In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (2 page)

Strange bedfellows
, his wife had said when he told her he had chosen Tyler Rumson as his vice president.  He didn’t see it that way, at least not anymore; though he understood her initial reluctance.

Mere hours after he had assumed the presidency, in the chaos that had followed President Walters’ death, Phil Perry, the Chairman of the Republican National Committee, had called to ask who he intended to choose as vice president.  Kendall had been stunned by the question.  Perry told him that, under the Constitution, he had to appoint someone to fill the office he had so recently vacated and that, in order to preserve the line of succession, he had to do so soon.  He hadn’t considered this; not at the time anyway.  There were more pressing issues to contend with. 

Yet, Perry had been persistent, insisting that Kendall choose Tyler Rumson, claiming the New Jersey Senator was the only man for the job.  Kendall had worked with Perry during the last campaign and, although he had found him abrasive, the man had been effective in organizing the Republican machine behind the Walters-Kendall ticket. 

Kendall hadn’t acquiesced to Perry’s demands.  At least not right away.  He had taken a week to review other candidates and solicit the opinions of key advisors and party elders.  The line on Rumson was that he often resorted to strong-arm tactics to get his way.  A bull in a china shop was how one person described him.  But he had a good record in the Senate, got things done, and was able to raise considerable donations, which would be critical for an eventual reelection campaign. 

President Kendall had taken four more days to meet with six final candidates.  He had to admit that the meeting with Rumson had gone far better than he had expected.  Rumson had been professional, respectful—deferential even—and had an air of statesmanship that was impressive.  They discussed policy and, although they hadn’t agreed on several points, Rumson seemed to understand the issues at a detailed level and was able to take an informed position. 

It had been clear that the Republican Party supported Rumson.  And after the expedited background check found nothing negative, Kendall had made his decision.  He needed as much backing as he could get within both houses of Congress, and Rumson seemed to have a well-established network. 

The confirmation hearings had been quick, and Tyler Rumson had become Vice President of the United States. 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Something was wrong, Matthew Richter thought.  He watched as the smile on Humpty’s face began to fade.  Humpty looked sad, which puzzled Richter because he had never seen Humpty like this before.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

Richter tried to move, he knew he had to move, but his body refused to respond.  God! He felt like his limbs were stuck in cement.  He reached for Humpty, trying to grab onto something, anything. 

He watched in horror as Humpty tumbled past.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

It was almost comical, to see everyone running around, no one sure what to do, panic in their eyes.  It might have been funny, except that Humpty was bleeding.  No matter what Richter did, he couldn’t stop the bleeding.

The blood began to drip from the ceiling onto his bed.  He struggled to wipe the blood from his face, and when his eyes cleared he was staring at Humpty’s head.  The head turned and, suddenly, a lopsided, perverted grin began to form on what was left of Humpty’s face. 

I didn’t fall.  I jumped!

Richter awoke with a start.  It took him a moment to realize where he was.  He sat up, shivering.  The sheets were on the floor, and he was covered in a cold sweat.  He jumped out of bed and hurried from his room to escape the grisly scene in his head.  In the kitchen, he busied himself brewing a pot of coffee.  He was no psychiatrist, but it was obvious what the dream meant.  He didn’t need some pompous, high-priced shrink to explain it. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have done something to prevent what had happened on that chilly fall day two months before.  He had replayed the scene over and over in his mind to see if there was anything, any hint to what President Walters had been thinking, but he found nothing.

After an internal investigation, the Secret Service had ruled there was nothing the agents on the scene could have done to prevent the president from committing suicide.  Maybe one day Richter would be able to accept that, but that day seemed a long way off.  The investigation had turned up nothing concrete.  There was no suicide note.  The president’s health was excellent.  There had been no prior signs of depression or mental illness.  His approval rating was the envy of his predecessors.  His family and his closest advisors were at a complete loss.  The question of blackmail had come up, but no one was aware of any skeletons in the president’s closet.

As an agent assigned to the president’s security detail, Richter had to ignore politics and the constant stream of negative comments by the pundits, the columnists, and the president’s opponents.  His job was to protect the office of the presidency regardless of his personal feelings for the man occupying it at the time.  Nonetheless, there had been very few negative articles about the president throughout his campaign or during the short time he had held office.  While there had been one allegation of illegal campaign contributions and another of an illegitimate child, those had turned out to be false.  As it was, there was very little in the president’s past for the press and his opponents to sink their teeth into.  The blackmail theory didn’t make sense to Richter, but what else could it be?

