In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (29 page)

“I recorded a phone call that…our visitor made.”

“Matthew, if I understand you correctly, that recording may not be admissible….”

“I don’t give a shit right now about rules for search and seizure or rules for evidence!  I don’t care about Miranda rights!  I need to know how big this thing is and who I can trust!”

“Okay.  Okay.  I understand.  How do you want to do that?”

“I’m going to give you a phone number.  I want a wiretap on it ASAP, within the next hour.”

Monahan jotted down the number.

“I want to know who this person calls and who calls them and what they say.  As soon as you have anything, call us back.”

“Okay.  I can do that.” 

“One last thing.  Whoever handles this must report to you and you alone.  I don’t want anyone else involved yet.  Not even your boss.”  A pause.  “Especially not your boss.  Are we clear?”

Like a soldier, Richter woke instantly, his body tense as he scanned his surroundings.  He reached for the phone, noting the time.  3:30 a.m.  He had been dozing on and off in a recliner for the last several hours, waiting for the call.  

“Matthew.  This is Pat.  I have some information.  There was only one outgoing call from that number.  Not good news.  They’re expanding their search.  They’ve added more…. resources.”

Richter sighed.  “Okay.  I was expecting that.  Anything else?”

“Yes.  What time was the call that you recorded?”

Richter picked up Reed’s phone and scanned the call log.  “8:33 p.m.”

“Are you in Mountain Time?”

Richter hesitated.  “For the moment.”

“I thought so.  We accessed the record of calls made before we put the tap in place.  There were two calls last night, both to the same number.  The first was at 11:07 p.m., Eastern Time.  That’s thirty-four minutes after your visitor’s call.  The second was at 11:59 p.m.”

“Who did she call?”

“That’s the disturbing part.  I’d rather not say over the phone.”

“I assume this goes all the way up, possibly to the number two man.”

There was a pause.  “Yes.  How did…..?  Never mind.”

“Continue to monitor the number, but don’t do anything else.  I’ll contact you later.”   Richter hung up and hurried to the president’s room.  Kendall woke with a start. 

“Sir.  We need to leave.  Right now.”

At 10:00 a.m., as they were nearing Albuquerque, New Mexico, the president placed the call.  He heard the phone click but didn’t give the other person a chance to speak.

“Hi.  It’s me.  No names.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  There was a brief pause.  “You got a new phone?”

“Yes.  We picked up several.”

“That was smart.”

“I’ll pass that on.  Listen.  I’m sure you understand now how big this might be.”

“I do.  But, sir, I’m at a disadvantage.  I’m only using one person, and she reports directly to me.  The phone we’re monitoring is a cell phone.  If I could put some men on the ground, with the technology we have, there’s a good chance we would be able to chase this person down.”

“First things first.  From the calls that you listened to, do you have enough evidence to tie this back to the source?” 

“Not yet.  We need to complete a voice analysis.  I would also like to monitor the number she called.  And it would help if we could pick up the caller and interview her.  Then we might be able to build a case.  Right now, I don’t think we have enough to directly tie your…assistant to this.”

“Hang on.”  The president relayed the information to Richter.  “Okay, continue to monitor the caller’s phone.  Can you monitor the recipient’s phone without anyone else finding out?”

“Yes.  I think so.”

“Do it now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to do something else as well.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“I need you to commandeer a plane.”

It was a moment before Monahan answered. 

“Okay.  I should be able to do that.”

“Do it.  I want you to assemble a team of agents.  Four or five other people that you trust completely, that are loyal to you alone.  And I don’t want anyone else to know about this.  Can you do that?”

“Yes.  I can.” 

There was no hesitation, the president noted.  “Good.  We told you about our visitor yesterday.  The one who made the phone call for us?”

“Yes…”

“I’m going to tell you where to find him.”  The president gave Monahan an address.  “I want you to pick him up.  I want him in your custody.  You’re going to want to talk to him.  Personally.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.  I want you to leave right away, within the next hour if possible.  I’ll call you later.”

The FBI-owned Gulfstream G550 landed at Durango-La Plata Airport shortly after 4:00 p.m. and taxied to the private terminal.  Monahan had to pull a few strings to arrange the flight on such short notice.  That hadn’t been difficult, given his position as deputy director.  His administrative leave, apparently, was only between Broder and himself.

