Faraj Al-Asheed comes closer to the weeping little baby girl and thinks, What a spoiled brat, what a fool. Her entire pleasured life is ahead of her and she cries like someone who has lost a dolly. Her life has been pampered and safe, no worries of missed meals or thirst or ragged clothes or the sudden explosion of a bomb falling from the sky.
And for him? Once, years ago, Faraj had a chance to escape the squabbling militias and tribes around Tripoli, and he went to Paris and through luck and connections actually spent two semesters on scholarship at film school, at the École Internationale de Création Audiovisuelle et de Réalisation, learning filmmaking and special effects and wanting to create movies and—
Faraj says, “Stop crying, little girl. Your—”
She stands up and tosses some liquid in his eyes, burning them.
Mel yells, “I’m not a little girl!” as she tosses the foul liquid in the red plastic cup, a mixture of the chemical fluid in the toilet and—ugh!—her own pee, at the creep’s face, but the stuff works, as the man yelps and drops the tray and stumbles back. Mel doesn’t hesitate and tosses a hard kick right into the kidnapper’s crotch.
He yelps something sharp in Arabic, doubles over, and Mel tugs the 9mm pistol out of his holster.
“Don’t move!” she yells as she tries to go around him to that beautiful open door, but the jerk moves forward, trying to block her.
I warned you, she thinks as she pulls the hammer back on the pistol and smoothly and quickly pulls the trigger.
Chapter
45
Northwestern New Hampshire
The click of the hammer snapping down on the pistol stuns Mel, and with practiced ease, from many trips to the range with her dad, she quickly works the action of the pistol, trying to clear any possible jam, and once again—
Click.
Faraj stands up, grinning, eyes half closed, and he tugs at the hem of his flannel shirt, brings it up to wipe at his eyes, and Mel throws the useless pistol at that smiling bastard, slips past his hands, and—
Bumps right into Asim Al-Asheed.
He seizes her throat with a strong right hand, starts squeezing.
Mel can’t breathe.
Can’t scream.
She flails at his arms and strong chest and face, and he comes back into her cell, pushes her down on the bed.
Mel gasps, chokes, and brings her hands up to her pained throat.
A bout of coughing doubles her over, and the fake tears from earlier are replaced by real ones.
Asim stands over her and, in a slow and menacing tone, says, “Stupid child, do you really think I would allow my cousin in here with a loaded weapon? Do you?”
Faraj is standing next to Asim, smiling though his eyes are reddened.
Asim says, “We know so much about you, how you were raised, how you were taught. We know you are not uncomfortable around firearms. We know you lied earlier. Having my cousin appear to be armed was a…ploy. Yes, a ploy, to give you hope, to make you feel like you had a chance, and it worked. Now you know, Mel Keating, deep within everything inside of you, that you cannot escape, that you will never escape, and that you belong to us, in life or death.”
The tears come quicker, and Mel has to look away.
“Forever,” he says.
Asim says a few words in Arabic and Faraj returns with a metal folding chair. Asim sits down, giving Mel Keating a good steady look. He is pleased at how well everything has proceeded, pleased at how well his plan has worked out. At some point she was going to try to grab Faraj’s pistol and escape. He’s just a bit surprised at how quickly she has done it.
Mel stops weeping, takes her glasses off, rubs at her eyes, and then stares at Asim.
Not with fear.
Or sadness.
But with defiance.
Seeing this young girl’s determined face stabs at him, reminds him of his oldest daughter, Amina, who is—was!—nearly this girl’s age. There is nothing the same about them, from their hair to their complexions, but the fierceness in their eyes…Amina was a good daughter, and always one to obey her mother and help in the kitchen and with the laundry, but there was always a simmering defiance in those eyes.
Like in those of this young lady in front of him, in his possession.
Asim says, “Why do you think you are here?”
Mel folds her arms. “You like blond chicks?”
He restrains himself, for hearing those words makes him want to slap that face hard, leave a bruise on a cheek, a split lip, blood trickling down.
Asim says, “Because you’re a prisoner of war, that is why. A war that has been going on for centuries.”
Mel shrugs. “What, you’re going to give me a lecture on the clash of civilizations, West versus East, Islam versus Christianity? The works of Samuel Huntington, pro and con? Please. I’ve heard it before, from professionals who know a hell of a lot more about it than you.”
Asim clenches his fists. “Academics. Weak men. Book learners. I knew them well when I was your age and was at university, before jihad called me away. What do they know about war?”
“War?” the president’s daughter snaps back. “Some war you’ve got there. Beheading innocents. Blowing up shopping malls. Taking a machine gun out and shooting up a street in Paris. I’m sure years from now poets will be singing the praises of your courage, facing the unarmed and the crying children.”
“What do you know of war?” he says, struggling to keep his voice even.
“Plenty,” she says. “Or have you already forgotten who my dad is, and what he did before becoming a congressman?”
“Your father,” Asim spits out. “You talk about brave warriors. He and his ilk, heavily armed, connected to the Internet, being able to view a battleground thanks to your satellites and surveillance drones…what chance do any warriors such as myself have against such overwhelming technology and arms?”
