Authors: L.D. Beyer
“Where were you exactly?”
“I was directly behind him, about ten feet away. There were agents on each side, maybe fifteen feet from me, and another six agents behind us. I was the closest.” He sighed. “Right before he did it, I saw his arms move, and something didn’t feel right. I took two steps forward, thinking he was ill or something. Suddenly, I was splattered with blood and he was falling.”
They sat silently.
“I read the review board’s report.” Hastings said after a moment. “Director Kroger shared it with me. I obviously can’t give you names, but several other agents are patients of mine as well.”
Richter nodded.
“After talking to witnesses and reviewing the security camera footage, the investigators determined that there was nothing any of you could have done. Not even you, Matthew.”
Maybe so
, Richter frowned. But why, then, didn’t he believe it?
“Are you too busy to say hi?”
David Kendall looked up. Maria was standing at the door to the Oval Office. He grinned and came around his desk.
“Never too busy for you.” He gave his wife a kiss. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“My, aren’t you formal?” Her smile was mischievous. “I stopped by to invite you to an early dinner.” Before the president could respond, she added, “I already checked with Arlene, and she says you’re free.”
The president grinned. “Well if Arlene says so, I guess I am. So what’s the occasion?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about the girls miss you and would like to have dinner with you tonight. They tell me you haven’t been home before nine o’clock for the last week. Of course I told them you were busy doing……what is it you do again? Oh, yeah, running the country or saving the free world or herding cats. Something silly like that. Right?”
He smiled and saluted his wife. “Message received loud and clear, boss. What time?”
“How does 5:30 sound?”
“I’ll definitely be there.”
“Well, just in case, the girls will be here at 5:30 on the dot to escort you upstairs.”
“So you’re resorting to strong-arm tactics, huh?”
“You bet I am.” She dismissed him with a flip of her hand. “Now go back to that cat thing.”
The president smiled as his wife left. He stood for a moment, thinking how lucky he was to have Maria and the girls. They were his anchor to reality. He had a tendency to become engrossed in his work. But his family always helped him regain his balance when they saw him leaning too much in one direction.
This was, by far, the most challenging job he’d ever had. Building a mutual fund powerhouse had been tough, but Kendall found that the federal government was in a league all its own. There seemed to be a very strong momentum that continued, administration after administration, Congress after Congress. It was a wonder that anything was ever accomplished. Special interest groups, weak campaign finance laws, and the outright support and acceptance of pork-stuffed bills had corrupted the legislative process. The executive branch was just as bad. It was a large, dysfunctional family, a bizarre combination of short-term political appointees and a much larger permanent staff. The former craved power and looked for every opportunity to flex their muscles, while the latter resisted any attempts to upset the status quo.
The team he had inherited from President Walters, with one or two exceptions, was good. They were making progress on some key initiatives, like the Global Free Trade Alliance, education reform, and the drug problem. But the rate of progress was agonizingly slow. President Walters had told him that some days it felt like he was trying to herd cats. After almost two years as vice president and several months in this office, he understood what Walters had meant.
He looked at his watch—three more hours herding cats, and then a quiet evening with the family.
He felt reenergized as he walked back to his desk.
Rumson’s office was located in the West Wing of the White House, next to the Chief of Staff’s, around the corner from the Oval Office. Historically, the vice president’s office had been located in the Eisenhower Office Building, formerly known as the Old Executive Office Building, next to the White House. That had changed when Dick Cheney became vice president. During the transition, Cheney had his office moved to the West Wing. He then proceeded to dramatically expand the power and control wielded by the office of the vice president, often making policy decisions on his own. After Cheney left office, many complained that the vice president’s role and influence had expanded too far. Now that he sat in the chair, Rumson thought that Cheney hadn’t gone far enough.
The intercom buzzed, interrupting his thoughts and, moments later, a troubled Phil Perry sat on the couch.
“I just learned,” Perry said softly, despite the closed door, “that the White House Counsel’s office is compiling a list of A players in the Republican Party.”
“Really?” Rumson asked as he joined Perry. “Any idea why?
“No. But I have my suspicions. What I do know is that the Counsel’s office has called the committee staff several times over the last three days asking for specific data on certain people. Based on the names, it looks like they’re preparing a profile of the party up-and-comers. Oh,” Perry added, “here’s the other thing. Linda Huff is the one asking. Linda herself, not one of her staff.”
