In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (10 page)

Matthew Richter yawned as he walked into the command center at the end of his shift.  It had been a long, boring day filled with hours of standing watch outside the Oval Office.  He preferred the excitement of travel.  It didn’t matter if it was a trip to New York or a short ride across Washington.  Anything beat standing watch.  He was anxious to get to the dojo tonight, or maybe go for a long run.

“Hi, Tim.”

Tim Jacobs, sitting in front of three displays—what before the digital age would have been called the switchboard—slipped off his earphones.  “Hey, Matthew.  Done for the day?”

Richter nodded as he sat down in front of a computer terminal.

He logged on and checked his inbox.  There were the usual threat updates and suspect profiles.  He studied the pictures.  Although he read his email on his Blackberry, he liked to review the pictures of people who might pose a threat to POTUS on a larger screen.  He saved the message.  He would review them again tomorrow before the start of his shift. 

The next email was a reminder to submit his expense report.  He sighed.  He would have to come in a little earlier tomorrow than he had planned.  Following that was a list of recent promotions, changes in assignment, new hires, and other personnel announcements.  He scanned the list but didn’t recognize any of the names.

Richter logged off and then glanced up at the mail slots.  Email had virtually eliminated paper mail, so he was surprised when he spotted something in his mailbox.  He opened the envelope and pulled out a registration form for a race, a ten-kilometer run on Memorial Day weekend.  There was a yellow Post-It stuck to the bottom.

Hi!  I thought you might be interested in this.  The course is relatively flat and there are some nice sections along the river.  I plan to run it again this year.  Hope you can make it.  Stephanie.

Richter smiled for the first time that day. 
Oh, I’ll make it
, he thought. 
I’ll definitely make it.

The following morning, Richter headed for the monthly staff meeting.  He grabbed a cup of coffee, walked into the crowded conference room and found a spot along the wall. 

Keith O’Rourke began the meeting, as usual, by reading through various announcements.  Richter half listened as O’Rourke explained changes to Thrift Savings Plan, the federal government’s version of the 401K plan so popular with private employers.

O’Rourke flipped a page on his note pad.  “Okay, next.  There will be a couple of changes to shift assignments.” 

There was a collective groan in the room.  O’Rourke read through half a dozen changes and Richter was happy not to hear his own name.  There was a smattering of applause for some agents and the usual bantering with the rest who had been reassigned.

“Okay.”  O’Rourke continued when the noise died down.  “Finally, effective today, Cal Mosby is being transferred back from the vice president’s detail and has been assigned to POTUS once again.”

Shit
, Richter swore to himself.  He scanned the room and saw Mosby against the far wall.  Mosby nodded to several people then stared at Richter for a brief moment, a scowl flashing across his face.

He couldn’t have asked for a better night.  This far out in the country, with no moon and overcast skies, the night was pitch black.  He lay on his belly in a shallow ditch about fifty yards from the small cabin.  The night-vision goggles amplified the ambient light several thousand times, providing him with an eerie green image.  It didn’t take long to determine that there was no one outside of the house.  The intelligence he had received indicated that the occupant lived alone.  

The lights inside went out.  He checked his watch, the numbers exceptionally bright until the goggles adjusted to the change in light.  He would wait a little longer.

Thirty minutes passed before he decided it was safe.  He crept toward the cabin, his steps falling silently on the ground.  Crouching by the stone chimney, he listened.  Satisfied that there was no movement within the house, he took off his goggles and stuffed them in his backpack.  He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then began to climb up the side of the chimney, like a cat, using the gaps between the protruding stones as footholds.  Big as he was, he was surprisingly agile.  The wind began to pick up and whistled through the trees; the cabin creaked and groaned.  So much the better, he thought.

