[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  It had started small, years ago, a series of tests to see how far across the line Mosby was willing to go. Each time, he had pushed Mosby a little further: fixing a ticket, leaving certain facts out of an official report, presenting false testimony at a trial, planting evidence to frame a local politician. When he joined the FBI, the stakes had risen. Mosby had helped to steer the investigation into an Ohio gubernatorial candidate’s alleged misuse of campaign funds—to, among other things, pay for hookers—into the poor records maintained by an inexperienced staffer who, unfortunately, had died weeks earlier in a car crash. The candidate won, served two terms as governor, and was now the Ambassador to Japan. And that was another chip that Rumson could cash in whenever he needed.

  When Jane began doing private security work, he had decided that Mosby might be more useful to him in the Secret Service. Even back then, his ultimate goal was the White House, and he started planting the seeds early, unsure at the time when or how he would use Mosby in the future. He only knew that he could. When he moved into the White House, he had maneuvered Mosby again, having him moved from the president’s security detail onto his own. Mosby, who had always been moody and irritable, had grown bitter over the years, upset that he hadn’t risen further in the Service. Rumson had been able to use that against him. A loner now—his wife had died ten years ago from breast cancer—it hadn’t taken much effort to harness Mosby’s anger and resentment.

  When he shared with Mosby a confidential reorganization plan drafted by the Director of the Secret Service, at first Mosby had been stunned. The plan—a fabrication, complete with organizational hierarchy charts—included a list of older agents who would be let go. Mosby’s name was on the list. Rumson had promised to see what he could do and Mosby had stewed for a week. When they met again, he had shaken his head and watched as Mosby’s eyes burned with anger. Then, he offered Mosby a way out, and the disgruntled agent had jumped at the opportunity.

  He frowned. Mosby would have died anyway, but it was supposed to appear that he died in the crash—or at least it was supposed to be assumed. Just like that Air Force guy. But something had gone wrong and, now, they would have to do some damage control. He glanced at his phone. He needed to speak to Jane.

  He had to admit, her plan was brilliant. Frame the Mexican drug cartel. If they did it right, not only would he avoid any suspicion falling on him, it would give him an excuse to bring the full might of the United States military to bear against the cartel. Instead of merely lopping off a few heads—which, like the Hydra of Greek mythology, only sprouted more as other criminal elements moved in to fill the power vacuum—he could not only avenge Kendall’s death, he could significantly reduce the flow of drugs from Mexico. That alone would guarantee another term and further ensure that history would judge him as one of the great ones.

  Now, the challenge would be to somehow connect Mosby and the Air Force guy to the Mexicans. He would have to speak to Jane. But she would have to scramble to connect the pieces for the FBI before the investigation got too far off track.

  In the meantime, he thought, it would make sense to rattle Broder’s cage a little. There was no way he could derail the investigation into Mosby, or into his connection to the Air Force, or his likely motivation. Now that Mosby’s body had been discovered, the FBI would be like a dog with a bone. But he could slow them down a little and give Jane some time.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Get me Emil Broder.”

  ____

  Three hours later, they were in a motel room watching the news. They sat in silence as pictures of the crash site flashed across the screen. The announcer told them little they didn’t already know.

  Richter stood, lifted the curtain, and peeked outside. He was on edge. The irony wasn’t lost on him. A little over a week ago, he was part a team of over one hundred Secret Service agents plus scores of local police protecting the president. Sections of Seattle had been virtually shut down as they carefully orchestrated the president’s visit and interactions with the public. Mostly, they managed the risk by limiting his exposure to people. Now, Richter was by himself, guarding the president while he ate a barbecued pork sandwich in a cheap motel room. Hiding in plain sight.

  He watched a pickup truck pull into a space across the lot. A young man climbed out, a six-pack in one hand and a pizza in the other. After the man disappeared into his room, Richter stared out at the dark lot for another minute.

  They had made it to Colorado—they were a thousand miles from the crash site—but he was still nervous. The face kept coming back to him: the black man in the crowd in Seattle, the federal agent in the mountains of Idaho. He knew he had seen the man before, somewhere, sometime, years ago. Was he on the Threat List? Was he really an agent? And in the mountains, he had partners. He hadn’t recognized either of their faces, but they were two more on his growing list of people to worry about.

  He glanced at the president. He could see from the president’s eyes that he understood. While the world held its breath and waited and wondered what had happened to the president, they had successfully eluded the thousands of people who were searching for them. They had also eluded those who were somehow involved in the downing of Air Force One: a group that seemed to be growing and one whose tentacles seemed to reach far and wide. There was no way to tell how much of the latter had infiltrated the former.

  But they couldn’t run forever. The more he thought about it, the president was right: Monahan was their best opportunity.

  ____

  “If you need more people, you’ve got to let me know!”

  Monahan took a breath before he answered. He was both exhausted and frustrated, and it took all of his effort to hold his tongue. “Emil, the last thing I want is more people tramping around the mountain. This is a crime scene, for Christ’s sake, and we’re already running the risk of compromising evidence as it is.”

