by L. D Beyer
“Mr. Kroger. You too, please.”
Kendall glared at Broder for a moment. “I want to make this crystal clear. Agent Richter is in charge and both the FBI and the Secret Service are now effectively under his command.” He paused. “Mr. Broder, is this going to be a problem for you?”
Broder turned even redder. “Sir, with all due respect, Agent Richter does not understand the bigger picture nor does he have the breadth of experience to deal with this.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” the president snapped back. “If you can’t live with my decision, you’ll be relieved of your duties immediately.”
Broder, his eyes smoldering, shot Richter a look, then nodded.
The president turned. “Mr. Kroger, the same goes for you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, a tight-lipped Kroger nodded as well. “Yes, sir.”
The president stepped back. “Agent Richter?”
Richter stepped forward. “For now, I’m satisfied with the security arrangements that Mr. Monahan has put in place. Mr. Kroger, at this point, I do not want anyone in the Secret Service to be informed of the president’s status. No one, Mr. Kroger. Is that clear?”
Kroger glanced at the president and then glared at Richter. “Very clear, Agent Richter.”
Richter studied him a moment before speaking. “Director, I need you to find out where the vice president is right now and what his schedule is for the rest of the day. Discreetly, please.”
Chapter Sixty
When the fire alarm sounded and the lights flashed, most people in the West Wing looked up for a second or two in annoyance before turning back to their work. A fire at the White House? Be serious!
It took the Secret Service twenty-five minutes to clear the offices. The staffers were hustled out to the South Lawn, complaining all the way. They joined a growing group of people: chefs and cooks in their white aprons, Marine guards in full dress uniform, gardeners and maintenance personnel in coveralls, ushers and staff from the residence, and hundreds of annoyed people in business suits, arms folded across their chests. Only the press was happy.
Agent C.J. Timmons gathered Rumson’s detail outside the Oval Office.
“I want all of you stationed outside on the South Portico. Wolf will remain in the Oval Office. I want all entrances manned. No one is allowed back in until the ‘all clear’ is given.” He glanced at his watch. “Once the Uniformed Division gets a complete headcount to make sure everyone is accounted for, they’ll let us know.” He handed a note to one of the agents. “Give that to the uniformed boys. The only ones inside are three in the command center, myself by the Oval Office guarding Wolf, and Agent Winston in the East Wing.” Timmons scowled. “Fucking fire drills.”
His men walked outside. When he was alone, he felt a moment of doubt, but shook his head. He trusted Kroger, and if the man wanted the building cleared, then so be it.
He raised his hand to his mouth. “Wolf is in the Double O. Crown is clear.”
____
With Kroger in the lead, more than twenty FBI agents escorted the two men through the tunnel that connected the Treasury Building to the White House. Attorney General Ben Kiplinger and Monahan brought up the rear. Originally constructed as a bomb shelter for Franklin Delano Roosevelt during World War II, the tunnel saw many uses over the ensuing years, including, it was rumored, as a covert means for sneaking Marilyn Monroe into the White House for late night trysts with President Kennedy.
Despite the fact that they were indoors, the two men wore dark sunglasses, hats and bulky coats. When they reached the vault door that opened into the East Wing of the White House, Director Kroger signaled for the group to stop. After a quick radio call, the heavy vault door was opened by a single Secret Service agent. His eyes went wide.
“Not a word, Agent Winston.” The young agent nodded, stepping out of the way as Kroger led the group into the vacant hallway.
Ten minutes later, after a somewhat circuitous trip through the White House, the group was escorted into the president’s private dining room, adjacent to the Oval Office. Agent Timmons was waiting. He looked from one to the other in confusion and then surprise as the room filled.
Kroger nodded towards the door. “Is Wolf still in there by himself?”
“Yes, sir.”
An FBI agent helped the president take off his coat; then the president took off his hat and sunglasses. He straightened his tie, smoothed the sleeves of his suit coat, then nodded to Monahan. “Okay, let’s do it.”
____
Kroger led Kiplinger and Monahan into the Oval Office.
Rumson, sitting behind the desk, staring at the phone in his hand, was startled.
“Kroger! What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging in here?” Seeing the men behind Kroger, he stood and leaned over the desk, his eyes menacing. “What the hell is going on?”
Monahan stepped forward. “Mr. Rumson. Sit down please.”
Ignoring Rumson’s glower, Monahan placed the digital recorder on the desk and pressed the play button.
What’s the status?
“What the hell kind of stunt is this?” Rumson thundered.
Monahan rewound the recording and hit the play button again.
What’s the status?
What was that?
I said I can’t reach either of my men.
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.
Put every resource you have on this. A pause. You need to find him pretty damn quick. And you need to end this!
Monahan pressed the stop button.
Rumson looked at all three men in turn before his eyes settled back on Monahan. “What the hell is that?” he said dismissively, pointing to the recorder.
“Mr. Rumson,” Monahan said. “I am placing you under arrest for murder, for conspiracy to commit murder, and for treason.”