“Shit.” Rumson sat forward. Linda Huff was the White House Counsel, and her responsibilities included vetting presidential appointments.
“What key positions are open?” Rumson rubbed his chin, thinking through the possibilities. “It’s not a Cabinet seat. Was the request specifically for lawyers or judges?”
Perry shook his head. “I thought of that. It’s not the Supreme Court or a federal judge, because the list includes non-lawyers. And you’re right. The Cabinet’s full.” Perry sat back, thinking, “Do you think anyone is planning on resigning?”
“I haven’t heard anything, and I’m pretty plugged into what’s going on. What about an ambassadorship?”
“My gut tells me no. That’s a good place to stick your enemies, as far away from Washington as possible. Not a party leader or a rising star.”
“You think he’s starting to fight back?
Perry let out a breath. “That’s my fear. I think we may have pushed him too far.”
Rumson was silent for a moment before he exploded.
“That son of a bitch!”
Richter smiled as the president walked by with his daughters: sixteen-year-old Angela on one arm and fourteen-year-old Michelle on the other. As they disappeared up the stairs, Stephanie Sartori joined him.
“Agent Sartori. Wipe that smile off your face. You’re a disgrace to the Secret Service.”
She swatted him in the arm. “Oh, stop. I saw you smiling too.”
“Yeah.” Richter laughed. “It is kind of cute. They’re a nice family. I hope this place doesn’t change that.”
“Why, Agent Richter. You’re turning red.” She could see that if he wasn’t before, he was now. She decided to let him off the hook. “Anyway, I know what you mean. This is the first family that I’ve worked with that seems to enjoy being together.”
“The first family? Or the first ‘First Family’?”
She swatted him playfully again. “Very funny. If you ever lose this job, you could do stand up.”
As she walked back to her station, Sartori once again felt like she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Over the last two months, she had found that her attraction to Matthew, which she had resisted at first, was growing. A romance between them would never work, not while both were assigned to the presidential detail. Not only could they both lose their jobs, but it could compromise the president’s security if both of them weren’t one hundred percent focused on their task.
Her ex-husband had never understood. Oh, there were some things she could never discuss, but even when she did share what she could, he had no way of comprehending what she did. Her day could vary from absolute boredom as she stood guard for hours at a time to an intense adrenaline rush as she responded to potential risks. She could be in four different cities in the course of one day. She could also, as part of a small team, manage the dynamics of a large, excited, and often volatile crowd. And there were an almost infinite number of scenarios, related dangers, and emotions in between. She had the highest level of security clearance and was routinely exposed to classified information. She had witnessed all sorts of personal failures by the politicians she had been charged to protect over the years. Unethical behavior like infidelity, lying, stealing, drug addiction, and obsession with pornography—it seemed to come with the territory. It seemed the higher some people climbed up the ladder of success, the less they believed that society’s rules applied to them. Unlike her former husband, Matthew did comprehend all of that. He lived it every day.
It was clear that Matthew was still fighting his demons from President Walters’ suicide. But she knew in her heart that she would feel the same way had she been on duty that day. She had wanted to say something to him, to let him know that she understood, but she couldn’t figure out how to say it without exposing how she felt about him.
And over the past two weeks, she had begun to suspect that Matthew might feel the same way about her. Which only made it worse.
It was eleven o’clock at night when they left the fundraiser for Louisiana Senator Ray Broussard. Broussard was facing a very tough reelection campaign and had been surprised when Phil Perry had called and told him that the vice president was a supporter. The vice president, Perry had said, would be happy to lend his assistance. The Senator had quickly accepted. Over the last few months, his approval rating had begun to plummet. His democratic opponent was hammering him in TV ads, and Broussard didn’t have the resources to fight back, at least not on the scale required. His opponent was distorting his record, finding ways to make him look bad with innuendos and allegations that were not truthful. Well, not completely anyway.
He was amazed. He had been struggling to raise money when Perry and the State’s Republican organization had, without much effort, organized a dinner for the movers and shakers in the Louisiana political and business communities, not to mention the old-money families that had grown cotton and sugar on plantations for generations. The night had been a tremendous success, and they had raised over three hundred thousand dollars. Vice President Rumson’s endorsement had been huge, and they were able to charge two thousand dollars a plate for the pleasure of listening to the vice president speak. And, this being New Orleans, the food had been superb.