Monahan and a team of four agents were met at the terminal door by the gate agent.  “Mr. Monahan, welcome to Durango.  Your two cars are right outside in spaces seven and eight.  Here’re the contract and keys.  Do you need any directions?” 

“No, thank you.”  Monahan handed a set of keys to another agent as they walked out into the bright sunshine.  Twenty minutes later, the cars pulled into the fenced lot of the self-storage facility, drove past four aisles before turning between two rows of storage units.  They stopped halfway down, in front of number fifty-one.  The team of agents climbed out then turned expectantly to Monahan.

“Wait here.”  He walked to the end of the row of lockers and found the garbage can around the side.  He tipped the can over and found the key taped to the underside.  He jogged back to the locker.  “Let’s close off this row.” 

Two of the agents moved the cars, one to each end of the driveway, parking them sideways to block access to the aisle.  Another agent handed Monahan a pair of latex gloves.  He opened the locker’s garage door.  Inside was a dark green Ford Explorer with a mangled front end.  An agent with a video camera began to record the scene while two other agents opened the doors.  They heard noises in the back and opened the tailgate to find a bound and gagged man lying in back.  He struggled against his restraints. 

“Get him out now.  Check his condition and get him some water but keep him cuffed.”

As one agent tended to the man, another handed Monahan an envelope.

“This was on the front seat.”

Monahan’s name was written on the front.  He pulled out the hand-written note.

This is Joe Reed.  He is a former Secret Service Uniformed Officer who was fired for stealing from the White House and the First Family.  He and his partner were chasing us.  They knew we were alive.  I suspect that their contact was providing detailed updates on the investigation.  They were able to track us from Idaho to Colorado, probably by tracing stolen automobiles and ATM withdrawals.

You’ll find Reed’s partner in Cortez, CO, in a hangar at the abandoned airfield north of town.  He’s KIA. 

In the glove box, there are various IDs and weapons that these two were using. 

An agent handed Monahan two Zip-lock bags. 

“We found these inside, sir.”

Monahan held the bags up and examined them in the light.  One contained various shields and credentials for federal agents including, it appeared, the FBI.  He swore.  The second bag contained three handguns.  He turned to the young agent. 

“Put all of this in evidence bags.” 

Monahan turned to the prisoner.  “Are you Joe Reed?”

The man nodded.

“Mr. Reed.  You are under arrest for treason and for the attempted assassination of the president of the United States.”  Reed sagged and an agent pulled him up.  Monahan turned to another agent.  “Read him his Miranda rights.”

Monahan spent the next thirty minutes questioning Reed.  When he was done, he stepped outside and pondered his next move.  What Reed told him was chilling.  His contacts knew that the president and Agent Richter had survived the crash and had instructed Reed and his accomplice to track them down.  When Monahan asked him why, Reed shook his head, refusing to answer.

Monahan’s phone vibrated and he stepped away before answering.

“Hello.”

“Hello.  Where are you?”

“At the storage locker.”

“How is our friend?”

“Fine.  I’ve had a short conversation with him.  Obviously I would like some more time, but—”

“There’s no time.  How many seats are there on your plane?”

“Eight.  But I have four men with me, plus our friend.  That leaves two open seats,” Monahan added hopefully.

There was muffled conversation on the line. 

“Okay.  I want you to take our friend and fly to Amarillo, TX.  I’ll call you in two hours.”

“What’s the status?”

The transmission was garbled; her voice cut in and out. 

“What was that?” he asked.  He had to wait a few seconds for the reply.

“I said I can’t reach either of my men.”

He was confused.  “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.”

Shit!
  He cursed silently.  The more he analyzed it, the evidence pointed in one direction.  Despite all odds, it appeared that Kendall was alive.  And he was running. 

“Put every resource you have on this,” he ordered.  “You need to find him pretty damn quick.  And you need to end this!”

After he hung up, he sat back and considered the implications.  It now seemed more and more likely that Kendall was alive and running.  And now two of Jane’s men had disappeared.  Could they have been picked up by the police or the FBI?   If they had been, would Jane be able to get to them?  They needed to resolve that loose end quickly and then find Kendall.  He reached for the phone.  He knew someone at the CIA, someone he had placed there years ago.  Someone who, like Jane, had performed various delicate jobs for him in the past.  Someone, he knew, who could help clean up this mess. 