  “God damn it, Monahan! You need to manage both!”

  There was a silence on the line, but Monahan resisted the urge to fill it. It was a second or two before Broder spoke again.

  “Canada has one of the best cold-weather search and rescue teams in the world…”

  “Are you serious, Emil? I have too many people here right now and you want to send more? Jesus, if you want to help, send Pearson out here! Let her manage the coordination from the ground while I focus on the investigation! That would be a hell of a lot more effective!” He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Look, we’re doing everything we can. We’re using body-sniffing dogs, infrared and heat detection, acoustic and seismic imaging, fiber-optic cameras, and biometric detection probes.” He felt his anger rising again and took another breath. “We’re using robots that can burrow through the snow. I even commandeered an NRO satellite and a Predator Drone.” He sighed. “We’ve been through this already, Emil! We’re working as hard and smart as we can, but you’ve got to accept the fact that we may not find him.”

  Broder exploded. “Are you fucking insane! We cannot tell the nation that the president’s body just disintegrated!”

  The frustration and fatigue had been mounting, and Monahan erupted. “What the hell do you want from me? I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long, and I am going to start losing people if I drive them any harder! But if you think someone else is more capable than I am…if you think that they can somehow magically produce a missing body out here…well, then for Christ’s sake, take me off the case and send them out here instead! It’s your call!” He knew the moment the words were out of his mouth that he had crossed the line.

  There was a long pause before Broder responded. “That’s exactly what I intend to do. You are now off the case, Monahan! I’m sending Kaitlyn Pearson to replace you. When she gets there, you’re to brief her, introduce her to the team, and then get your ass back here ASAP. Do you understand me?”

  “Loud and clear!” Monahan slammed the phone down. Screw him! Jesus! What an asshole! He tossed his pad of paper on the table
and sat back, exhaling loudly. Sure, people in Washington were demanding results, but it was Broder’s job to manage that so that the investigators could focus on their work. He had never known Broder to cave in to political pressure before.

  Monahan walked over to the map, covered with notes and clusters of pins. On one hand, he understood Broder’s frustration. The nation needed closure. It would be horrible if they declared that the president’s body was consumed by the crash, only to have some hiker discover his remains later. That was one of his worries. But the search had been exhaustive, and his gut told him that there were no more bodies to be found.

  He shook his head and sighed. This was not how he wanted to end his career.

  ____

  Jane arrived at eight o’clock and was escorted into Rumson’s study.

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Your security has increased considerably since I was here last.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  She ignored the condescending tone and sat on the couch.

  “You sounded troubled on the phone earlier.”

  He glared at her for a second before sitting. He gave her an update on the investigation.

  “Do the investigators know who shot him?” she asked.

  “Your men weren’t behind this?”

  “I’ll need to check, but I don’t think so. They would have disposed of the body, unless…..” She hesitated a moment as she considered the possibilities.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless they were interrupted and had to go into hiding themselves.” She frowned. “This does present a problem.” She stood up and began to pace.

  Rumson watched her. “This thing can’t come back to me, Jane.” His eyes were dark. “You know that.”

  She stopped. “No operation ever goes as expected. But I can assure you that there is no trail back to you.”

  “Except through you, Jane. Except through you.”

  She stared at him, unfazed, but said nothing. After a second, she began pacing again. He watched her.

  “We need to connect Mosby to the Mexicans,” she said without breaking stride.

  He watched as she paced back and forth once more before she came around the couch and sat.

  “There are two ways to do that,” she began. “One is through the bank account. The second is through his cell phone.” She explained what she was thinking.

  This time he smiled. “How soon can you do that?”

  “Tonight.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “I still have a team in Texas.”

  He nodded. Jane was good. As he studied her, he had no doubt the matter would be taken care of. But there was still one issue that was weighing on him.

  “They still haven’t found Kendall’s body. Or that of his Secret Service agent. That troubles me.”

  “Are you suggesting that the president somehow managed to survive the crash and the weather? I think the odds of that are astronomical.”

  “Do you have any better explanation?”

  “My guess is that Mosby was shot by my men and for some reason they had to abandon his body quickly. As for the president and his agent, as you told me yourself, depending on where they were when the bomb exploded or when the plane crashed, their bodies may have been destroyed. There may be no traces.”

  Rumson’s face clouded. “You always tell me that you don’t like coincidences? Well, this is one big fucking coincidence, don’t you think?”

  She frowned as she considered this. “I see your point.”

  “Then I think we need to assume that this is a possibility. So long as there is any chance of him being alive, we need to do everything we can to prevent him from being found.”

  ____

  Although the sun had already set, the frantic pace in Elk City continued. This is getting too risky, Jackson thought as his phone vibrated.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you?” He recognized the angry voice.

  “Elk City.” He resisted the urge to add: Where the hell do you think I am?

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  He was confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your second target has been discovered with two holes in the head.”

  Damn! “That wasn’t us. Where was he found?”

  Jane filled him in. “Something doesn’t make sense,” she added, then silence.

  He waited for her to continue.

  “What’s the standard-issue weapon for the Secret Service?”

