[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  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event over the fireplace; then his eyes swept over the paintings of Lincoln and Grant and over the various treaties and historical documents displayed around the room.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.

  Chapter Seven

  Richter grabbed a bottle of water and began pacing back and forth to cool down after his ten-mile run. He glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was just after seven in the morning and his shift, the last before vacation, didn’t start until four. Picking up his cell phone, he walked to the window and stared out at the overcast sky.

  Last night had been rough. After waking in a cold sweat, he’d tossed and turned for two hours. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his life was crashing down around him. He had finally given up trying to fall back to sleep and gone for a run.

  He knew his job was at risk. Although his shift supervisor, Brad Lansing, hadn’t said anything to him yet, it was only a matter of time. Keith O’Rourke, nonetheless, had pulled him aside again. The conversation had stung.

  “You’re putting POTUS at risk. I don’t want to do it, but unless you get some help, I’ll have to speak to Lansing and Kroger.”

  Richter had cringed at that. Secret Service Director Gerry Kroger had no tolerance for anything less than perfection.

  “Listen, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m adjusting the schedule. You’ve got two weeks coming to you. Take them now. Go see your family. Enjoy the holidays.” O’Rourke had paused. “But I want you to make an appointment with the shrink before you head out of town.”

  Richter stared at his phone for several seconds before pressing the buttons.

  “Good morning. Doctor Hastings’ office.”

  ____

  The snow began to fall as Richter walked down the steps to the metro platform. Washington traffic was challenge enough on a clear day. With six inches of snow forecasted, he decided to leave his car at home.

  He had been somewhat disconcerted by his conversation with Dr. Hastings. After they had discussed his dream, she had surprised him when she asked what he wanted in life. A family? A wife? Kids? What did he do for fun? What made him laugh? What made him happy? What was his passion? What made Matthew Richter tick? If he could live his life again, would he do anything differently?

  Richter had struggled with most of the questions.

  “Are you telling me I should quit?” he had asked.

  “Not at all,” she had responded. “I can’t make that decision for you. And I don’t think you’re ready to make it either. Not yet. Not until you know more about who you are and not until you know more about what you want.”

  It was odd, he thought as he waited for the train. He had never considered that there might come a day when he wasn’t with the Service.

  They had talked for over two hours, and he had surprised himself by agreeing to meet again.

  ____

  Later that day, as Richter took up his post outside the Oval Office, inside, President Kendall glanced at the calendar then looked up at Charles Howell.

  “What’s this meeting with Phil Perry?” he asked.

  Howell shook his head. “Rumson set it up directly with Arlene, last night.”

  Arlene Reardon was the president’s secretary. Howell explained that although she had informed him, he assumed that the president had requested it.

  “Rumson set it up?” The president frowned. “Charles, I review everything with you. If I wanted to discuss the election, I would have told you.”

  Howell apologized for not verifying it with him, and the president knew it was unlikely to happen again. Howell was a trusted aide and skilled Chief of Staff, effectively coordinating the work of the Executive Branch while deftly balancing the president’s time with a keen sense of what was urgent and critical and what could be handled without his involvement. It was Howell’s job to control the schedule. From the Presidential Daily Briefs and national security updates in the mornings to the meet-and-greets with visiting groups and dignitaries in the afternoon, and then the Cabinet meetings and countless policy discussions in between, Howell was responsible for controlling access to the Oval Office. The president’s only free time was the few hours in the late afternoon that he reserved for reading briefing documents or making phone calls. The president frowned. It appeared that Rumson had done an end run around his Chief of Staff.

  He knew he would have to make a decision soon. In the remaining time he had left in office—only two years—he wouldn’t
be able to accomplish all of the things he had resolved to do. Washington didn’t move that fast. But running for reelection wasn’t something he could decide on his own. He had to speak to his family first.

  “Should I cancel it, sir?”

  The president hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Let me see what he has to say.”

  ____

  Phil Perry leaned forward. “Sir, I’ve been thinking about the election.”

