by L. D Beyer
“So, Lieutenant Francis McKay.”
He was surprised by the sudden change in her voice. “Do I know you….Jane?”
“No. But I know you.” She turned and the sparkle was gone. Her dark eyes bore into him. “All about you.”
____
Later that night, after his mother had gone to bed, McKay sat in her living room and wondered what he was going to do. For the last ten years, things had been going well. He had built a nice life for himself. He enjoyed what he did and had plans for the future. But now, it appeared that some of the things he had done when he was younger were coming back to haunt him. Now, not only could he lose his job, this could destroy his life.
The woman, Jane, or whatever her real name was, told him that she knew he had been caught cheating on an exam when he was a cadet at the Academy. She also told him she knew that some powerful forces had intervened at the time and persuaded the commandant to find a way to grant an exception to the Air Force’s zero-tolerance rule.
Although he had worked hard over the years, without the help of powerful benefactors his life would be different. He wouldn’t be where he was today, part of an elite team tasked with providing safe transportation to the most powerful man on earth. He would still be here in Newark, New Jersey, working in some dead end job. Still getting into fights, probably going to the strip clubs and bars every weekend; still flirting with the law. Like many of his former friends, he was also likely to be married to a woman he could no longer stand, with a couple of kids to support.
He had grown up poor in Newark and, like many boys in his neighborhood, had gone through the rites of passage of fighting to defend himself and to establish his place in the social pecking order, both on the streets and in school. As he grew older, his anti-social expressions expanded to petty theft and vandalism. The paradox, however, was that he maintained a B+ average in school. Sure, at times cheating helped, but the fact was, he never had to try very hard. The many aptitude tests he took during his school years confirmed his above average intelligence.
One day, after he broke the nose of a kid simply because the boy had made the mistake of sitting in McKay’s seat, he was sent to the principal’s office. Again.
“You, young man, are headed for trouble,” the principal had said. “I’ve seen many punks like you come through this school. Some of them are able to rise up and break free of the streets. But the majority of punks like you go nowhere. Some end up in prison. And some.” He paused. “End up dead.” The principal sat back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then shot forward. “You know that you have potential, son. You have good grades. You can make something of your life.” He paused again. “You have a choice to make.”
McKay was curious. This wasn’t the principal’s typical lecture.
“Do you remember Senator Rumson?” The principal asked.
McKay nodded, remembering the senator who had come to speak at their school several months earlier.
“He grew up on these same streets. He went to this same school.”
McKay remembered the senator’s speech. It had struck a chord as the senator described a childhood similar to his own.
“He would like to meet you.”
“Why?” McKay spoke for the first time.
“Because you have potential.”
They met after school one day and the Senator had offered McKay a path out. Rumson had told him that he could arrange for McKay to be accepted into a top college, but that McKay had to meet him halfway. He had to stop fighting, had to stop breaking the law and, further, had to apply himself in school and demonstrate to his teachers that he did indeed have the capacity to rise above the streets of Newark.
McKay had accepted the challenge and Senator Rumson, Vice President Rumson now, had been true to his word. He had written the congressional recommendation required for McKay’s application to the Air Force Academy. Later, the senator had intervened in his life again when he had been caught cheating. And now, even though Jane had never mentioned the connection, it was clear the Senator was demanding payback.
His normal reaction to threats or manipulation was violence, the coping mechanism he had learned early in life. But over the last dozen years, he had worked hard to temper that reaction. While physical domination might work for a teenager on the streets, he had enough sense to know that it wouldn’t work for him now.
When he had asked Jane what she wanted, she had flashed her sexy smile and told him that she wanted to meet with him again tomorrow, before he headed back to Washington.
____
The next morning, they met again at the coffee shop and, with cups in hand, began to walk. It was clear from the bags below his eyes that McKay hadn’t slept much the night before.
“You have a choice to make, Frank.” The sexy woman was nowhere to be found this morning. “Your life is over. At least the life you know.” Jane was silent for a moment, letting this sink in. “You will lose your job. There’s no doubt about that.” She stopped and turned; her eyes bore into him. “How you lose your job and what you do next is up to you.”
She started walking again. McKay hurried to catch up.
“Wait! What the fuck do you want from me?”
She walked on, letting him hang in the silence. It was an agonizing fifteen seconds.
“We want you to do us a favor.”
They entered a small park overlooking the Passaic River. She steered him to a bench where they sat and watched as an older couple walked by. Jane waited until the couple crossed the street before she told him exactly what she wanted.
McKay jumped off the bench. “You’re out of your fucking mind!”
Jane grabbed him and pulled him back down. She was surprisingly strong.
“Sit down and shut up,” she commanded. “Earlier, I told you that you had a choice.” She looked as menacing as some of the gang members he had run into in his youth. “Well you don’t. You don’t have a choice, Frank.”
“For God’s sake, why?” He was both confused and scared.
“That’s not your concern.”
“Fuck you!”