He hesitated.  It would be risky to bring in another player.  He put the phone down.  He would give Jane some time.     

Although tense, Richter didn’t let it show.  He checked his watch.

“Okay.  Bill and I need to go.  Are you okay here?”

Kendall nodded.  “We’ll be fine.” 

The motor home was well-equipped and comfortable, but for the last several hours there’d been nothing to do but wait.  After a while, it began to feel crowded.

“Derek, I need you outside for a moment.”  Richter grabbed a duffle bag on his way out.

Daniels and Derek followed.  They walked past several other travel trailers and motor homes to the picnic tables near the central fire pit.  Thankfully, all of the other campers had chosen to sit in front of their own fire pits and they were alone.

“I don’t like leaving him, but I don’t have a choice.”  Richter pulled out a fanny pack then turned to Derek.  “You said that you hunt, correct?”

Derek’s eyebrows went up.  “Yes.”

Speaking softly, Richter held up a fanny pack.  “This is a nine-millimeter pistol.  The magazine is full and there is a round chambered.  I’m also giving you a spare magazine.”  His face went dark for a second.  “Derek, I don’t want you to take this out unless you absolutely, and I mean absolutely, need to.  This is illegal, but I can’t leave him unprotected.  If something doesn’t seem right, I would rather that you take him and run before you use this.  Okay?” 

Derek nodded soberly.

Richter slid the pack across the table.  “Do you have the keys for the car?”

Derek patted his pocket.  “Right here.”

Richter patted him on the shoulder.  “Good.  I know I can trust you, Derek.”

Derek smiled briefly then caught himself, the stony look he had seen on Richter’s own face now reflected on his.  “Thanks, Matt” 

“I’ll call within two hours.  If I don’t for some reason, Bill will.  If you don’t hear from either of us by midnight, take Dave and run.”

“I won’t let you down.”

Vicky Jensen clicked the icon on her computer and the recording played again.  As she listened through her earphones, she studied the spectrogram on the screen.  The monitor showed a graphical depiction of the frequency and amplitude of the speaker’s voice over time, in this case a recording of a twenty-seven-second phone call.  The spectrogram essentially represented a voiceprint of the speaker, which, much like a fingerprint, was unique. 

Agent Jensen was an FBI “techie” and was considered an expert in voice printing.  But, unlike some of her peers who had advanced degrees in linguistics and sound-wave theory, her credentials were a training course eight or nine years ago taught by two FBI experts and a scientist from Bell Laboratories.  She learned the basic theory behind voice printing and identification and the law enforcement application of voiceprint analysis, its use in criminal investigations, and its admissibility in court cases.  The course had given Jensen enough information to be intrigued or, as one instructor put it, enough information to be dangerous.

She had analyzed many recordings over the ensuing years, and although she always reviewed the recordings and her analysis with one of her more learned colleagues, she had yet to be proven wrong.  This time though, Deputy Director Monahan had been very explicit that she perform the analysis herself without seeking a second opinion.  She had been an agent for fourteen years, more than enough time to understand that sometimes, even within the FBI, certain investigations were compartmentalized for a multitude of reasons.  In this case, the fact that she was analyzing phone calls made to and from a cell phone that belonged to the vice president was sufficiently dangerous that she clearly understood the logic behind Monahan’s instructions.  The fact that the wiretap and resulting recordings were obtained without a warrant, but under the guise of the Patriot Act was disconcerting by itself. 

The theory of voice identification was based on the premise that every individual’s voice was uniquely characteristic, sufficiently so to enable it to be distinguished from others through voiceprint analysis.  Every person’s voice was a unique pattern—a combination of pitch, tone, cadence, and harmonic level—driven by differences in not only their vocal cavities but in their teeth, tongue, lips, and palate. This could be viewed graphically in a spectrogram.

The advent of the digital age had brought with it very sophisticated computer software that significantly enhanced the field of voice printing and, at the same time, put it in the hands of more law enforcement professionals.  Over the last several years, the software had become Jensen’s second opinion.

After listening a third time, she then loaded another sound clip, this one a speech made by Vice President Rumson a week ago.  It was one minute twenty-four seconds long. 
That’s more than enough
, she thought.  She clicked her mouse again and, as she listened, the spectrogram displayed on her screen.

When the recording finished, she then clicked the compare button.  The program utilized a special algorithm to compare the two samples.  Two seconds later, she had her answer.