The director had told him that if he requested a transfer, the Service would accommodate him.  None of the other agents on duty that day had taken the director up on his offer.  But, lately, Richter was thinking that working in the field again, maybe on the West Coast this time, would be a relief.  Maybe then his nightly torture would cease.

Matthew Richter was thirty years old and single.  He was a good-looking man who never seemed to be at a loss for female companionship, if he wanted it.  The trouble was he had never met a woman who was willing to take a backseat to his job.  That seemed to be the case with his current girlfriend, and he was beginning to wonder how much longer it would last.

In high school, he had watched a clip of the attempted assassination of President Ronald Reagan.  The images were powerful.  After the first shot rang out, the agents instantly formed a human shield around the president, forced him into his limo, and sped away.  Their quick reactions had saved his life.  Ever since that moment, Richter had known what he wanted to be when he grew up.

His high school guidance counselor had told him to aim higher.  But after Richter had insisted that this was what he was meant to do, they discussed how he might better prepare himself.   The counselor had told him that military service would improve his chances of landing his dream job.  He had also suggested that Richter consider studying business and computer science in college.  Besides guarding the president, he had explained, the Secret Service also investigated increasingly sophisticated crimes like counterfeiting and software piracy.  Finally, with a twinkle in his eye, he had recommended that Richter take up karate.  Although he knew the counselor had only been humoring him, he had taken the suggestions to heart.  After sixteen years, he still went to the dojo three times a week.

Right after high school, Richter had joined the Army, and after basic training, had been selected for the Army Ranger program.  Ranger school was brutal, but he had excelled.  He spent two years in the Army and four more in college before he joined the Secret Service.  He had been assigned to the White Plains, New York, field office where he learned the basics of investigative police work.  After five years there, with several high-profile arrests under his belt, he had requested a transfer to the presidential detail.  The Service ordinarily preferred that its agents spend more time in the field, honing their craft, before taking on one of the most stressful jobs in law enforcement.  But the Special Agent in Charge of the White Plains office was so impressed with Richter’s performance and potential that he continued to push the idea with headquarters.  One year ago, the promotion had been approved and Richter had packed up his meager possessions, bid goodbye to White Plains, and set out for Washington.

He sighed.  It was sad.  This was the only job he’d ever wanted, and now he was considering giving it up.

The president shook his head, frustrated.  In the two weeks since Duggan had resigned, they had narrowed the list of potential replacements down to two people.  He and Charles Howell were in favor of Carol Hettinger, a career diplomat and current ambassador to the United Nations.  Rumson favored Lyle Burdick, the former ambassador to Mexico.  The vice president believed that Hettinger would not be able to survive the confirmation hearings, pointing to a left-wing organization, United For Change, which she had supposedly belonged to in college. 

“She’s already explained that,” the president pointed out.  “She attended one meeting—just one—out of curiosity.  She never joined.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rumson responded.  “The only thing that people will remember is that six, seven years later, two officials from UFC were charged with voter fraud and that Hettinger was somehow connected to the group.”  He paused.  “That’s what the press and the Democratic spin machine will say.”

“So we’ll fight it,” the president said immediately.  “We’ll set the record straight.”  He paused, eyes steady on Rumson.  “You know she had nothing to do with that scandal.”

Rumson shook his head.  “That’s irrelevant.  All of the negative press is going to be a bone of contention with the Senate.  They’re not going to want to touch it.”  He shook his head again.  “Dave, you’re better off avoiding the fight.”

“Look,” the president said.  “Carol is a seasoned diplomat.  She’s been posted to half a dozen countries, including China, and has earned the respect of the folks over at State.”

Rumson frowned.  “I’m not debating her record.  Frankly, I agree with you on that point.  My concern is about her ability to survive the confirmation hearings and our ability to sell her to Congress.” 

They had debated for several more minutes when Rumson finally held up his hands in defense. 

“Look, if Carol’s your choice, I’ll support you.  But I think it’s a mistake.”

The president frowned.  He leaned forward, his gaze steady on Rumson.  “Tyler, I need you fully on board.”

Rumson held his hands up again.  “Dave, I’m behind you.  But I think part of my job is to tell you what I think.  And I think you and I might burn up a lot of political capital and, at the end of the day, still lose the fight.”

Rumson was probably right about one thing, Kendall concluded.  The press, the democratic minority in the senate, and even some in his own party might try to make a big deal of Hettinger’s college activities.  But it was a non-issue, the president knew, and one that was likely to die just as quickly as it surfaced.  And, he believed, on the heels of Walters’ death, he had unprecedented support within Congress and with the American public.  If he was going to push a controversial nomination—not that he believed this one would be—now was the time.