“Mr. Vice President. I can’t thank you enough for this. The evening was amazing. I think you helped reenergize my campaign.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get a chance to return the favor someday.”
Broussard laughed as they said goodnight. As he walked to his hotel room, he pondered the vice president’s parting comment. Actually, it wasn’t the comment that was troubling but the look and tone that had accompanied it.
Phil Perry sat down on the couch in the vice president’s room. “Well, what do you think?”
“What? About Broussard? He’s an asshole! He would be dead in the water right now if we hadn’t helped him out!” Rumson sighed. “What an evening! All those inbred, Cajun dipshits with their prim and proper southern manners…..” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be useful to us at some point. It’s like putting money in the bank, Phil.”
Perry suppressed a smile. He had heard this lecture many times before.
I can go back at any time and make a withdrawal. When I ask for something, these fuckers will jump all over each other trying to help me.
“Any thoughts on the reelection?”
“Yeah. There’s only one option as far as I’m concerned.”
After a moment, Perry asked, “And what’s that?”
“It’s pretty obvious.” Rumson growled.
Perry waited; it wasn’t so obvious to him. He didn’t have to wait long.
“He’s got to go!” Rumson slammed his fist on the table.
The flower vase fell and shattered on the tile floor.
One week later, Rumson looked up from his newspaper as Agent C.J. Timmons, the head of his Secret Service detail, stepped into his study.
“Your niece is here.”
Rumson folded the newspaper and stood as the woman strode into the room.
“Hello, Uncle Tyler.” She gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then stepped back and took in the room. “I like your house.” Her eyes sparkled. “But how come it’s taken you so long to invite me?”
Rumson smiled. “I’ve been somewhat busy. But you know you’re always welcome.”
Rumson’s house was located on the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory in Washington, DC. Originally built for the observatory’s superintendent in 1893, it was taken over by the Chief of Naval Operations in 1923, when, after a visit, he decided the Queen Anne style house was more befitting a man of his stature than a mere superintendent. The Navy continued to use the mansion to house its Chief until 1974, when Congress, in an ironic turn of events, kicked the CNO out and the building was converted to the official residence of the vice president.
As Julie sat, Rumson offered refreshments. He wasn’t surprised when she asked for water. He had never known her to drink. He added a twist of lemon to her glass and prepared himself a scotch.
They sipped their drinks and made small talk. Although his wife wasn’t home, he expected her shortly. After twenty-nine years of marriage, she had learned never to disturb him when he was in his office. This, and the fact that Julie wasn’t really his niece, would likely lead to speculation by the household staff and the Secret Service that Julie was a dalliance for a man whose marriage, while cordial, was devoid of emotion. While that couldn’t be further from the truth, it suited Rumson for now.
He had met Julie’s father when she was fourteen. Her father had been a New Jersey State Trooper who had landed in trouble when it was alleged that he had “mishandled evidence,” a polite way of saying that some items he had been charged with protecting until they were needed for trial went missing. The fact that all of the items in question during Trooper Stapleton’s short tenure as head of the State Police evidence locker were deemed high value didn’t help. Nor did it help when several pieces of jewelry confiscated during the arrest of a suspected mobster were later discovered in a series of pawnshops owned by Trooper Stapleton’s neighbor. Rumson had intervened with the state attorney general, the charges were quietly dropped, and Trooper Stapleton was reassigned back to patrol duty.
Stapleton had been killed less than a month later, when he was shot twice in the face during a routine traffic stop on the Garden State Parkway. The crime had never been solved, but Rumson had seen to it that the trooper’s family was taken care of financially, including sending the trooper’s only child, Jane, to college. It wasn’t until she applied that Rumson learned her name was Julie, not Jane as he still called her. Jane was a nickname that had stuck when Julie, as a four-year-old on the first day of preschool, had combined her first initial with her misspelled middle name, Ann.
Julie’s mother had died seven years later of lung cancer, but not before seeing her daughter graduate from college. After graduation, Julie, like her father, had enlisted in the Army. All the while, she continued to hold a grudge against the New Jersey State Police and, as her Army record indicated, authority in general. Despite her occasional insubordination, she was honorably discharged three years later. She then joined a private security firm, again with the help of her uncle’s connections.
After almost twenty years, Julie still referred to Rumson as her uncle, as she had since her father’s death. Rumson considered Julie the daughter he never had.
He studied her for a few moments. As if she could read his mind, the sparkle was gone.
“Jane, I need your help.”