Authors: L.D. Beyer
Richter moved along the rope line, all the while looking for the face that didn’t belong. It might be someone sweating profusely on a cold, winter day like today. Or a face in the middle of a sea of smiles; a pair of eyes that returned his own piercing stare. Such was the life of an agent on protective detail, where a stony mask was often a more effective weapon than the gun he carried.
Wearing a pair of Ray-Bans, Richter scanned the crowd. Although many misunderstood the Secret Service’s fondness for shades, they allowed an agent to appear as if he was looking directly at several people at the same time.
Like most agents, Richter believed the mere presence of the president’s security detail, with their cold, hard stares and the subtle display of weaponry, probably scared off many a would-be assassin. Of course, the large number of uniformed cops who lent assistance to the Service and the sheer size of the motorcade created the image of an impenetrable fortress. And that was just the way the Service wanted it.
The Service spent a considerable sum of money determining the psychological profiles of would-be assassins. Most attempts on the president’s life were the work of lone gunmen, deviants with one or two screws loose who, after a lifetime of being ignored by society, were looking to secure their fame in one brilliant moment. Or the David Berkowitz types, so out of touch with reality that a neighbor’s dog became their connection to the world. John Hinkley, Squeaky Fromme, they each fit the profile.
After watching the Zapruder film, the uncut version that the public never saw, Richter concluded, like most agents, that even Lee Harvey Oswald was another lone psycho seeking to right what was wrong in his own little world. And that was the threat that worried him the most.
President Kendall stepped off the stage to the cheers of the crowd. With the Lincoln Memorial behind him and the Washington Monument in the distance, his address had been a fitting tribute to two great men on Presidents’ Day. Like his predecessors, Kendall always took the opportunity to “press the flesh,” but nothing made the agents protecting him more nervous than when POTUS wandered amongst the crowd.
Richter was a step behind the president, Brad Lansing a step ahead, Agent Sartori right behind. She carried the Fast Action Gun Bag, which agents referred to, in a rare breach of political correctness, as the Fag Bag. The Fag Bag appeared to be an ordinary laptop computer case, but inside was an Israeli-manufactured Uzi submachine gun. As the name implied, the agent was able to deploy the weapon with incredible speed.
Like many professional athletes, Richter found that when he was “working the man,” escorting the president through the crowd, he was in “the zone.” His eyes shifted from face to hand, always on the alert for the hand that darted out, always expecting to hear his earpiece scream, “Gun left!” or “Gun right!” He usually was able to tune out the distractions, the background noise, the day-to-day problems that weighed on him. Usually.
Richter watched as the president exchanged a few words with an excited group of school children and their teachers. Suddenly there was a flash and a loud pop. Richter lunged forward, grabbing Kendall’s arm.
“Gun!” He yelled into his sleeve.
The crowd flinched, stepping back, confusion and fear in their eyes. President Kendall, confused himself, began to turn.
With one arm circling the president’s waist, Richter pushed Kendall’s head forward, bending him over, making him a smaller target and hiding him in the crowd. Pushing an aide out of the way, Richter began moving Kendall away as the protective detail converged on them.
After several seconds, with agents shouting and nervously scanning the crowd, Richter realized his mistake. Unfortunately, it was all captured on national television.
“A little exciting out there today, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Richter?”
Sitting in the back of the limo for the short ride back to the White House, Matthew Richter glanced over at the president.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Richter felt his face flush. Again.
The president reached over and patted his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. Just a false alarm. I’m alive, right?”
Richter sighed. At least the president was forgiving, but Richter knew that for the next few weeks, he would have to endure the jokes from the other agents. All because he jumped at the sound of a truck backfiring. The camera flash didn’t help. In hindsight, Richter realized that he remained on edge, still plagued by feelings of failure and the images that came to him at night. Lately, though, the dreams hadn’t been as bad—his sessions with Dr. Hastings, as painful as they sometimes were, had made a difference. However, despite the doctor, and despite his evening regimen of brutally exhausting workouts, he still woke frequently, anxious and nervous. The lack of sleep was taking its toll.
His last vacation was…what? Richter wondered. Seven weeks ago, he remembered. Jesus, he felt like he needed another one already.
As if reading his mind, the president reached over and squeezed his shoulder again.
After filing an Incident Report and being debriefed by Keith O’Rourke, Richter finished his day in relative peace, standing watch outside the Cabinet Room and then the Oval Office. He knew he would have to meet with the review board, but O’Rourke told him that it could wait a day or two. Brad Lansing had been supportive as well.