Rumson stared at him, unblinking. “I didn’t hear anything on that recording about murder or treason.”
Rumson’s eyes went wide for a second as David Kendall and Matthew Richter stepped into the room.
Kendall stepped up to his desk. He stared at Rumson, feeling nothing but disgust and loathing for the man before him. Rumson, his face clouded, his surprise gone and his eyes defiant once again, stared back at him. There were no signs of remorse, Kendall noted. How many people did you kill? He wanted to scream. You corrupt, power-hungry bastard! Instead, he shook his head then turned to Monahan.
“Get this asshole out of my office.”
Monahan, holding a pair of handcuffs, stepped around the desk. Instinctively, Richter stepped forward next to Kendall. Rumson sat frozen. His eyes dark, he looked up at Kendall and shook his head.
“You son of a bitch,” he said quietly. Then he lunged out of the chair, grabbed the letter opener and launched himself across the desk.
Chapter Sixty-One
On the second floor of the White House, Maria Kendall was crying. She knew. Ever since the prayer vigil, she knew. Somehow, someway, she sensed David had connected with her. She didn’t know what it meant at the time and tried not to hold onto false hope. It had been so hard, and the feeling had been so strong. She never told anyone about the feeling that had come over her that night, not even the girls. But she had prayed. She didn’t even know what she prayed for, but she prayed nonetheless. She hugged Angela and Michelle. Both were crying; overcome by the rollercoaster of emotions.
Agent Tiller put her hand to her ear, listened for a second and nodded. “Ma’am?”
The door opened and David Kendall stood on the threshold, tears streaming down his face. Maria and the girls let out a sob as he limped into their arms.
____
“In stunning news, President David Kendall has been discovered alive. The White House and federal authorities have not provided any additional informati
on, except to say that President Kendall is alive and has returned to Washington today. We have also learned that, after an emergency meeting of high-ranking officials, including the President’s Cabinet and Congressman Harry Bolsh and Senator Joyce Pankin, under the provisions of the Twenty-fifth amendment, presidential powers have been transferred from Vice President Rumson back to President Kendall. We are told that President Kendall will be addressing the nation tonight. This is an absolutely stunning turn of events for a nation still in shock over what was thought to be the tragic loss of a great man. There is no word yet on exactly where President Kendall has been for these last two weeks or how he survived the crash of Air Force One.
“In related news, we have also learned that Vice President Tyler Rumson has been rushed to the hospital. Details are sketchy and, at this time, his condition is unknown. We turn now to our White House Correspondent, Betty Hoffman for the latest details.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Richter watched on the monitor as President Kendall, his jaw set, his eyes intense, strode into the East Room. His limp was barely perceptible, Richter noticed, but he knew it had more to do with the man’s will than with the brace he was wearing or the pain medication he had taken earlier. There was no mistaking that he was in charge.
Standing in the adjoining Green Room, Richter watched as Kendall waved to the crowd while nervous FBI agents trailed closely behind. The president did not stop to shake hands, did not stop to share a few words or a hug with those he knew. That would come later, Richter knew. The president headed directly for the podium. After a full ten minutes and many repeated attempts, he was finally able to quiet the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Fellow citizens,” the president began. “You don’t know how good it is to finally be back home.”
The crowd jumped to its feet again, and the room overflowed with noise. It was another two minutes before the crowd took their seats again. The president glanced down. He only had a few hastily scribbled notes, Richter knew. There hadn’t been time for speechwriters and teleprompters.
“Two weeks ago, an attempt was made to alter the very fabric of our democracy. An attempt was made to change something very dear to our hearts, to change the core of who we are as Americans: the right for each of us to determine our own fate. An attempt was made to take away our ability as citizens to determine, through democratic process, who will lead us.”
President Kendall paused and looked out over the assembled congressmen and women, at his Cabinet, at the assembled government officials, and at the White House staff and the reporters who had been crammed into the East Room. When he spoke again, his voice boomed through the room.
“I stand before you tonight, confident that our democracy has been restored!”
With a roar, the crowd jumped to its feet once more. As the president held his hands up again, Richter turned and nodded to the FBI agent in front of the door. The agent stepped aside and Richter entered the small side room. The two FBI agents inside looked up but said nothing. Jack and Derek were watching the president’s address on the monitor. It took a moment before they noticed him.
“You know why you’re in here and not out there…” he began.
“The investigation?” Jack offered.
Richter nodded. The boy was bright. He started to say something but suddenly found himself tongue tied. The words he had prepared a moment ago so his emotions wouldn’t get the better of him were gone.
There was a thunder of applause from the other room. They all glanced at the monitor, at President Kendall, behind the podium. Back in the White House. Back where he belonged. Richter took a deep breath then smiled.
