The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  Both men have shoulder holsters.

  It’s as though a cold chunk of this Maine dirt has just sunk into her chest.

  “Cameron,” she says.

  “Yes, Professor Keating,” the student says, not looking up from the history being unearthed in front of her.

  “Something is going on,” she says. “Until I come back, you’re in charge.”

  Cameron lifts her head and Samantha walks out into the open sun, and the red-faced man holds out a leather wallet with a gold badge inside.

  “Mrs. Keating,” he gasps. “Detective Sergeant Frank Courtney, Maine State Police. You’ve got to come with us.”

  Matt, she instantly thinks, oh, Matt, what have they done to you?

  “Let me get my bag,” she says, and then the other officer’s voice freezes her in place.

  “Mrs. Keating, we don’t have time. We need to get you out of here,” he says.

  The briefest and most horrible of pauses.

  “Your daughter Mel has been kidnapped.”

  Chapter

  32

  Northwestern New Hampshire

  Mel is not sure how long she’s been in the basement cell, but it feels as though it’s been hours. She’s thirsty, hungry, and cold, and she’s untucked a blanket from the bed and has wrapped it around herself. She sits on the bed cross-legged, thinking and listening and looking.

  Not much to see. Earlier she explored the small room, and when the door was open, she noticed it has exterior hinges and is secured by a keypad. The bed, chair, table, and lamp are all securely fastened to the floor. The same with the chemical toilet. There’s no external power cord leading from the lamp, and the light cannot be turned off. At one point, Mel was tempted to shatter the lightbulb, make the sharp glass some sort of a weapon, but she quickly realized that it would plunge the room into utter darkness, and she shivers at that thought.

  She moves on the bed, still trying to think things through, trying not to remember—

  Tim’s funny way of imitating the host of The Daily Show.

  Tim sticking up for her that time in the African history class.

  Tim’s sweet habit, when they were sitting together at lunch or driving or hanging out and studying, of occasionally just reaching out and gently rubbing her neck.

  Not in an attempt to get her into bed or get her clothes off—no, just a sweet way of saying, Hey, I’m here, let me know if you need anything.

  She wipes at her eyes.

  Quiet.

  It’s too quiet.

  She gets up off the bed, stands on tiptoe, cocks her head to see if she can hear anything from upstairs.

  Nothing.

  No footsteps, no talking, no doors slamming.

  Her cell is pretty well insulated.

  She takes off her glasses because she knows from long experience that for some reason when she removes them, when her bad eyesight is given no corrective, her hearing skills seem to improve.

  But nothing changes.

  She can’t hear a thing.

  Mel sits down, takes stock. Her clothes, and that’s it. Her hiking boots were taken off back when she was bundled into the SUV, so there’s no chance of using the bootlaces to make some sort of garrote to strangle one of the two tangos—like that would happen.

  Thin gold necklace around her neck, a gift from Dad on her fourteenth birthday.

  And a gold ring on her right hand that once belonged to Mom’s grandmother.

  She gets up and goes around the room once again. No ventilation system so there’ll be no taking off a grille and crawling to freedom like in Die Hard or some other movie. A clicking noise, coming from the other side of the door. Mel moves to the bed but doesn’t sit down.

  No, she thinks, brushing away the tears from her eyes, her thoughts going to Tim again.

  She’s going to stand up to these two sons of bitches.

  The door opens and the older man comes in, followed by his companion. The older man is holding what looks to be a small video camera, and the other man holds out a newspaper.

  Both have pistols holstered at their sides.

  The older man says, “We will shortly provide you with a meal and water. But this meal comes at a price.”

  A quick outburst of Arabic, and the newspaper is thrust toward her, a copy of USA Today.

  Mel keeps her hands at her sides.

  The man with the video camera sighs. “This will be quick, and requires nothing on your part, save you hold out the newspaper to prove to your father that you are alive on this day. If you do not cooperate, then my cousin will…encourage you. It will be painful, and at the end, you will still hold up the newspaper.”

  His words, spoken so well and plainly, like an instructor gently explaining the difference between John Locke and Karl Marx, still hit her cold and hard.

  “Is that it?” she asks.

  He nods. “Yes. I won’t even ask you to speak. Just hold the newspaper for a few moments, and then we will leave, and then you will be fed.”

  She holds out her hand, takes the newspaper, and blinks back tears, then unfolds the paper and holds it under her chin.

  “Very good,” the man with the camera says, and he brings it closer and Mel feels her fingers begin to tremble.

  The paper is shaking.

  She’s ashamed and scared, and won’t this fool hurry up and finish and leave?

  “There,” he says, lowering the camera. He reaches over and takes the paper from her hands. “You will soon be fed.”

  “Lucky me,” she shoots back. “What’s on the menu? The two of you look like you couldn’t even use a microwave.”

  The older man says, “It will be satisfactory, I promise.”

  “And after that?”

  He moves to the door, his companion right beside him. “Up to your father and Allah. Soon he will receive this video and a message from me.”

  “What are you asking for?”

  He opens the door, smiling. “For something your father will never be able to provide.”