“Hey, listen. Although the president’s handlers are pissed, I’d much rather have you err on the side of caution then not react at all. Our job is to keep the man alive and you showed that we take that charge seriously.” Lansing had smiled. “And frankly, the Big Man likes you, so don’t lose too much sleep over it.”
At the end of his shift, Richter clocked out in the command center then walked through the lobby, passing through the doors into the foyer. He waved to the uniformed agents manning the metal detector and stepped out into the frigid air. He took two steps when there was a loud pop behind him. He spun, reaching for his gun, only to find Cal Mosby, laughing, the remains of a burst balloon in his hand.
It took a therapy session and several difficult nights before Richter began to put the incident behind him. Late one evening, after his shift, he stepped onto the metro platform. The First Family had dined out at a small restaurant in Georgetown and it was ten o’clock at night when he left the White House. His eyes scanned the station, noting each person. Without thinking about it, he subconsciously assessed the risk, in this case not to his principal, but to himself. He had never had any trouble in the Metro, DC’s subway system. His bearing, his situational awareness, and his physical presence were usually more than enough to convince any would-be assailant to bypass him for an easier mark. But there were times, like now, when he just wanted to turn it off.
He walked to the end of the platform and stood by the pillar, waiting for the next train. He let his mind wander, trying to decompress after the long day. As he contemplated the upcoming weekend, his first off in a month, he heard a shout on the other end of the platform. He stepped from behind the pillar and saw a young woman, her back to him, fending off two men. Alarm bells ringing in his head, Richter started running, unbuttoning his coat along the way. Suddenly, one of the men pulled a knife and lunged at the woman. Richter drew his gun and shouted. The woman sidestepped the man’s thrust and grabbed his arm, twisting it to an unnatural angle until he dropped the knife and fell to his knee. She struck him once in the face and he went down. The second man hesitated, saw Richter charging, then turned and bounded up the steps. Richter got there just as the second assailant disappeared up the stairs. He pointed his gun at the man on the ground.
“Police! Put your hands behind your head! Now!” The assailant, writhing in pain, rolled on his belly and put his uninjured arm behind his head. Richter turned to the woman. “Ma’am, are you all right?” He did a double take when she smiled. “Stephanie?”
“Agent Richter. Thank you for coming to my rescue. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Before he could answer, the sound of rapid footsteps came from the stairwell. Sartori pulled out her Secret Service credentials. Two uniformed Metro cops ran into the station, their guns drawn.
“Federal agents!” Richter yelled, his weapon still pointed at the assailant on the ground. The cops slowed, their eyes darting from one agent to the other. One cop stopped twenty feet away, while the second moved around to the side. Their guns were angled down, but they were clearly tense.
“What’s going on?”
“Attempted assault.” Richter, maintaining eye contact, spoke slowly and clearly. “I’m going to holster my weapon and cuff him. I need you guys to cover.”
Three minutes later, the young thug was being led up the stairs by a second pair of uniformed officers.
“You both need to come down to the station and make a statement.”
Richter sighed.
There go my plans for a workout.
They were interviewed separately and both positively identified the second assailant, who had been arrested several blocks from the station. An hour and a half later, they were told that they were no longer needed. Richter called the incident into the Secret Service Command Center at the White House while Sartori asked the sergeant to forward a copy of the report.
As they left the police station, Sartori sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I ruined all of your fun. Big federal agent tries to break up a purse snatching only to find that the assailant has already been subdued by the intended victim.” She patted his arm and smiled. “I am so sorry.”
“I was going to say the same to you. I’m sure you wanted to beat the crap out of those two. You probably would have if I hadn’t shown up.”
“Well then, you can make it up to me and buy me dinner.” She made a show of checking her watch. “My date probably gave up on me by now.”
Richter laughed. “Oh, I’m sure. But what the heck. I’ll buy.”
By the time he got back to his apartment, it was after two in the morning and, although they had only eaten burgers at a nearby bar, he realized that he had enjoyed the time with Stephanie.
Once McKay made his decision, he surprised himself by how quickly he shifted to the logistics of what he had to do. He was, after all, a survivor. He would find a way to do what Jane wanted and, somehow, still come out on top. He needed to focus on it, to think it through. There was always a solution if he took the time to look for it. If he could get his hands on the right supplies, it was possible. The big issue was what he did after. Well, he thought, he had two more days to come up with a plan before he would see Jane again.