  Kendall nodded. He glanced at Rumson, who was sitting quietly, watching.

  “As you know,” Perry continued, “it’s only twenty-four months away. I’m not sure how much thought you’ve given to this yet, but there are a few things you should be doing at this stage.”

  Kendall nodded.

  “You need to start thinking about strategy. You need to start thinking about fundraising. And you need to start putting a campaign team together. That’s the most critical component right now,” Perry said as he slid a document across the table. “I’ve put together a recommendation for you.”

  Kendall nodded again but left the report unopened on the table. The fact that Perry had already been thinking about the upcoming election was expected. But why had he gone to Rumson first? Rumson, he noticed, was still silent.

  “Give me the summary, Phil.”

  “As I said, at this stage, the organization is the priority. Once you select a campaign manager, a lot of the other pieces will fall into place.”

  Kendall sat silently, waiting for him to continue.

  Perry leaned forward. “You need a top-notch manager running your campaign, sir.” He paused. “And Tad Davinsky is the best there is.”

  Davinsky? It took him a moment to remember where he’d heard the name before. Wasn’t Davinsky the one who had worked on Arnie Miller’s senatorial campaign? The one that had been noteworthy for being negative? That was it, he remembered. One after another, Miller’s opponents had fallen to scandal. As it later turned out, he remembered, many of the allegations had proven to be false, part of a carefully orchestrated smear campaign. And Davinsky had been in the middle of it.

  He shook his head. “I haven’t even announced yet if I’m running. So any talk about a campaign manager is premature.” The president glanced at Rumson, then back at Perry. “Is that what you wanted to discuss today?”

  “Well, sir, the clock’s ticking, and the earlier you start making some key decisions….”

  The president held his hand up. “Phil, I’m not ready to make any decisions yet.”

  “Sir…” Perry persisted.

  The president held his hand up again. “I appreciate your position, but I’m not ready to discuss this.”

  He stood, signaling the meeting was over.

  ____

  President Kendall turned from the window and sighed.

  “I know I have to make a decision soon. Perry’s right about that. But I’m troubled by why he went to Rumson to set up the meeting and not to you. And why recommend Davinsky?”

  Charles Howell frowned. “I need to check, but I’m pretty sure Davinsky was also involved in Rumson’s senatorial campaigns.”

  “Really?” The president’s face was grim. If true, that meant that Rumson hadn’t merely set up the meeting, he had been working side by side with Perry and, likely, had played a larger role in Perry’s plan than he had let on.

  “So Rumson has his own agenda,” he concluded.

  “That’s hardly surprising,” Howell said, leaning forward. “He clearly has his own aspirations.”

  The president nodded slowly as Howell continued.

  “If I had to guess, he wants to run on his own in six years. If you lose in two years, that would likely hurt his chances and delay his plans.”

  So the vice president wanted his job. No, that wasn’t surprising, he thought. Still, instead of speaking to him first, Rumson had gone directly to Perry to lay out a strategy. That troubled him. Usually a good judge of character, he began to wonder if he had misread Tyler Rumson.

  Chapter Eight

  His eyes dark, Rumson hissed at the waiter. “I asked for my steak rare!”

  There was a momentary lull in conversations, a few puzzled looks from nearby tables. They were quickly replaced by smiles as people returned Rumson’s friendly nods and waves. George’s was a favorite of the Washington elite, a place to see and be seen. Getting in was difficult, unless you met the criteria. On any given day, congressmen, White House staffers, lobbyists, foreign diplomats, occasional members of the press—the movers and shakers in Washington—could be seen dining there.

  The red-faced waiter retreated, dish in hand, while the vice president’s protective detail, sitting two tables away, exchanged glances.

  As conversations at nearby tables resumed, Phil Perry shot Rumson a look. He leaned forward, his voice low. “There’s a room full of people,” he stated, the implication obvious.

  Rumson scowled at him for a moment then shrugged and smirked.

