by David Wind
Mathews forced himself not to react. Vladim Koshenski, known to CIC as the Madman, was the NKVD agent in charge of terrorism and subversion in Greece: He was also a sadist—a madman who did not care who he killed, only that it caused pain and furthered his country’s obsession with the domination of other countries.
Mathews remembered the night he and Vladim’s son, Serge Koshenski, had met. It was just after he and his team had taken out the Soviet terrorists who had passed the designs. Serge Koshenski had been in a different room. When he’d heard the gunfire, he’d hidden.
When Mathews and his men had begun a search, Koshenski killed three of the six men before Mathews had been able to take him out.
Mathews stared up at Koshenski as the memories replayed within the space of a heartbeat. He forced away the past, and his mind raced to find a way to protect his newly born son.
He started to speak, to plead for his son, but when he read the knowledge of his future in Koshenski’s insane eyes, he said nothing.
From behind, Walter Hirshorne spoke. “You can’t do this. Your people won’t allow this to happen!”
Koshenski looked at him, a sad and strange grin forming. “You are a fool. I am doing this. No one will stop me.” Then Koshenski nodded.
The man covering Hirshorne arched his arm and clipped Hirshorne on the side of the head. Mathews heard his friend’s body collapse behind him.
Rage, fear, and desperation sent Mathews charging forward. Ignoring the pain, he refused to believe his leg would not support him.
His mad attack fell two feet short. A dark fury burned through him as he tried to crawl the remaining distance. When he saw Koshenski’s pistol center on his head, he screamed out his hatred.
Koshenski pulled the trigger.
Mathews was dead before what was left of his head slammed into the floor.
Koshenski spun, his weapon pointing at the doctor and two nurses who remained. “Don’t move! Do nothing until we are gone.”
Koshenski motioned to his companion and the nurse with the child. The three backed out of the operating room, turned, and began to run.
“Goddammit!” shouted Colonel Steven Ginsberg as the door closed. He pushed the body of Joe Markham off the unconscious woman and stared at the two remaining nurses. “Get over here! Help me with her. We’ve got work to do, now!”
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Chapter One
October 1992, Lander, Wyoming, Saturday
The turquoise sky was clear. The breeze coming down from the Wind River Mountains was cool, carrying with it the first hint of the early Wyoming winter to the group of twenty-plus reporters and cameramen who surrounded Congressman Robert H. Mathews on the front lawn of his ranch house.
Within the group of reporters, Joel Blair of the Washington Courier tried to make his six-foot two-inch height blend into insignificance while carefully, if not blatantly, looking around.
For the past ten minutes, he’d had the tingling sensation of being watched. It wasn’t a new feeling, but it was disturbing.
Glancing surreptitiously about, he hoped to catch someone’s eyes locked on him; no one was watching him. Everyone’s attention was on Vice-Presidential candidate Mathews.
For two weeks, the feeling of being watched and followed was a constant. The sensations of people staring at him, of people looking at him, were strong, and had been growing more powerful every day.
He didn’t know why, but he was certain his feelings were not those of a paranoid journalist.
Again, slowly, he looked about. The group was paying attention to only one person, Robert Mathews. Off to the side, he spotted one of the Secret Service agents. There were half a dozen agents assigned to the candidate.
He turned slightly and, using his peripheral vision, sought for a strange face. There were a few unknown people behind the hanging press credentials, but none seemed to touch the spot within him that would tell him it was one of them. Blair gave a mental shrug.
Ignoring the warning sensations, he focused his attention on the press conference and Mathews, whose handsome face was carved with lines of concentration.
Mathews wore a suede work jacket and jeans. He spoke rapidly, answering everyone’s questions without hesitation while behind him two Secret Service agents stood in relaxed attention, their eyes never still. Four others stood in posts across the front lawn.
“Congressman,” called Jeremy Cohen of the New York Times. “We’re all aware of your intense anti-communistic stance, but I would like to know how you will be able to temper those feelings with the reality of dealing with the Soviets on an economic level in order to keep world market balance, and at the same time help stop the Soviet economy from bankruptcy?”
Mathews held the reporter’s curious stare for several seconds before saying, “A firm anticommunist stance does not negate dealing with a communist country; rather, it forewarns them that negotiations will be adhered to along certain predetermined lines.
“But, to answer your question completely,” he added as he heard the under-the-breath muttering from the group, “I foresee no problems in dealing with the Soviets, or any other communist country for that matter, on an economic level. The political manifestations, growing out of the economic, are what concern me. You’ve all heard me say, enough times, I will not bend to fear tactics or dictates of any communist nation. I meant and I mean just that. Nothing more and nothing less. We are a country with every right to stand up for what we believe, and we are a strong enough country not to have to force our beliefs or our power on others.”
“Are you suggesting isolationism?”
“No. Patriotism, if that word isn’t too archaic for you to remember its true meaning.”
During the brief silence following his statement, Mathews searched the faces of the people surrounding him. “And, as a rhetorical question for each of you to ponder, if communistic society works so well, why then is their structure no longer working? Could it be that with the possibility of their system breaking down, either communism as we know it will burn out, or the communists will have no choice but to try and take over the rest of the world and bend it to their own ways?”
