

  It was a moment before Monahan answered.

  “Okay. I should be able to do that.”

  “Do it. I want you to assemble a team of agents. Four or five other people that you trust completely, that are loyal to you alone. And I don’t want anyone else to know about this. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. I can.”

  There was no hesitation, the president noted. “Good. We told you about our visitor yesterday. The one who made the phone call for us?”

  “Yes…”

  “I’m going to tell you where to find him.” The president gave Monahan an address. “I want you to pick him up. I want him in your custody. You’re going to want to talk to him. Personally.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I want you to leave right away, within the next hour if possible. I’ll call you later.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The FBI-owned Gulfstream G550 landed at Durango-La Plata Airport shortly after 4:00 p.m. and taxied to the private terminal. Monahan had to pull a few strings to arrange the flight on such short notice. That hadn’t been difficult, given his position as deputy director. His administrative leave, apparently, was only between Broder and himself.

  Monahan and a team of four agents were met at the terminal door by the gate agent. “Mr. Monahan, welcome to Durango. Your two cars are right outside in spaces seven and eight. Here’re the contract and keys. Do you need any directions?”

  “No, thank you.” Monahan handed a set of keys to another agent as they walked out into the bright sunshine. Twenty minutes later, the cars pulled into the fenced lot of the self-storage facility, drove past four aisles before turning between two rows of storage units. They stopped halfway down, in front of number fifty-one. The team of agents climbed out then turned expectantly to Monahan.

  “Wait here.” He walked to the end of the row of lockers and found the garbage can around the side. He tipped the can over and found the key taped to the underside. He jogged back to the locker. “Let’s close off this row.”

  Two of the agents moved the cars, one to each end of the driveway, parking them sideways to block access to the aisle. Another agent handed Monahan a pair of latex gloves. He opened the locker’s garage door. Inside was a dark green Ford Explorer with a mangled front end. An agent with a video camera began to record the scene while two other agents opened the doors. They heard noises in the back and opened the tailgate to find a bound and gagged man lying in back. He struggled against his restraints.

  “Get him out now. Check his condition and get him some water but keep him cuffed.”

  As one agent tended to the man, another handed Monahan an envelope.

  “This was on the front seat.”

  Monahan’s name was written on the front. He pulled out the hand-written note.

  This is Joe Reed. He is a former Secret Service Uniformed Officer who was fired for stealing from the White House and the First Family. He and his partner were chasing us. They knew we were alive. I suspect that their contact was providing detailed updates on the investigation. They were able to track us from Idaho to Colorado, probably by tracing stolen automobiles and ATM withdrawals.

  You’ll find Reed’s partner in Cortez, CO, in a hangar at the abandoned airfield north of town. He’s KIA.

  In the glove box, there are various IDs and weapons that these two were using.

  An agent handed Monahan two Zip-lock bags.

  “We found these inside, sir.”

  Monahan held the bags up and examined them in the light. One contained various shields and credentials for federal agents including, it appeared, the FBI. He swore. The second bag contained three handguns. He turned to the young agent.

  “Put all of this in evidence bags.”

  Monahan turned to the prisoner. “Are you Joe Reed?”

  The man nodded.

  “Mr. Reed. You are under arrest for treason and for the attempted assassination of the president of the United States.” Reed sagged and an agent pulled him up. Monahan turned to another agent. “Read him his Miranda rights.”

  Monahan spent the next thirty minutes questioning Reed. When he was done, he stepped outside and pondered his next move. What Reed told him was chilling. His contacts knew that the president and Agent Richter had survived the crash and had instructed Reed and his accomplice to track them down. When Monahan asked him why, Reed shook his head, refusing to answer.

  Monahan’s phone vibrated and he stepped away before answering.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. Where are you?”

  “At the storage locker.”

  “How is our friend?”

  “Fine. I’ve had a short conversation with him. Obviously I would like some more time, but—”

  “There’s no time. How many seats are there on your plane?”

  “Eight. But I have four men with me, plus our friend. That leaves two open seats,” Monahan added hopefully.

  There was muffled conversation on the line.

  “Okay. I want you to take our friend and fly to Amarillo, TX. I’ll call you in two hours.”

  ___

  “What’s the status?”

  The transmission was garbled; her voice cut in and out.

  “What was that?” he asked. He had to wait a few seconds for the reply.

  “I said I can’t reach either of my men.”

  He was confused. “Are you referring to the first team?”

  “Yes. The first team.”

  “Well? Do you know what happened?”

  “No. The second team is in Durango now. So far they haven’t picked up any leads.”

  Shit! He cursed silently. The more he analyzed it, the evidence pointed in one direction. Despite all odds, it appeared that Kendall
was alive. And he was running.

  “Put every resource you have on this,” he ordered. “You need to find him pretty damn quick. And you need to end this!”

  After he hung up, he sat back and considered the implications. It now seemed more and more likely that Kendall was alive and running. And now two of Jane’s men had disappeared. Could they have been picked up by the police or the FBI? If they had been, would Jane be able to get to them? They needed to resolve that loose end quickly and then find Kendall. He reached for the phone. He knew someone at the CIA, someone he had placed there years ago. Someone who, like Jane, had performed various delicate jobs for him in the past. Someone, he knew, who could help clean up this mess.

  He hesitated. It would be risky to bring in another player. He put the phone down. He would give Jane some time.

  ___

  Although tense, Richter didn’t let it show. He checked his watch.

  “Okay. Bill and I need to go. Are you okay here?”

  Kendall nodded. “We’ll be fine.”

  The motor home was well-equipped and comfortable, but for the last several hours there’d been nothing to do but wait. After a while, it began to feel crowded.

  “Derek, I need you outside for a moment.” Richter grabbed a duffle bag on his way out.

  Daniels and Derek followed. They walked past several other travel trailers and motor homes to the picnic tables near the central fire pit. Thankfully, all of the other campers had chosen to sit in front of their own fire pits and they were alone.

  “I don’t like leaving him, but I don’t have a choice.” Richter pulled out a fanny pack then turned to Derek. “You said that you hunt, correct?”

  Derek’s eyebrows went up. “Yes.”

  Speaking softly, Richter held up a fanny pack. “This is a nine-millimeter pistol. The magazine is full and there is a round chambered. I’m also giving you a spare magazine.” His face went dark for a second. “Derek, I don’t want you to take this out unless you absolutely, and I mean absolutely, need to. This is illegal, but I can’t leave him unprotected. If something doesn’t seem right, I would rather that you take him and run before you use this. Okay?”