The young girl with the reddened eyes doesn’t waver. “Setting fire to a day care center, killing children who barely know how to walk and speak. That’s some warrior.”
Asim says, “Yes, as grim as it is, it is a warrior’s action. Look to yourself, look to your father, when he was president. When a drone is fired and misses a target, and obliterates a wedding party, how long do you mourn for the innocents, how much do you demand an investigation into what happened? Or if a scared American soldier in a foreign land faces an approaching van that doesn’t stop in time, and he machine-guns the father and mother and children inside, how much do you care? No, Mel Keating, you and the rest of your people just shrug your shoulders, go to your cell phone screens, and don’t pay it any attention.”
She starts to reply, but Asim talks over her, waving a hand about the concrete cell. “Such a rich, fortunate, fat, corrupt, and godless country. How would you feel, how would you react, Mel Keating, if these lands were so rich yet so weak that powers from abroad felt free to roam this land with ease, installing and deposing your state governors at will, killing civilians all in the name of what they feel is holy? How would you feel?”
There’s a waver in her previously strong eyes. Asim feels that finally he is penetrating her smug assurance.
He says, “I’ll tell you how you would feel. You would feel oppressed, ground down, and you and your fellow people would take up arms to force these foreigners from your lands. No matter the cost, no matter the blood spilt.”
Mel clears her throat. “That’s just a simple explanation. That’s all.”
Asim gets up. “You and your people should have followed the philosophy of your sixth president. He was a wise man.”
Mel doesn’t say anything.
Asim smiles. “Confused, young girl? You dare to lecture me on my history and beliefs, and yet the mention of your sixth president leaves you clueless? I will help you. He was John Quincy Adams, and he once said, ‘Americans should not go abroad to slay dragons they do not understand in the name of spreading democracy.’ Understand now? You have traveled and reached a
cross the globe to slay dragons. Don’t be surprised when the dragons return the favor.”
Mel squeezes her arms tighter. Asim says, “Consider yourself fortunate. At any other place or time, a captor who had attacked my cousin would have been severely punished…in a creative and bloody way. But for you, Mel Keating, the president’s daughter, my only punishment is this.”
He gestures to the floor, where the spilt food and paper plate and plasticware are scattered. “Here is your evening meal. You will have to eat off the floor, like so many people displaced by your government are forced to do.”
Asim turns and walks away, and Mel says, “Please…you said something before. What did you mean? About keeping me…forever. Why did you say that? Didn’t you make a ransom demand? Won’t you…let me go if the demand is met?”
He types in the keypad code that unlocks the door, turns to her with a wide smile. “You are an educated young lady. I’m sure you’ll figure out what forever means.”
Chapter
46
Saunders Hotel
Arlington, Virginia
Thanks to the efforts of my highly skilled and somewhat scary chief of staff, Madeline Perry, my wife, Samantha, and I are keeping watch in the second connected suite at the Saunders Hotel. The room is cluttered with barely touched room service trays of food, CNN is on the TV with the volume turned down, and Samantha is on one of the two beds, curled up, watching silently as the correspondents and experts on the screen talk to each other and the millions of people watching.
I turned down the volume about a half hour ago, after some alleged “expert” on hostage taking and kidnapping smugly said that in all likelihood, our daughter was already dead, and Samantha cried out and it was a race between me and Agent Stahl to turn down the damn TV.
I kept my mouth shut, but I made a note of the man’s name, knowing that somehow, somewhere, he and I would have an interesting meeting one of these days.
I’m pacing around the large suite like the proverbial caged animal, and it’s the damn helplessness that’s killing me. When I was in the teams, there was training, planning, more training, and then execution. As a congressman, vice president, and then POTUS, I at least had the illusion that I could make decisions and choices, and most times, they were followed through with as they filtered down through the bureaucracy.
Now?
I’m dependent on other people for the safety of my daughter, and I’m hating every dark and frightening second. I see my go bag in the corner and nearly laugh at the pathetic black canvas case. Inside are weapons and ammunition, ready for…what? To fly back to New Hampshire and blindly go into the woods and start hunting?
I can hear phones ringing and muffled voices from the other attached suite, where Madeline Perry is keeping a tight control on matters, and I need to continue to trust her. She will come in here if there’s a development or if a decision has to be made.
I look to my wife. Her eyes are closed. She seems to be dozing.
Agent Stahl is working on a laptop.
Me?
Apparently useless.
I let a second or two pass, and then whisper, “Man up, buttercup.”
If any of my past team members could magically be here, they would be shocked at what I’m doing.
Which is nothing.
The drapes are pulled, and I look over at the screen, and CNN is broadcasting a shot of traffic backing up at some checkpoint on a rural road in New Hampshire.
Time to change that equation.
I go to a corner of the large suite where there’s a work area with a table and chairs, and I take out my iPhone and get to work.
First call is to Sarah Palumbo, the deputy national security advisor for the National Security Council, who warned me hours and a lifetime ago about the President’s Daily Brief that indicated I was the target of increased terrorist chatter and interest.
Sure.
Like many intelligence analyses, it was generally accurate but not specific enough.