The RV Park was seven miles northwest of Amarillo International Airport, close to the highway.  Their site not only provided a view of the entrance, but was far enough away from the other campers to afford some privacy.  Earlier, after checking in, they drove to the airport and rented two cars, one in Bill’s name and one in Peggy’s. 

Now, as Richter drove one of the cars back to the airport, he quizzed Daniels once again.  By the time they approached the airport, Richter was satisfied.  He dropped Daniels off at a restaurant a mile away, then continued on to the TAC Air terminal.  TAC Air was an FBO, or fixed base operator providing services to private aircraft, located next to the main terminal.  As he pulled into the airport lot, he couldn’t help but notice that the flag was at half-mast.  He picked a parking spot with a clear view of the TAC Air terminal door.  Twenty minutes later, he saw a plane begin its landing approach.  He watched through binoculars and was able to read the tail number before the jet disappeared behind the terminal building.  They were right on time.

Five minutes later, Monahan exited the building and walked to one of the rental cars in the lot.  Moments later, he pulled out onto the access road.  Richter waited twenty seconds to see if anyone followed Monahan before he put the car in gear.  Traffic was light, and he was able to spot Monahan’s car several hundred yards ahead.  He punched the speed dial button and when Monahan answered, he instructed him to drive to a shopping center several miles away.  As Monahan pulled in, Richter drove past and pulled into the carwash next door.  He watched as Monahan parked.  After five minutes, and no sign of a tail, Richter dialed again.

“I want you to leave the shopping center and drive back to the airport.  Keep the phone line open.”

Richter let several cars pass before he pulled out and followed.  Several minutes later, Monahan stopped at a traffic light.  Richter was three cars back. 

“Pull into the restaurant on your right.  Keep the line open.”  With a second phone, Richter punched the speed dial button.  Daniels answered immediately.  “We’re here.”

Monahan parked, and Richter pulled in three spaces away.  Daniels exited the restaurant, spotted Richter’s car, and walked over.  Richter climbed out, scanned the parking lot again, and then approached Monahan’s car, his Secret Service credentials open in his hand. 

Richter climbed in the back.  Monahan looked in the rearview mirror and nodded. 

Richter nodded back.  “Are you armed?”

“No.  I followed your instructions.”

“Are your men still on the plane?”

“Yes.  Guarding Reed.” 

He studied Monahan in the mirror.  He was nervous, which was understandable, but he kept his hands on the steering wheel.  That was smart. 

“What’s the plan, Agent Richter?”

“We’re going to take a drive and have a chat.  Based on how that goes, I’ll tell you what our next steps are.”

An hour later, they pulled into the RV Park.  With Richter directing, Monahan drove up to the lone RV at the end of the row.  He parked and watched as a scruffy young man wearing a fanny pack stepped out of the motor home.  The man disappeared around the car then reappeared in Monahan’s side view mirror.  Another car parked two spaces away and a slightly overweight, older man stepped out.  He too wore a fanny pack. 

He caught Richter’s eyes in the mirror. 

“It would be a mistake to underestimate them, Mr. Monahan.”

Monahan nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Monahan climbed out and allowed Richter to search him, not that he had much choice.  Then, he was led up the steps, escorted inside, and told to sit at the table.  He took a deep breath.  He had been preparing himself for this moment since the phone call with Bill Daniels last night.  He was both excited and nervous.

Richter stood behind him.  “We’re ready.”

Monahan’s eyes went wide as the president stepped out of the rear bedroom. 

Frustrated, Rumson stood.  Minutes later, flanked by the Secret Service, he climbed into the limo.  He was still living in the Naval Observatory, having decided that it wouldn’t look good if he forced Kendall’s family to move out of the White House.  Not yet anyway.  As the motorcade pulled through the White House gate, he stared out the window at the lights of Washington.  He hadn’t heard back from Jane yet.  He would have to call her when he got home. 

The challenge was that there was a nation to run.  He had security briefings, Cabinet meetings, phone calls with foreign leaders, meetings with congressman and staffers and governors, and a myriad of other responsibilities that he had to focus on throughout the day.   The crash investigation, while still the number one priority, only occupied a portion of his time.  And on top of all of that, Jane and her people had to find Kendall.  What the bomb on the plane had failed to do, they now had to do themselves.  Kendall had to be shoved back into whatever hole he had crawled out of, along with whoever was helping him.  Rumson had to put all of this behind him, and he had to do it soon.