“Don’t you think that’s a little drastic?” asked a TV newscaster.
“Do you?” Mathews shot back.
“Yes, I do,” replied the reporter.
“Perhaps it is, but it’s the way I see it. And I’m not ashamed of voicing my opinion.”
“Do you think that you’re scaring away voters with your hardline stance? After all, Congressman, the election is only a few weeks away.”
Mathews turned to face the reporter who’d asked the question. Well known on television, he was a tall, thin man with dark and wavy hair.
“Mr. Cortney, you’ve been on the campaign with me for two and a half months. I’ve never hidden my views about communism nor my feelings toward the Soviets. So, you tell me, am I scaring away voters?”
Bill Cortney shook his head slowly.
“And I think that wraps it up. I’m taking tomorrow off, ladies and gentlemen, so don’t come pestering me. I’ll see you all on Monday in New York.” Mathews turned from the crowd, ignoring their indefatigable thirst for more and more answers, and went into the house.
The reporters broke up into smaller ranks as they walked to their cars. Most talked cheerfully, some grumbled about having to go to New York, and others just went quietly.
Joel Blair took his time going to his rental car; every step was haphazard, designed to make anyone who might be following him stand out.
There was no one. Everyone moved with a purpose. Blair seemed to be the only laggard.
Feeling like a fool, Blair stopped abruptly, turned, and looked back at Mathews’ house. He wondered if this ranch, along with the town of Lander, fifteen miles away, would become a landmark as the hometown of the next vice president.
Mathews and his running mate, Daniel Etheridge had a good shot at the job, given the political attitude in the country today. But Blair st
ill had his doubts.
“Hey, Blair, you joining us for a drink?” called Bill Cortney.
Blair waved to him. “I’ll meet you at the motel.”
Blair moved off to his rental car, a blue Chevrolet Corsica. When he reached it, he slid behind the wheel but made no effort to turn on the ignition.
What? he asked himself. Something had been gnawing at him for weeks, but he had not been able to single out the cause of the worry. He shrugged, knowing whatever it was would eventually make itself known.
He started the car and pulled out his small tape recorder. He checked the tape and set it on the seat next to him. Only then did he drive out the long drive to the main road, realizing that everyone had already left.
He turned left at the intersection and headed for Lander, which was ‘over that-a-way, in the valley after the third mountaintop’. Hell of a way to live, he thought as he pressed the accelerator.
While Blair drove, he could not get Robert H. Mathews off his mind. Mathews was the dream candidate. His party had been looking for him ever since Sirhan Sirhan gunned down Robert Kennedy, and Ted Kennedy had become a presidential leper. Mathews was, in all ways, true to the Kennedy mold.
Robert H. Mathews was young, in his forties. Erudite and handsome, he had the appeal of an optimist with strength. He was never indecisive in anything he did, and after the first week of his campaign, any comparison between Mathews and the V. P. nominee of the last election had stopped.
Blair was willing to admit he liked Mathews. He appreciated the man’s views, and admired the way the man campaigned. The only problem was that Mathews was just too good. He was as perfect a candidate as could have been found. Every journalist and pseudo-journalist from the Times down to the Enquirer had exhausted all means of finding a chink in Mathews’ armor, a speck of dirt lying in some hidden closet. There had been none—at least nothing damaging enough to hurt his campaign.
Halfway through the campaign, the searches had stopped, the tones of the journalists changing from skepticism to admiration.
Blair couldn’t help but wonder if he was tilting at windmills in his search to uncover the real Robert Mathews. What was wrong with him and with the rest of his world that there was no one person to look up to and respect. Why did he need to find the ‘dirt’?
He didn’t know why he had to keep pressing, but the feeling of something hidden would not allow him to back off. Instead of pondering further, he picked up the recorder and turned it on. He pressed down on the gas pedal as the car began the upward climb along the mountain.
“Today, the Mathews campaign was contained to his hometown of Lander, Wyoming. He made the rounds, glad-handing his neighbors, and smiling a lot. He gave a short and powerful speech in the parking lot of the shopping center.”
Blair glanced in his rearview mirror. A sudden knot of tension formed in his stomach when he saw a dark pickup truck approaching. Dammit, he thought. He was getting the jitters by just having someone ride behind him.
He fought away the feeling of paranoia and, taking his eyes from the mirror, began to speak again. “After his speech, the congressman returned to his ranch, where he answered the questions of the group of reporters who have been on the trail with him. We heard nothing new today, just a rehash of his ideals.”
Blair paused as a new thought struck. “Note: In tomorrow’s interview, ask about life on the large ranch after the death of his family.”
Blair shut off the recorder and placed it on the passenger seat. He wasn’t sure if he should tread on the past in his upcoming interview with Mathews. Mathews’ wife and child had died four years ago, killed in a tragic automobile accident.
Blair intuitively knew that to broach the touchy subject would help him see Mathews’ ability to deal with personal history while in the midst of a political interview.
His excitement grew. The interview was a major coup. He had spent five weeks trying to get an exclusive with the vice presidential candidate. Although he wasn’t quite sure why Mathews had finally granted him the time, he wasn’t about to question the reason. Tomorrow, after he spoke with Mathews, he would let himself wonder.