  The door starts to close, and Mel says, “Wait…just wait. Can I ask a favor?”

  The man stops in the doorway, pauses for a moment.

  “You may ask.”

  Mel points to him. “I’m…I’m afraid of guns. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is. The next time you or your friend come in, please, will you leave your guns behind?”

  The man smiles and nods.

  “No.”

  He and the other one pass through the opening, and the door is securely locked behind them.

  A few minutes later she’s back on her bed, cross-legged again, blanket over her cold shoulders, remembering and thinking.

  Remembering a time a few years back, when Dad became president and there were those weird couple of weeks when they moved into the White House, and there were meetings and tours and briefings, and there was one Secret Service agent—David Stahl—who pulled her aside and said, “Mel, you’re going to have 24/7 protection here and wherever you go, but there may be a time when there’s a mistake, a screwup, or an overwhelming assault. You might be on your own. Let’s talk about what you can do then.”

  That was an interesting meeting indeed, and while she was scared shitless at some of the things Agent Stahl said could happen, she was also proud that even though she was only a teenager he was treating her as an adult.

  She remembers everything he said.

  And now she’s thinking of what just happened, and how Mom and Dad are going to react when they see this video released later, and what that terrorist jerk is going to say and demand.

  Mel manages a smile.

  One thing, though, is that he seemed to accept what she said back then, that she was afraid of guns.

  That is bullshit.

  Dad taught her how to use firearms when she was in first grade, and since then she’s fired everything from a .22 Ruger pistol to a fully automatic M4 assault rifle.

  She knows that.

  But that jerk doesn�
��t know that.

  The little victory heartens her.

  Chapter

  33

  Lake Marie, New Hampshire

  Agent David Stahl looks pretty pissed and frustrated, and I don’t blame him. I’m proposing to violate every piece of procedure and training he’s learned over the years, and it’s my job in the next few seconds to break through that training.

  Trying to keep my voice on an even keel, I say, “If Mel’s been kidnapped, that means there’s going to be a ransom demand.”

  Part of me silently breaks out in prayer, thinking, Please please please let there be a ransom demand. Please let her be alive. Please, God, help me get my girl back.

  Because I know I have enemies out there with long memories, and right now, a ransom demand is our very best option.

  I won’t let myself imagine anything else.

  Stahl says, “Perhaps, Mr. President. Again, this might be a ruse, to get you moving and vulnerable, open to an attack.”

  I go on.

  “Perhaps. But if there’s a ransom demand, then the FBI and Homeland Security come in, along with every law enforcement agency in New England. Samantha and I need to know what’s going on, what the demand is, what options are out there. Am I right, David?”

  His lips are pressed together, his jaw is firm, and he nods. The other Secret Service agents in this safe room are doing their best to ignore us. What a change, what a difference. Last night I barbecued cheeseburgers and hot dogs for this crew, later did my best to beat them at poker, and now that cheery and happy crew has morphed into who they are really: trained men and women ready to kill to protect me.

  “That means meetings, phone calls, briefings, and videoconferences.” I move a hand around. “Which can’t happen in this concrete box. I need to get out of here, David, and now.”

  “But Mr. President, I—”

  I interrupt. “I’m not the president. Pamela Barnes is. I’m just the former POTUS, with no power, no influence, no responsibilities. You and everyone else here are sworn to protect me, and I can’t thank you enough. But I’m not going to sit here, wrapped in cotton, and wait.”

  “Sir, we’re getting other assets up here to safely transport you to a more secure location.”

  “How long will that take?” I ask. “We have a helicopter coming here, crewed by the FBI. Let the HRT team deploy, and with everyone departing the chopper, you and I and maybe another agent or two will slip aboard, and out.”

  His face is still stern-looking, and I’d hate to be under his supervision and called into his small office in my house for a reaming out.

  But one way or another, I’m getting out of here.

  We stare at each other.

  He breaks first. “Where would you go?”

  “Manchester Airport,” I say. “From there, Reagan National, and then the Saunders Hotel, over at Crystal City.”

  “Why the Saunders?” he asks.

  “My reelection campaign still has an office there, still wrapping up paperwork and other crap from the FEC. It’s already been vetted by your folks. It’s across the river from DC.”

  “How are you getting there?”

  I say, “I need my iPhone from the house.”

  Stahl shakes his head. “Can’t open that door, sir.”

  “Yes, you can,” I say. “Get the on-duty agent from the house to bring over my iPhone and my go bag, up in the first closet in my bedroom. I’ll make the necessary arrangements to secure a flight.”

  Another heavy few seconds pass. “This will mean my job,” he says.

  “I still have some friends in DC,” I say. “I’ll do my best to help you.”

  He stares, and without breaking eye contact with me, he says, “Nicole.”

  “David,” the agent at the comm console says.

  “Contact Emma,” he says. “Get Harbor’s iPhone and go bag over here.”

  “All right,” she says.

  My face relaxes some, and David’s expression seems to lighten as well. David says to Nicole, “Then contact the HRT. Once the team disembarks, they’re taking on two to the Manchester airport.”