He began to stand up again when she squeezed his arm, finding the pressure point in his elbow. He winced in pain, broke her hold, and jumped up, ready to fight. She stood and stepped toward him, their faces mere inches apart. When she spoke, every word was measured.
“Do not ever try something like that again. I promise you, if you do, you will experience pain like you never have before.”
____
His mind was reeling as he drove back to Washington later that day. Jane had told him that they would meet again in one week. He considered speaking to his commander, but she had been very clear that if she found out he had discussed this with anyone, anyone at all except her, his life, as well as the lives of anyone he spoke to, would be in danger. Although he had spent just one hour in total with the woman, his intuition told him that she meant what she said.
“We’ll be watching you,” she had told him as they parted.
McKay didn’t notice the police car behind him until he saw the flashing lights. He swore and slammed his hand on the wheel. As he pulled over onto the shoulder, he was surprised to realize that he was on Route 295 just south of Baltimore. He must have been driving on autopilot; he didn’t remember leaving New Jersey.
He handed his license and registration to the State Trooper along with his military identification.
The Trooper studied the cards for a moment. “You’re going a little fast, Lieutenant. Don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry, Officer. I just got called back to base.” The lie came without even thinking. He struggled to appear calm. He could see the doubt in the officer’s eyes and worried that the policeman would check to see if he was sober or, worse, if he was hiding something. Not that the policeman would find anything, but still. He didn’t need the added stress.
“Are you okay, Lieutenant?”
“Look, Officer. I spent two sleepless nights in New Jerse
y with my mother. She’s been very sick. Then this afternoon, I got called back to base. CO said it was urgent.”
The trooper studied him for a moment before a smile crept across his face.
“We’re watching you, Lieutenant.”
The trooper stared at him for another moment, then handed McKay’s cards back and left him shaking on the side of the road.
____
The days that followed were agonizing. He spent the first few days working out in the gym in the mornings and then going on long runs in the afternoon. He avoided his friends and fellow officers, saying that he had put on a few pounds and had to get his ass back in shape. He didn’t want anything negative in his Officer Evaluation Report. His friends shook their heads, but left him alone. It seemed that all McKay talked about was his next promotion.
What sealed his fate was a message he received on Wednesday afternoon. He had just returned from a six-mile run and decided to check his email. He felt a sense of doom as he read the message.
I saw your mother today. Such a sweet lady. You need to be a good son and take care of her. She’s all you have.
When he scrolled down, there was a picture of his seventy-two-year-old mother, looking old and frail, as she stepped out of her apartment building. Oh shit! They’re watching her! He realized then that they were going to do whatever they needed to do, including hurting his mother, to force his cooperation. Oh God, he thought, as his face went pale; he didn’t have a choice.
Chapter Fourteen
Richter moved along the rope line, all the while looking for the face that didn’t belong. It might be someone sweating profusely on a cold, winter day like today. Or a face in the middle of a sea of smiles; a pair of eyes that returned his own piercing stare. Such was the life of an agent on protective detail, where a stony mask was often a more effective weapon than the gun he carried.
Wearing a pair of Ray-Bans, Richter scanned the crowd. Although many misunderstood the Secret Service’s fondness for shades, they allowed an agent to appear as if he was looking directly at several people at the same time.
Like most agents, Richter believed the mere presence of the president’s security detail, with their cold, hard stares and the subtle display of weaponry, probably scared off many a would-be assassin. Of course, the large number of uniformed cops who lent assistance to the Service and the sheer size of the motorcade created the image of an impenetrable fortress. And that was just the way the Service wanted it.
The Service spent a considerable sum of money determining the psychological profiles of would-be assassins. Most attempts on the president’s life were the work of lone gunmen, deviants with one or two screws loose who, after a lifetime of being ignored by society, were looking to secure their fame in one brilliant moment. Or the David Berkowitz types, so out of touch with reality that a neighbor’s dog became their connection to the world. John Hinkley, Squeaky Fromme, they each fit the profile.
After watching the Zapruder film, the uncut version that the public never saw, Richter concluded, like most agents, that even Lee Harvey Oswald was another lone psycho seeking to right what was wrong in his own little world. And that was the threat that worried him the most.
President Kendall stepped off the stage to the cheers of the crowd. With the Lincoln Memorial behind him and the Washington Monument in the distance, his address had been a fitting tribute to two great men on Presidents’ Day. Like his predecessors, Kendall always took the opportunity to “press the flesh,” but nothing made the agents protecting him more nervous than when POTUS wandered amongst the crowd.
Richter was a step behind the president, Brad Lansing a step ahead, Agent Sartori right behind. She carried the Fast Action Gun Bag, which agents referred to, in a rare breach of political correctness, as the Fag Bag. The Fag Bag appeared to be an ordinary laptop computer case, but inside was an Israeli-manufactured Uzi submachine gun. As the name implied, the agent was able to deploy the weapon with incredible speed.