  “Most carry a Sig Sauer P229, which uses a .357-caliber SIG cartridge. Why?”

  “According to the FBI, Mosby had two .357 SIG slugs in his head. They can’t find his service weapon and believe he was shot with his own gun.” More silence.

  While he waited, Jackson watched a convoy of trucks disappear into the forest. His instinct told him to let Jane wrestle with the various pieces of the puzzle herself.

  “Okay. Tell me what’s going on there.”

  Jackson let out a breath. “Same as yesterday,” he said, then explained that the town was a massive construction site, and the engineers continued to work on the roads and bridges.

  “Okay. Go back to the trailer, pack your stuff and wait there. I think it’s no longer safe for you in Elk City.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Monday, May 3

  Jackson lay in bed, unable to sleep. He was thankful that Jane had pulled them out of Elk City. He had begun to wonder when their luck would run out and someone would demand to know exactly what it was that two federal agents were doing chatting with the local cops and the construction crews. He also had the nagging suspicion that something was going on and Jane hadn’t told him everything. From the fold out couch in the living room, Malouf’s snores filled the trailer. At least someone was getting some sleep. He sighed.

  Their task—to break a couple of links in the chain—had taken care of itself. He wondered what their next assignment would be.

  The phone rang. It’s about time, he thought, reaching for his phone. Despite his dislike for Jane, he was anxious to complete this assignment.

  “I need you to go to Council, Idaho,” she said. “On Friday, someone withdrew four hundred dollars from Matthew Richter’s account at an ATM. Although the odds are against it, we need to consider that they survived, and if they did, you need to see if they’re still in town. I want a copy of the video from that ATM.” She paused, then: “I think they’re on the run.”

  Jackson pulled out a map, searching for Council. There it was. “Richter? How could he have survived?”

  “That’s irrelevant. You need to check it out.”

  He sighed. “It’s one in the morning. The bank’s not open now.”

  “Get there when it opens. You have the credentials you need to get that video.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Okay, okay,” he finally said as he rubbed at the pain that had begun to throb in his temples.

  “Call me as soon as you have it.”

  “I will. But hang on. You said ‘they.’ You said ‘they’re on the run.’ Who else are you talking about?”

  “The president, of course.”

  ____

  Bill Daniels clicked on the save button. Feeling good that his column was complete, he wrote a quick email to his editor, attached the file and sent it on its way. He checked the clock and was happy to see that he still had more than enough time to hit a few balls on the range before his bi-weekly golf game. Life was good.

  After working for almost thirty years in the newspaper business, he had risen from an intern all the way up to editor of the Denver Record. But after nine years at the helm, he had grown tired of the newspaper business. The constant deadlines and the late nights, while exciting as a cub reporter, had taken their toll. To make matters worse, the business had been on a steady decline for the last twenty years. They had continued to lose readership and circulation as first magazines then the internet encroached on what was once s
acred space. The declining advertising revenues that followed only added to the pain. On top of that, he found it taxing to manage a diverse team of independent-minded writers, always having to hound them to get their copy in on time.

  So when he was offered the job as editor-in-chief of the Boston Herald, he had begun to mentally pack his bags, even before he told his wife. Even though he had lived in Colorado all his life, the idea of moving to a new city had seemed exciting.

  He had almost accepted the offer, and would have, if not for Peggy. Always the voice of reason, his wife had asked him one crucial question that had stopped him from making the call. What would change? Sure, Boston was a nice city, and they had enjoyed vacationing there years ago. Living there would open up a new world of cultural opportunities. However, for six days a week, his normal work schedule, what would really change?

  When he analyzed it, what he enjoyed about the newspaper business was writing. He had been good once, but at some point in his career he had made the shift from columnist to editor. He was part of the management team. That was a move that he always regretted.

  And so, five years ago, he said no to the job offer in Boston. He also, to the publisher’s dismay, resigned from his job at the Denver Record and became a columnist again. It was funny how life sometimes went full circle.

  After leaving the Record, he and Peggy realized they were no longer tied to Denver. He could write from anywhere. Although they loved the city, it had changed over the years as the growing population brought with it urban sprawl and traffic. While family wouldn’t keep them in Colorado—their children were both grown with families of their own: one living in Hawaii, the other in Atlanta—the many friendships they had built over the years would be difficult to give up. In compromise, they decided to semi-retire to the town of Cortez.

  Cortez, a small town of eight thousand, was nestled in the Four Corners region of Southwestern Colorado. While visiting Mesa Verde National Park on vacation, they had fallen in love with the town and had discussed buying a second home there. Some of their closest friends had already done it, a few of them making Cortez their permanent home. With nearby ski resorts and hunting, hiking, biking, camping, and fishing, Cortez cultivated an active outdoor lifestyle. The city of Durango was forty-five minutes away. With double the population of Cortez, it offered more in the way of culture with restaurants and nightlife that catered to tourists. Then there was Santa Fe to the south and Arizona and Utah almost next door. Cortez couldn’t have been any more different from Boston. That suited Bill just fine. Colorado was his home.