He reached the roof and put one foot on the edge, where the roof joist and the wall below would bear his weight without much protest.  His nature was to be careful.  He slowly transferred his weight from the foot on the chimney to the foot on the roof.  When no noise betrayed him, he planted his other foot on the roof.  The intruder took off his pack and set it on top of the chimney.  He pulled out a gas mask, slipped it over his face and adjusted the straps.  Next, he pulled out a small metal canister, no bigger than his thumb, attached to fifty feet of nylon string.  He twisted the top of the canister, lowered it into the chimney, slowly letting out the line.  After twenty seconds, he heard a soft, metallic clank as the canister hit the flue.  He froze and counted to sixty.  When he was certain that there was no movement inside the house, he continued.

The string went slack as the canister landed on the floor of the fireplace.  He draped the excess string over the side of the chimneystack and then secured a small tarp to the top.  Satisfied that all was in order, he climbed back down.  He jogged back to the ditch, took off the gas mask, put on the goggles and lay down to wait.  He let another thirty minutes pass before he took off the goggles and put the mask back on.  Then he climbed up the side once more to retrieve the tarp.  Moments later, he was at the front door.  The lock didn’t present much of a challenge and, within seconds, he was inside.  He got his bearings and headed straight for the bedroom. 

The game warden was in bed, his eyes wide open, face frozen in terror.  The intruder checked for a pulse and, finding none, gently closed the warden’s eyes.  He opened the bedroom window several inches to air out the room.  It was warm enough this time of year that sleeping with a window open wouldn’t appear unusual.  He opened windows in the kitchen and the living room as well.  Any remaining traces of the nerve gas would be gone by morning.  It would appear that the warden had suffered a heart attack.  The particular nerve gas he’d used—a combination of three different gases—was virtually undetectable in the body.  On the outside chance that an autopsy was ordered, the standard toxicology tests performed at the morgue would show nothing unusual.

He retrieved the canister from the fireplace, closed the top, and placed it and the nylon string into a special pouch, which he sealed and stuffed into his backpack.  He walked through the house one more time, careful to make sure that there was no evidence that he had been here.  He locked the front door on his way out.

In all likelihood, no one would discover the body for several days.

She glanced at the display on her cell phone.  It was about time. 

“Yes?”

“Our problem has been resolved.  All loose ends have been accounted for.  We’re back on track.”

“Good.  Let’s keep it that way.”

Click.

Lieutenant Francis McKay put a ten-dollar bill on the bar. 

“My treat, Andy,” he insisted. 

Chief Master Sergeant Brandt picked up his beer and raised his glass in salute. 

“Thanks, Lieutenant.  What’s the occasion?” 

“Besides the Orioles game tonight?” 

Brandt chuckled and took a sip of beer.  Both were avid fans of the Orioles and the Redskins in their adopted hometown.  They carried their beers to a table in the back of the upscale bar.  The place wasn’t normally frequented by personnel from Andrews.  Most of the airmen and Marines preferred the smoky honky-tonks that surrounded the base.  And despite the fact that the Air Force frowned on fraternization between officers and enlisted personnel, Brandt and McKay occasionally spent time together, catching a ball game or discussing sports. 

“Hey, I almost forgot.”  Although there was no one near their table—most of the crowd congregated around the bar—Brandt lowered his voice.   “You remember the problem with the fuel management system that you asked about?  I think I figured out a way to trigger it.”

“That’s great.  I just need a chance to shine in front of Colonel Zweig.”

Brandt shook his head.  It seemed that all that McKay talked about the last month was a promotion.  Brandt knew that the Officer Evaluation Report went a long way to convincing the Promotions Board that an officer was qualified for the next level.

Oh well
, Brandt thought, he liked the lieutenant and it couldn’t hurt an enlisted guy like him to have friends in high places.

He leaned forward conspiratorially.  “Okay, here’s how you do it….”

“How are the plans coming along?” Vice President Rumson yelled as he steered the boat up the Severn River, the broad expanse of the Chesapeake Bay behind them.  The wind and the roar of the motor guaranteed their privacy.  Fifty yards to their starboard, in an identical Wellcraft Cabin Cruiser, four Secret Service agents kept pace with the vice president.  Fifty yards behind them were four more agents in a third boat.

It was late in the morning on the first Saturday of April, early for boating season.  For most people.  In his yacht club, Rumson was always the first in the water and the last one out. 