They met in a large park and walked in silence to the middle of a soccer field. Despite the cold morning, a group of kids was playing flag football two fields away. Other than that, they were alone.
“You were very well behaved this week.” Jane gave him a playful smile as she put her hands on his chest and feigned surprise.
“Have you been working out?” She let her hands play over his chest for a second, then the smile vanished.
“What I want to know, Frank, is…” she paused, “…are you on board or not?”
It was scary how she could turn it on and off. The woman was either mentally unbalanced, he realized, or very good at what she did. She had the resources and means to watch him, and probably a lot more. But she also needed him.
Two can play this game
, he thought. He let his anger show.
“Why don’t you drop the psycho shit? Okay, Jane? Or whatever the hell your name is.”
Her smile returned. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
She was very, very good. But he was prepared.
“There are some conditions that we need to discuss first.”
“My, my, my, Frank. Did you get your balls back?”
McKay ignored the jab.
“What do you want?”
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Jane studied the list. It was cryptic but she had no problem translating.
“So, you want a safe place to hide for a while, stocked with food and supplies. You want a new identity. And a way out of the country.” She looked up.
“Those are the big items. I’ll also need your help in obtaining the materials I’ll need.”
“We have to trust you. Is that it?” Her sarcasm was obvious.
“Yes. Just as I have to trust you. It can’t work any other way.”
She considered this for a moment. “Okay. Let’s assume that we agree to your requests. How soon can you do this?” She was matter-of-fact, as if she were negotiating to have her house painted.
“It depends on how quickly you can get me what I need. Then probably a month or two to finalize the plan. And, of course,” McKay added, “the final date depends on his schedule.”
“Okay, Frank. I’ll get back to you. Tomorrow.” Jane smiled again and kissed McKay on the cheek. “Now walk me back to my car, my big muscle man. You know some of these parks aren’t too safe for a girl.”
McKay didn’t move. “There’s one other thing.” He paused and matched her stare. “I want five million dollars.”
Once again, he was surprised at her reaction. She neither smiled nor threatened. Her face was neutral.
“Let’s talk tomorrow.”
They met again, the following morning, in a park in Alexandria, Virginia. Once again they chose an open field.
Jane studied him for a minute. “So you plan to be on board? How do you plan on escaping?” The tone was casual as if they were discussing the weather.
McKay’s response was curt. “Let me worry about that.”
There was an empty playground on one side and, on the other, two teenagers tossed a Frisbee back and forth. One of the kids yelled, and McKay and Jane turned to watch as the cold wind caught the Frisbee and it flew off course.
“We will meet your demands. Half up front and the other half after you complete your assignment.”
McKay nodded. He had thought through several possible answers she might give him and had rehearsed various responses. He needed to show her that he was in control. Well, not in control exactly, but that he was….what? A formidable competitor? Regardless, her response told him they were serious. Jane, he reminded himself, was a hired gun.
“In exchange,” she continued, “we have one additional requirement.”
McKay waited.
“We want you to take on an associate. A partner if you will.”
He had not expected this but was able to mask his surprise. One of her weapons, he had realized, was to try and keep him off balance. Sudden personality changes, shifts in direction, new demands were all part of her approach to keep him under her control. He knew that now and was prepared.
“What type of partner?”
“Someone to help you get the supplies you need. Someone to act as facilitator. Someone to protect our investment.”
“Who?” McKay stood defiantly, arms folded across his chest.
Jane smiled. “Well, why don’t we go meet him right now?”
Jane made a quick phone call. When she hung up, she hooked her arm through his and they started to walk towards the deserted playground. She made small talk along the way. McKay’s mind was racing and he tuned it out.
Abruptly, Jane stepped in front of him.
“Why, Frank. You’re ignoring me.”
McKay was about to respond when she looked past him, her eyes twinkling.
“Cal! What are you doing here?”
McKay turned and was hit by a sudden wave of panic as he stared into the face of Agent Cal Mosby.
When he thought about it later, McKay realized that he had missed the obvious clues. He remembered the flood of panic, certain that he was about to be arrested. All the clandestine meetings with Jane were a charade. She had set him up, and now he was going to jail. In the silence that followed, however, Mosby just stood there, looking awkward—no different, McKay realized, from himself. Jane’s smile had been as bright as ever as she looked back and forth between them. When she spoke, her tone was conspiratorial, as if they were sharing a secret.
“I believe you two know each other.”
He and Mosby stood there like fools, while Jane seemed to enjoy the moment.
It was clear that she was in charge.