  “All right,” she says.

  I nod.

  “All right,” I say.

  A tiny triumph, a tiny step toward finding my daughter, but I’ll take it.

  Chapter

  34

  Lake Marie, New Hampshire

  Six minutes later I’m in a corner of the safe room while my detail continues to work the phone and other communications systems. There’s a lot of calm talk, phones ringing, and more crackling radio messages. I scroll through my contacts list on my iPhone, furiously thinking and hoping, seeing what friends are out there.

  Truth is, there are not many.

  One thing I quickly learned in politics, and it was one hell of a learning curve indeed, is that there are very few people you meet who will become true friends. Most folks you meet in politics, no matter how open the smiles and how deep the compliments, just want you and your office. And when you’re out of office, they fade away.

  But a few stick around.

  There.

  Trask Floyd.

  Once in the teams like me, he found a second career as a Hollywood stuntman, and then a third career as a wealthy actor and movie director, and we became friends when I was a congressman and he needed help from the Texas Film Commission.

  The phone rings once, twice, and a young male voice answers, “Trask Floyd’s phone.”

  I say, “This is Matt Keating. I need to talk to Trask.”

  Once upon a time, my name would allow the famed White House switchboard to get me connected with nearly anyone on the planet with access to a telephone.

  But no longer.

  “Sorry, sir, he’s not available.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s setting up a shot, and we’re already behind schedule, so—”

  I find my command voice. “Son, you get Trask Floyd on the phone in the next sixty seconds or you’ll regret it for the next sixty years of your life. Go.”

  The phone goes silent.

  A few long seconds drag by.

  Mel, I think.

  Oh, Mel, where the hell are you? Who’s got you?

  The phone comes to life.

  “Matt,” Trask says. “I don’t know what you just said to Tommy, but he looks like someone just drained a quart of blood from him.”

  I say, “Where are you?”

  “Vasquez Rocks in California,” he says. “Getting ready to blow up shit and film same.”

  California, I think. Damn. I was hoping he’d be closer.

  I say, “I need your help.”

  “You got it, Matt.”

  Good old Trask. No questions, no demands, no inquiries.

  “What do you need?”

  “I need an aircraft at the Manchester airport in New Hampshire to fly me and a Secret Service agent to DC.”

  Trask says, “When do you need it?”

  “Five minutes ago.”

  “Shit,” Trask says.

  From my phone I can hear voices in the background on the other end. It’s sounding like people out there at his filming location want his attention.

  “Mr. Floyd—”

  “Trask, we’ve got to—”

  “We’re losing the sun—”

  “Hold on,” Trask says. He seems to hold the phone against his chest, and there’s a loud muffled stream of curses, and then he returns to the phone and says, “All right, you’ve got it.”

  I close my eyes in relief. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”

  “No,” he says. “I need to make some phone calls, and you need to do what you’ve got to do. God bless you, Mr. President. I’ve got your back.”

  Minutes later I hear the low hum of a nearby helicopter, the noise even penetrating the concrete, and I’m by the door, go bag in my hand, and Agent Stahl is standing next to me, also holding a black canvas bag. In his other hand he holds a SIG Sauer pis
tol.

  From the console Agent Washington says, “The Black Hawk’s on the ground.”

  The door is unlatched, and Agent Chin pulls it open. Agent Stahl goes out first and I’m right behind him, and in front of us, on the lawn going down to a sandy beach at the lake shoreline, a Black Hawk helicopter is on the ground, rotors still roaring.

  A line of black-clad, helmeted, and booted members of the FBI’s famed Hostage Rescue Team come out, and David and I run by them, heads bowed down from the heavy propeller rush, bits of gravel and dirt hammering at us.

  God, so many memories come back to me about boarding helicopters just like this, heading off to dangerous and desperate missions, but none, none are as desperate as this one.

  Agent Stahl gets into the helicopter first, helps me aboard, and a crew chief slides the side door closed, and we make our way to the webbed seats and sit down, me across from him.

  We both put on headsets though I have nothing to say as the Black Hawk lifts up over the forested peaks of this part of New Hampshire, and I look down, anger and fear pounding through me, thinking, Mel might be down there. Mel might be right below us.

  What to do?

  I shift my go bag so it’s within easy reach, knowing what’s in there: spare clothes, sneakers, water, energy bars, and cash.

  Among other things.

  As POTUS, the only weapons I ever came near belonged to the Secret Service or its CAT team.

  Yet in my go bag are a SIG Sauer 9mm P226 pistol and a disassembled Colt M4 automatic rifle, with a TAWS 32 thermal sight, and plenty of ammunition for both.

  I’m an ex-POTUS now.

  And I’m also a father who’s willing to go anywhere, and kill anyone involved, to get his daughter back.

  Chapter

  35

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  President Pamela Barnes is having her photo taken with a delegation from the Junior Chamber of Commerce, and she’s idly thinking about which face she’s using today. Throughout her career in politics, she’s secretly noted the different faces she uses for different occasions, from warm and gracious to angry and demanding, and in front of this young group, she’s wearing her interested yet very busy face.