One of the signs of a leader, he knew, was how well he dealt with setbacks, with crisis, with problems that suddenly arose and threatened to unravel carefully crafted plans.  He again considered calling his CIA contact, but, once more, decided against it.  While things looked dire at the moment, he had faith in Jane.  She was resourceful.  She would find a way to resolve this.  She had never let him down. 

“Hi, Pat.”

Monahan tried to stand, but Richter pushed him back down. 

“Mr. President…Sir?  I’m at a loss for words.”

The president sat across from him.  “You understand the gravity of the situation I’m in, don’t you?”

“I do, sir.”

The president’s eyes narrowed as he studied the federal agent for a moment.  “Are you here to help me, Mr. Monahan?”

Monahan grimaced.  “Yes.  Of course, sir.”

The president smiled briefly.  “Good.  There’s one thing we need to clear up first.”  He paused, his eyes narrowing again.  “Agent Richter is calling the shots.  He’s in charge.  You and your men will not do anything without his knowledge or approval.  Understood?”

Monahan glanced at Richter then nodded again.  “Yes, sir.  I understand.”

The president smiled.  “Okay, then.  Agent Richter has some questions for you.”

Richter sat next to Monahan.  “Take us through the crash investigation, the evidence you’ve gathered over the last twenty-four hours, everything.”

Monahan told them about McKay and Mosby, about the body in Laredo and the briefcase, about the cell phone they discovered in the pickup with Mosby’s number and the bank account in Luxembourg.

Richter and the president exchanged a glance.

“Do you believe the Mexico angle?” Richter asked.

Monahan frowned.  “I did, but after listening to the phone calls, I’m wondering if all of that was just a plant.”  He described the calls they had recorded and told them that they were now monitoring the vice president’s cell phone, but, as of early this evening, there hadn’t been any additional calls made by or to that number. Then he described his interview with Reed.

“We haven’t picked up the body in Cortez yet,” he said at the end.

Richter nodded then changed gears.  “How quickly can you do a DNA analysis of blood and hair samples?”  He explained what he wanted.  “I want it witnessed by at least one other agent.  This way, no one can allege that the samples came from before the crash or were obtained from the bodies recovered from the crash.”

Monahan nodded.  “We should be able to confirm identity in a day, if I push it.”  

“Push it, Mr. Monahan.”

The security guard checked Monahan’s ID. 

“He’s an agent as well,” Monahan said, nodding toward Richter.

The guard nodded and opened the gate.  Monahan drove out onto the tarmac, directly up to the plane.  As they pulled up alongside the wing, the stairs descended and two agents climbed down.  Richter climbed out of the car and scanned the area.  It was shortly before 10:00 p.m.  Thankfully, there were no other planes or people about. 

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and nodded to the agents.  “He’s inside?”

The agents nodded back and, with Monahan trailing, Richter bounded up the steps.  In the back of the cabin sat a hooded man, his hands and legs cuffed.  Two FBI agents stepped out of the way.  Ignoring them, Richter walked up to the prisoner.  The man appeared to be sleeping.  Richter yanked off the hood.  Joe Reed blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the light.  When he saw Richter’s face, six inches from his own, his body stiffened and his eyes went wide. 

“You’re going to make another call for me, Reed.”

Jane didn’t recognize the number.  She hesitated for a second, debating whether to let the call go to voice mail, but on the fourth ring, she answered.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

She exploded in anger.  “Where the hell are you?”

“We ran into some problems.  My partner’s dead.”

“What?  How did that happen?”

“He had a heart attack.  I just left the hospital.”

“Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“I couldn’t.  My phone’s broken.”

“You’re a total fuck-up, Reed!”

“Look.  He collapsed and stopped breathing.  My phone was on the ground next to me.  I called 911 while I was performing CPR.  I think one of the paramedics stepped on it.  I bought a new phone as soon as I could.”

She mulled over the implications and her next steps.  Reed continued talking.

“He was dead on arrival.  It’s been hectic ever since.  I had to talk to the doctors and the police.”

“How did you identify yourself?”

“I didn’t use any law enforcement credentials if that’s what you mean.”

“What about your partner?”

“I took his creds and gun before the ambulance arrived.”

Jane digested this.  “Okay.  Are you still in Durango?”