  Perry sat back and, as he took a sip of wine, studied Rumson over the top of his glass. As if following Perry’s lead, Rumson reached for his own glass and sat back.

  “Don’t give me that look, Phil.” Rumson smirked again then took a sip. “I’m no worse than that prick Johnson was.”

  Frowning, Perry nodded. “Lyndon Johnson was a prick and, as time passes, that’s all history seems to remember.”

  Rumson eyes narrowed. “Spare me the lecture, will you, Phil?”

  Perry sat back again and took another sip, a moment to ease the tension. He was one of the few people who could speak bluntly with Rumson, but he had to be careful to not push too hard. The man was amazing, he thought. Despite the occasional short fuse, Rumson had tremendous potential. He was able to raise money, and he seemed to have a way of bending even his most ardent and vocal enemies to his will. He seemed to know where all the skeletons were buried, and he used that knowledge to eliminate opposition to his pet programs, to get legislation passed, and to gain financial backing. This man was going places, Perry thought, and if he played his own cards right, well, then the future would be bright.

  Rumson swirled the wine in his glass then leaned forward.

  “We may have a problem,” he said quietly.

  Perry nodded but remained silent as the waiter approached with a new dish.

  “I hope this is prepared more to your liking, sir.”

  Rumson gently grabbed the man’s elbow. “Sorry about that before. Just a tough day. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  The waiter smiled. After he left, Perry caught Rumson’s eye, smiling himself.

  Rumson waved his hand dismissively. “Forget that. Listen, I’m not going to sit back and watch him fuck up this campaign. This is the big leagues, and he’s got to realize that.”

  “Come on, Tyler.” Perry shook his head. “You don’t think he knows that? He knows how the game is played. And if he decides on someone other than Davinsky, I don’t think it’s going to hurt us. Besides, don’t you think his record in the Senate, the Social Security reform, indicate that he can build the necessary alliances and cut the deals needed to get what he wants?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Phil! The country was hungry for a solution. He brought one. It didn’t take much to rally people behind it. Okay, he’s smart. I’ll give him that. But he doesn’t have a lot of experience in this game. This isn’t like running some small-town bank in Colorado.”

  Perry shook his head. “Tyler, his mutual fund company managed over fifty billion dollars. It wasn’t some small-town bank. He’s not a rookie.”

  Rumson stared at him, and Perry caught the look in his eyes and realized he had missed something earlier.

  “You’re thinking of challenging him, aren’t you?”

  Rumson glared. “If he’s going to be a lame duck, I’m not going to crash and burn with him.”

  Perry frowned. A sitting VP challenging a sitting president for the party’s nomination? That could tear the party apart. The best way to play this
was to help Kendall win the reelection, and then, in the next, run on his coattails. Rumson knew that, didn’t he? He studied Rumson again, noting the look in his eyes: an almost single-minded focus on getting what he wanted.

  He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s a dangerous move, Tyler.”

  ____

  If it weren’t for the decorations, it would have been hard to tell that Christmas was three days away. Congress had broken for recess and the lawyers, the lobbyists, and the diplomats had already fled town. But in the West Wing it looked like any other day and would continue to until the president left for the holidays. Kendall was planning a few days off with Maria and the girls but, until then, there was work to be done.

  He was seated in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office.

  “I figured you’d be on your way home by now, Pete.”

  “I’m heading out this afternoon, sir.” Pete Ortega, a Democrat from the State of Washington, was the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. It was one of the most influential and powerful committees on the Hill. Despite their party affiliations, he and Kendall had developed a mutual respect for each other. While Kendall was in the Senate, promoting his vision for Social Security reform, Ortega had worked on the House version of the bill that had ultimately been approved.

  They spent some time discussing the upcoming holidays and their respective travel plans.

  Then the president sat back and crossed his legs. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot of rumblings on the Global Free Trade Alliance. Listen, I support what you’re trying to do. But I wanted to let you know that there are some folks in your administration who are stirring the pot.”

  The president frowned. “How so?”