He studied Rumson for a moment before speaking.  “I want Carol, Tyler.  She’s the best person for the job.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Are you with me on this one?”  It was more of a demand than a question.

Rumson was silent for a moment before he nodded.  “Okay.  Okay.  I’m with you, Dave.  I’ll do whatever I can to support her.”

The president nodded.  Although relieved to have Rumson on his side, he was still frustrated, sensing there was something else driving the vice president’s reluctance.  While his argument, at first blush made sense, it was weak.  Trying to connect Hettinger to UFC was a stretch.  Even UFC, he remembered, had publically stated that Hettinger had never been a member.  Besides, Hettinger was the best person for the job.  Why didn’t Rumson see that?

He sighed.  Life was easier before he entered politics. 

Six years ago, he had been the president and chief executive officer of Montclair Capital, a large portfolio management firm based in Colorado Springs.  It was difficult to believe, but now here he was, sitting in the Oval Office. 

He had built the firm single-handedly, from one small mutual fund to a publicly held company managing eighteen funds with a combined market value in excess of fifty-two billion dollars.  Along the way, David Kendall had made a name for himself on both Wall Street and on Main Street.  After his wife’s battle with breast cancer, he had decided that twenty-eight years was enough and it was time to move on.  He sold his stake in the company to a large German investment bank.    

Several months later, he was invited onto a news talk show and asked for his opinion on some of the issues facing the country.  The looming collapse of the Social Security System was the current hot topic and, without any preparation, Kendall had provided some specific recommendations on what needed to be done immediately and in the longer term.  Much of his proposal was a combination of the better components of various ideas being tossed about, along with a few tweaks of his own.  He soon found himself a regular guest on a handful of shows.

It didn’t take long before an editorial in the Denver Times suggested that if he really wanted to fix the problem, he would have a much better chance working inside the system, as a member of Congress.  He had resisted the idea of running, then his wife’s doctors had given them the news they had been praying for—Maria’s cancer was in remission.  With Maria as his strongest supporter, eighteen months later, David Kendall became one of several dozen freshman senators taking the oath of office.  His knowledge of Social Security and his experience as a money manager landed him on a newly formed committee to study the problem.  They spent three years drafting a bill that ultimately resembled Kendall’s initial plan.  Being a freshman, he hadn’t been designated as the committee’s chairman, the position that typically received all the media attention.  Nonetheless, the resulting legislation became known as “The Kendall Act.”

Although it was too soon to tell whether the new law would fix the Social Security problem over the long term, his ability to get things done, and his obvious appeal to voters, didn’t go unnoticed.  The presidential primary race was heating up, and the man who would eventually win the Republican nomination, Governor Thomas Walters of Florida, began courting him.  Three weeks before the convention, he had invited Kendall to dinner and wasted no time in making his intentions clear.

“I want to show the American voter that the Walters Administration will be a ‘can do’ administration,” he had stated.  “The public is sick and tired of the gridlock in Washington.  Nothing ever seems to get done, and when we actually do something, it’s half-assed at best.  That’s why I like your Social Security plan.  You fix the problem once, and you fix it for good.”  Walters had paused, stared him in the eye.  “I want you to be my vice president, Dave.  I think the American people want you too.” 

Governor Walters had been persuasive.  Although Kendall was getting used to living under a microscope, with the press analyzing his every move, he wondered how his family would handle the intrusion.  Surprising him, they had brushed off his concerns. 

After Walters won the nomination, the polls showed overwhelming support for the Walters-Kendall ticket and they had maintained that lead all the way up to the election.

There were times when he wondered whether he had made the right decision when he’d said yes to Tom Walters two-and-a-half years ago.  Despite his family’s support, their lives had changed forever.  The constant presence of the media was stressful—as president, it was far more intrusive than it had been for the behind-the-scenes number-two man—but it was something his family had, somewhat reluctantly, come to accept.  And then there were the daily reminders that the world was a dangerous place, especially for the man living in the White House.  His interactions with the public were carefully orchestrated and limited.  There were times when he found himself staring out the windows of the second floor residence at the tourists and the occasional protestors in the distance on the other side of the fence.  The times he had ventured out beyond the gates had been behind the bulletproof glass of an armored limousine, with scores of Secret Service agents intent on keeping the public at a distance.  And each time, they had urged, if not insisted, that he wear a bulletproof vest.  He liked the agents assigned to him, and he knew they meant well.  Still, it was odd, he thought.  Never had he felt so exposed, where his every move was watched.  And yet, never had he felt so isolated.