For Blair, everything about this year’s presidential campaign had been a surprise. Especially the nomination of Robert Mathews. A man who no one had really known until three months ago. The congressman had never been mentioned as part of the challenging ticket against the incumbent president and vice president. It seemed to have come only on the eve of the nominating convention in New York City.
By the time everyone realized the V. P. nominee was a young congressman from Wyoming and a former two-term governor of the state, the press found themselves scrambling to learn about Robert H. Mathews.
What the press and the rest of the country learned was that while Mathews had kept a low political profile on the national level, he had been the youngest governor of his home state, and had been acclaimed for his job. As a congressman, he was tough and rigorous, and sat on several committees in positions much higher than his age and newness to congress would have warranted.
Everyone, political friend and adversary, agreed Mathews was a fireball on the Hill. He was low key, but relentless in his responsibilities. His political enemies had never put dirt to his name, and even they admitted Mathews was a good man.
Within a week of the nomination, Joel Blair had been assigned to Mathews. His editor had bluntly told him his only job was to learn about Mathews and to report the findings to him. Blair had free rein as to what he wrote and what he did. All the Washington Courier wanted was a straight story on the man and the race.
For several weeks before joining the press group covering the election, he’d researched Mathews. When he had completed his base research, he thought he knew Robert Mathews almost as well as someone he’d known all his life.
Blair had traced Mathews’ life, from birth to the vice presidential nomination. Born in an army hospital in Europe, and therefore born on American soil, his birth had marked one of the most sensational and bizarre anecdotes of the early cold war period. However, the incredible events surrounding Mathews’ birth had not come to light until Mathews had run for his second term as governor. At that time, an enterprising young reporter had used the freedom of information act to learn the exact circumstances of Robert Mathews’ birth and his parents’ deaths.
Mathews’ father had been a high-ranking Army Intelligence officer. During the cesarean section needed for Robert’s birth, a deranged Soviet spy, bent on revenge, had infiltrated the hospital, killed Robert Mathews’ father and mother, and kidnapped Mathews.
The details of the aftermath of the kidnapping and murders had never been revealed, other than the fact that Walter Hirshorne, the then European director of the CIC, had rescued the infant. Following the rescue, Walter Hirshorne raised baby Mathews.
That fact, not the kidnapping, had been Blair’s first angle. Walter Hirshorne was a name that for generations had been and still was synonymous with international politics.
A political superman, Walter Hirshorne was the Averell Harriman of the seventies and eighties. He had been the assistant European director of the OSS in World War II and had taken over the reins of the CIC at the end of the war. Hirshorne was one of the principals responsible for the formation of the CIA.
Hirshorne’s career had then skyrocketed forward from there. He served as the United States ambassador to Great Britain, to France, to India, and a half-dozen other nations. He’d served several terms as undersecretary of state. When he retired in the early eighties, he was the most powerful political force in the country, and is still looked upon as the unofficial head of his party.
For a guardian, Robert Mathews could not have had a more powerful, nor a more patriotic father.
Blair glanced in the rearview mirror. The pickup truck that had been behind him for several miles was still there, about a hundred feet away. Was he being followed? He couldn’t tell. This was the main road to town. Anyone could be on it.
The kno
t in Blair’s stomach began to throb as he acknowledged there was nothing for him to do. A few seconds later, his thoughts returned to Robert Mathews. The man’s rise to national fame had been meteoric, yet Blair had seen no change in the man from the eve of the political convention to this afternoon on Mathews’ front lawn.
If there had been a change, it was within Blair, not Mathews. Over the past weeks, Blair had begun to like Mathews, as a person and as a candidate. The man’s words always rang true, and what he said made a lot of sense. Yet, the journalist within him would not allow him to translate his inner feelings to print—he needed more.
Tomorrow, if he handled the interview properly, he would have his story, or at least the information to let him write it.
He looked in the rearview mirror and realized the pickup had closed the gap. His stomach knotted tighter. His hands gripped the steering wheel tensely as he fought a wave of panic. He had to find out if the truck was following him.
Blair floored the accelerator. The Chevrolet sped up to eighty. The truck stayed with him, hanging a bare thirty feet behind.
He eased off the gas. The car slowed: The pickup did the same.
“Damn!” he swore as he looked for a way of escape.
He spotted an unpaved brown and red dirt road up ahead. Keeping his speed steady as he approached it, and timing everything carefully, Blair hit the brakes and turned the wheel. The car veered from the road and, when the tires hit the gravel, started to spin.
He worked the wheel while pumping the gas and brakes until he got the car under control. He stopped, his breath ragged, and turned. The pickup truck kept going. The driver stared at him through dark glasses.
Blair watched the truck until it was out of sight. With each passing second, he wondered if he had finally reached the rarified strata of being a fully obsessed and paranoid reporter.
Still, no matter how he tried to tell himself it was his imagination, he couldn’t shake the feeling that ever since he’d dropped the pretense of being just another reporter along for the ride and openly started his in-depth investigation of Robert Mathews, he was being watched.