He was a power boater through and through.  He never understood the attraction of a sailboat.  They seemed to float around, aimless, always waiting for the wind to take them somewhere.  There was no sense of power.  That was certainly not the case on his boat.  He loved the sound he heard when he fired up the big block inboard engine; a low growl bubbling up from the back, all that power waiting to be unleashed.  He always felt a thrill when he pushed the throttle forward and the boat seemed to leap out of the water.  No, none of that wimpy sailboat shit for him.

Against the advice of the Secret Service, he not only continued to boat in the sometimes crowded Chesapeake Bay, he further refused to let his bodyguards accompany him.  After a brief stalemate, he ultimately allowed his agents to shadow him in a separate boat.  The Secret Service purchased two boats identical to Rumson’s and had them retrofitted to accommodate their unique needs.  The fact that they selected the same model boat was a calculated decision designed to confuse any would-be assassin.

As Jane gave him an update, Rumson steered around an island.

“Okay.  When?”

“I’m still working on that.  Three or four weeks, I think.”

Rumson mulled this over.  “Are you sure you have the right people working on this?  We can’t afford any mistakes.”

“There are always risks in a mission like this, but I’ve done everything I can to minimize them.  I have the right people.  They’re intelligent and they’re motivated.  We can do this.”     

Rumson studied her face.  “There can be no trail.”

“There won’t be.  I have that covered.”

He saw nothing but confidence in her eyes. 

“Sir, next week is your trip to Seattle for the trade summit with China,” Howell began as Arlene Reardon handed the president an agenda.  “This is a follow-up to the last G-7 meeting.  You need to make a few opening comments before the delegates sit down to hammer out the details.  Stress the importance of trade fairness, mention our concern about China’s manipulation of the currency markets, our concern about human rights and sweat shops and how they relate to the products we import; all very subtly of course.  The big thing to mention is our support for the Global Free Trade Alliance.”

“This is at the University of Seattle?” 

“Yes, sir.  After that, you’re scheduled to meet with Bill and Melinda Gates.”

Kendall nodded.  The Gates’s charitable foundation had recently announced that education was a top priority, and this was a great opportunity to see how the private sector was tackling the issue. 

Howell continued, “Thursday night you’ll have dinner with Governor Lange, and, on Friday morning before you depart, you’ll tour Old Peninsula Clothing Company.” 

“Is Lange looking for anything specific?”

“From what her people told me, just an opportunity to meet you.  I’ve asked for a list of topics she’s likely to bring up.  I should have that from her staff shortly.”

“Okay.  And the clothes company?  What’s this, a store?”

“It’s a four-year-old manufacturing company that is one hundred percent employee owned.  They have over two hundred employees, all of whom were formerly unemployed.  Everyone is a shareholder.  This is a great small business success story in an industry where we have a significant cost disadvantage.  If the Global Free Trade Alliance is ratified, they’re well poised to begin exporting American-made products overseas.  That would be a very interesting turn of events for an industry that has virtually disappeared in the U.S.”

“All right, I like that.”

“We leave on Wednesday, the twenty-first, in the afternoon, and we’re back here by 5:00 p.m. on Friday.” 

“Friday the twenty-third?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Kendall nodded then turned to Arlene.  “I’ve been meaning to take Maria and the girls to Camp David for a weekend.  What about after I return from Seattle?” 

Arlene handed the president another piece of paper.  “It will have to be late, sir.  Angela has a ballet recital at 7:00 p.m.”

The president glanced at the program.  “Is this new?”

“Yes, sir.  Mrs. Kendall informed me this morning.”

“Okay.  Please order some flowers for me.”  He remembered the last recital.  Every other father had given his daughter a bouquet. 

“It’s already taken care of, sir,” Arlene answered.  “I can arrange for the helicopter at 9:30.  Would that work?”

“That would be great.” 

After Arlene and Howell left, Kendall walked to the windows.  Despite the bright sunshine, he felt anxious.  For some reason he couldn’t quite identify, he was not looking forward to this trip.