They were coming for me, all right.
By kidnapping Mel.
The phone rings once, then rings and rings and goes to voicemail.
“This is Palumbo,” says the familiar voice. “You know the drill.”
I say, “Sarah, Matt Keating here…please call me back when you can. Thanks.”
I disconnect the call.
Who next?
I could call others I know in DC law enforcement and the military who are going all out in trying to find Mel, but what would I accomplish, except for distracting them from their work? And maybe angering President Barnes and her people at a time when I can’t afford to do that?
Time to go overseas.
I check the time, surprised to see we’re now in the morning hours.
But I really shouldn’t be surprised. When I was with the teams, in the middle of planning or conducting an op, I could easily get by on four hours of sleep a day, and Lord knows I’m in the middle of one right now.
I have two calls to make and decide to make the hard one first.
As a congressman, vice president, and president, I met scores of foreign leaders, military and intelligence personnel, and assorted aides and advisors to the same. Most I met for a grip and grin in my office, or later the Oval Office, and that’s it, but sometimes there’s a connection, a quick realization that you could do business with this man or woman in a foreign government who knows matters and knows how to get things done.
That leads to back channels, unofficial lines of communication, and negotiations with men and women you trust aren’t bullshitting you.
Like the man I’m dialing right now.
The phone rings once and is picked up. “Yes?”
I’m dreading this call, but I have to admit, I’m happy it was answered.
“Ahmad? It’s Matt Keating.”
A sigh from the other end of the call, somewhere in either the deserts or the air-conditioned high-rises of Saudi Arabia.
“Ah, Matt, my sympathies,” Ahmad says in his cultured voice with a hint of a British accent. “You know I give my best wishes to you and Samantha for the safe release of Melanie.”
“Thank you,” I say.
For a few seconds, time passes slowly as Ahmad, also known as Major General Ahmad Bin Nayef, former deputy director of the General Intelligence Directorate of Saudi Arabia, makes me wait. Some years ago, when I was a simple congressman from Texas, I heard that one of Ahmad’s sons, receiving flight training at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita County, was getting more than the usual hazing as the clichéd furriner.
I put an end to that nonsense with one phone call to the base commandant and another to the secretary of the Air Force.
“Ahmad, please,” I say. “I’m looking for any help you and your associates can give us.”
“Us meaning you, Matt, or us meaning the United States?”
I clench my iPhone harder. “Whichever can get my daughter back.”
“Ah, well, that’s posing a difficulty, as I’m sure you know,” he says. “President Barnes and her secretary of state are not particularly liked in the Kingdom. Their insistence that we change our government and way of life to what is seen in your Palm Beach County has not been well received. The CIA station chief and our FBI liaison have officially asked for our assistance, but many here in Riyadh have long memories and insulted pride. I’m sorry to say, that will impact just how far we will go.”
I close my eyes, rub at them. As that wily old Henry Kissinger once said, “America has no permanent friends or enemies, only interests.” And since FDR agreed back in 1945 to provide military assistance to Saudi Arabia, that rich and troubling place has been one of our biggest interests in the Middle East.
Do I and other previous presidents agree with everything they do? Of course not, especially when it comes to human rights. But they have a wide-ranging intelligence service, and although some in the Kingdom have funneled money to terrorists around the world, others there, friends of the Wes
t, have funded important covert missions from us to the British or to the French to keep ahead of those who like to maim and kill innocents.
Like Asim.
And when it came to bloody fights like the one to contain and crush ISIS, the Saudis were a vital and quiet ally.
“I know, Ahmad,” I reply. “And where I can, I’ve done my best to temper the Barnes Administration’s demands and proposals, but there’s only so much I can do. I’m a former president, and I know what it’s like to be ignored and belittled by the current administration. Ahmad, please: father to father, I’m seeking your help.”
And just like that, Ahmad says, “Then you will receive it, my friend. I’ve already made inquiries, but so far it’s not been encouraging. This…creature, Asim Al-Asheed, he is even feared by our most hardened men in the Kingdom. He takes too much pleasure in the killing, using the blessed words of the Prophet as a shield. He has many friends and assets in a network around the world. But I will tell you this, something that is troubling me.”
“What is it, Ahmad?”
He says, “Your CIA and FBI, they have not pushed back where we have been taking our time, delaying. It’s like they expected our resistance and decided that was just fine. And that, Matt, frightens me for you almost as much as Asim Al-Asheed.”
Chapter
47
Williams Pond
Leah, New Hampshire
Jiang Lijun of the Chinese Ministry of State Security yawns again as the sun starts to make itself known through the peaks of this state’s White Mountains. He waits in his rental GMC sedan in this dirt parking lot adjacent to a wide body of water in the northern part of this New Hampshire state.
It took nearly every free second to plan and make this trip after meeting with his boss, Li Baodong: Jiang Lijun drove out to Newark and then took a flight to Montreal, and then drove a rental to Sherbrooke and then another rental to here, this small town. At the border crossing in Vermont, the line of cars and trucks going into Canada was at a crawl, as uniformed men with dogs seemed to search everybody and everything.
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