“Jack, Derek. I don’t know where to begin,” he said. “It’s been one hell of a journey and the odds were against us most of the way. But we did it.” He shook his head. “You guys were amazing.” He gestured towards the monitor. “The president would not be alive today if it weren’t for you.” He shook his head again. “Heck, I wouldn’t be alive today…” He took another breath before continuing. “Being an agent, you need to rely on your partners to cover your back. Well, I couldn’t think of anyone else I would want protecting me but you two.”
Jack’s face flushed red and he wiped away a tear.
“It’s been an amazing adventure,” Derek said, his voice cracking.
“It has been, but unfortunately,” Richter said as his smile faded. “It’s not over yet. They’re going to want to talk to you,” he continued with a nod to the two FBI agents. “There’ll be depositions and Congressional Hearings…” he waved his hand.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “They told us.”
“Well,” Derek said with a grin. “This is our first time to Washington. I’m sure between all of that we’ll get to see the sights.”
“Unfortunately, over the next few days, you’ll be spending most of your time behind closed doors. But I’ll make sure the FBI gives you the grand tour.” He smiled. “I’ll make sure they show you things tourists never get to see.”
Jack and Derek smiled at that.
Richter gestured toward the TV again. “Listen, he wants to meet you later tonight, after the media circus is over. Are you guys okay waiting around?”
“Are we okay?” Derek spread his arms wide. “Where else do you think we’d rather be?”
Richter smiled. There were things he wanted to say, that he had to say, but he knew he couldn’t. Not tonight. He stepped forward, his hand out.
“Thank you…”
Jack ignored the outstretched hand and suddenly his arms were around Richter’s shoulders. A second later, Derek joined them. Richter suddenly felt the tears running down his cheeks. After a moment he pulled away and forced himself to push all the emotions back down. Not here. Not now.
“Listen, I need to go,” he said as he wiped his eyes. “The next few days will be hectic, but I’ll make sure I check in on you guys from time to time to see how things are going.”
Jack and Derek nodded and Richter turned away before anyone said anything else. He stepped back into the East Room.
After a moment he caught Monahan’s attention and nodded. Ignoring the eyes on him, he stepped out into the hall. Spotting him, the reporters and photographers who had been relegated to the TV monitors set up hastily in the hall, pushed forward only to be blocked by a team of FBI agents who formed a protective ring around him. Pat Monahan pushed his way through the crowd. They shared a glance.
In a voice that betrayed his weariness, Richter mumbled, “I’m going home.”
Monahan nodded then spoke to one of the agents. He and Richter shared another glance then Monahan squeezed Richter’s arm and nodded again.
Five minutes later, Richter found himself in the back of an FBI Suburban. His face a mask, he said nothing to the agents sitting beside him. Twenty minutes later, the car slowed, and he glanced out the window and saw that they had stopped in front of his building. He stared out the window and, for a moment, the building felt unfamiliar and cold and he wondered how he had ended up here. He shook his head, then realized someone was talking to him. He turned and noticed for the first time that Special Agent Wayne Elms was next to him. Elms asked him again and Richter frowned then shook his head.
Elms nodded. “Wait here a moment please.”
As Elms climbed out, Richter sat back and closed his eyes.
Sometime later—five minutes, maybe more—Elms returned.
“The door’s open. The apartment’s secure.” Elms paused. “I’d like to post some of my men inside your apartment,” he added.
Richter shook his head. Then he climbed out.
A minute later he shut the door to his apartment, not bothering with the bolt. Elms and his men, he knew, would be right outside. He glanced at his sparsely furnished apartment: at the sofa and chair he had purchased with little thought, at the remote sitting next to a TV that he had so rarely used, at the jar full of cooking utensils by the stove, some still wrapped in the plastic they came in, and at the cheap An
sel Adams print he had hung on the wall in a vain attempt to make a place that he spent so little time in feel like home. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was an intruder. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Slowly, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. His face buried in his hands, his body shook as he began to weep.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Thursday, May 20
It was a hot Carolina morning when Matthew Richter turned into the driveway of the small house in Greensboro. He parked the car and sat for a moment studying the brick ranch, the well-manicured lawn, and neatly tended shrubs. Richter took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. The door opened as he walked up the steps. The woman smiled, but her eyes betrayed the pain.
“Ma’am, I’m Matthew Richter. I called earlier.”
“I know. I recognize you…from TV. Please. Come in.”
Richter followed her into the living room.
“Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I made some fresh ice tea.”
“Thank you, ma’am. That would be nice.”
Richter looked around the room. Pictures of Stephanie were displayed on end tables, on the mantel and the walls. Stephanie posing with friends. Stephanie, in cap and gown, at her college graduation. Stephanie holding a trophy after, Richter guessed, a track meet. Stephanie, eyes vigilant, standing behind President Kendall as he shook hands with President Magaña of Mexico. On the table next to him, there was a memorial card from Stephanie’s funeral. He flipped it over and read:
To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
He let out a breath, placed the card back on the table, then stood as he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Sartori walked in carrying a tray. A tall, distinguished looking man with gray hair followed her in.
He stuck out his hand. “I’m Ted Sartori.”
“I’m Matthew Richter, sir.”