Like many professional athletes, Richter found that when he was “working the man,” escorting the president through the crowd, he was in “the zone.” His eyes shifted from face to hand, always on the alert for the hand that darted out, always expecting to hear his earpiece scream, “Gun left!” or “Gun right!” He usually was able to tune out the distractions, the background noise, the day-to-day problems that weighed on him. Usually.
Richter watched as the president exchanged a few words with an excited group of school children and their teachers. Suddenly there was a flash and a loud pop. Richter lunged forward, grabbing Kendall’s arm.
“Gun!” He yelled into his sleeve.
The crowd flinched, stepping back, confusion and fear in their eyes. President Kendall, confused himself, began to turn.
With one arm circling the president’s waist, Richter pushed Kendall’s head forward, bending him over, making him a smaller target and hiding him in the crowd. Pushing an aide out of the way, Richter began moving Kendall away as the protective detail converged on them.
After several seconds, with agents shouting and nervously scanning the crowd, Richter realized his mistake. Unfortunately, it was all captured on national television.
____
“A little exciting out there today, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Richter?”
Sitting in the back of the limo for the short ride back to the White House, Matthew Richter glanced over at the president.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Richter felt his face flush. Again.
The president reached over and patted his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. Just a false alarm. I’m alive, right?”
Richter sighed. At least the president was forgiving, but Richter knew that for the next few weeks, he would have to endure the jokes from the other agents. All because he jumped at the sound of a truck backfiring. The camera flash didn’t help. In hindsight, Richter realized that he remained on edge, still plagued by feelings of failure and the images that came to him at night. Lately, though, the dreams hadn’t been as bad—his sessions with Dr. Hastings, as painful as they sometimes were, had made a difference. However, despite the doctor, and despite his evening regimen of brutally exhausting workouts, he still woke frequently, anxious and nervous. The lack of sleep was taking its toll.
His last vacation was…what? Richter wondered. Seven weeks ago, he remembered. Jesus, he felt like he needed another one already.
As if reading his mind, the president reached over and squeezed his shoulder again.
____
After filing an Incident Report and being debriefed by Keith O’Rourke, Richter finished his day in relative peace, standing watch outside the Cabinet Room and then the Oval Office. He knew he would have to meet with the review board, but O’Rourke told him that it could wait a day or two. Brad Lansing had been supportive as well.
“Hey, listen. Although the president’s handlers are pissed, I’d much rather have you err on the side of caution then not react at all. Our job is to keep the man alive and you showed that we take that charge seriously.” Lansing had smiled. “And frankly, the Big Man likes you, so don’t lose too much sleep over it.”
At the end of his shift, Richter clocked out in the command center then walked through the lobby, passing through the doors into the foyer. He waved to the uniformed agents manning the metal detector and stepped out into the frigid air. He took two steps when there was a loud pop behind him. He spun, reaching for his gun, only to find Cal Mosby, laughing, the remains of a burst balloon in his hand.
____
It took a therapy session and several difficult nights before Richter began to put the incident behind him. Late one evening, after his shift, he stepped onto the metro platform. The First Family had dined out at a small restaurant in Georgetown and it was ten o’clock at night when he left the White House. His eyes scanned the station, noting each person. Without thinking about it, he subconsciously assessed the risk, in this case not to his principal, but to himself. He had never had any
trouble in the Metro, DC’s subway system. His bearing, his situational awareness, and his physical presence were usually more than enough to convince any would-be assailant to bypass him for an easier mark. But there were times, like now, when he just wanted to turn it off.
He walked to the end of the platform and stood by the pillar, waiting for the next train. He let his mind wander, trying to decompress after the long day. As he contemplated the upcoming weekend, his first off in a month, he heard a shout on the other end of the platform. He stepped from behind the pillar and saw a young woman, her back to him, fending off two men. Alarm bells ringing in his head, Richter started running, unbuttoning his coat along the way. Suddenly, one of the men pulled a knife and lunged at the woman. Richter drew his gun and shouted. The woman sidestepped the man’s thrust and grabbed his arm, twisting it to an unnatural angle until he dropped the knife and fell to his knee. She struck him once in the face and he went down. The second man hesitated, saw Richter charging, then turned and bounded up the steps. Richter got there just as the second assailant disappeared up the stairs. He pointed his gun at the man on the ground.
“Police! Put your hands behind your head! Now!” The assailant, writhing in pain, rolled on his belly and put his uninjured arm behind his head. Richter turned to the woman. “Ma’am, are you all right?” He did a double take when she smiled. “Stephanie?”
“Agent Richter. Thank you for coming to my rescue. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Before he could answer, the sound of rapid footsteps came from the stairwell. Sartori pulled out her Secret Service credentials. Two uniformed Metro cops ran into the station, their guns drawn.
“Federal agents!” Richter yelled, his weapon still pointed at the assailant on the ground. The cops slowed, their eyes darting from one agent to the other. One cop stopped twenty feet away, while the second moved around to the side. Their guns were angled down, but they were clearly tense.