“Who?”
“You’re not going to like it, Pamela, but it’s Matt Keating’s fault.”
“Richard…”
He shifts his chair so he can better look at her. “I mean it. You have a former president, a former SEAL member, who has a number of enemies around the world. He didn’t protect his girl. That’s on him.”
“But Mel Keating wasn’t eligible for Secret Service protection after she turned sixteen.”
Richard presses on. “Then he should have done something about it. Restrict her movements. Move someplace more public. Hire private security. Or ask you for a presidential directive, a special exemption for his daughter, so she could get Secret Service protection. Matt Keating did none of that.”
Richard gets up and says, “Standing firm against Mel Keating’s kidnappers—no matter the pressure you’re getting—is going to gain you respect and admiration across the world, including from a lot of bad actors in North Korea, Iran, Russia, and our constant-pain-in-the-ass competitors, the Chinese. In the long run, that’s going to save a lot more lives than one kidnapped girl.”
“I see what you mean, Richard, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
He goes to the door leading to the main corridor outside the Oval Office and says, “In an hour I’ll have a statement for you to give to the press about your disappointment that the deadline has passed, and that Mel Keating has not been located.”
“But what if she’s found alive in the next four hours?”
Her husband just shakes his head and opens the door.
President Barnes rubs at her forehead again, trying to remind herself why she wanted this job so much.
Heading to the White House’s lobby after leaving the Oval Office with Secretary of Homeland Security Charles, Director Blair remembers the time years back when she came into this building to be interviewed for her current job by President Matt Keating. He was ready to submit her name to the Senate for confirmation, and that meeting was the last and most important step. She had been prepped to talk about her Army Criminal Investigative Division career, her years as head of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, and her later job as assistant deputy director of the FBI.
But the interview lasted for about five minutes. While pouring her a cup of coffee from a small table in front of the couch they were sharing, President Keating said, “The FBI’s gotten too politicized in the last few years. I want the agency to return to its law enforcement roots, stay away from politics as much as possible, and get shit done. What do you think?”
“I agree, Mr. President,” she said.
“Good. The job is yours.”
Confused, Blair said, “Is that all?”
Keating smiled, passing over the coffee cup. “You want to go over to Quantico and see who does better in Hogan’s Alley?”
She recalls that simple and direct order with melancholy. Blair would never admit it aloud, but she misses reporting to Keating.
In a low voice, Blair says, “God, days like this I hate this city.”
Secretary Charles says, “What did you say?”
But she ignores him.
Her phone is vibrating hard against her hip.
Chapter
52
Saunders Hotel
Arlington, Virginia
I’m pacing the floor of my suite at the Saunders Hotel with such anger and violence I’m convinced that the cooks in the basement kitchen can hear me. I go to the door connecting to the other suite, fling it open, and yell out, “Maddie!”
She emerges from a huddle of Secret Service agents, hotel staff, and some of my own folks from what remains of the Reelect President Keating campaign. She comes over to me, hair in disarray, eyes red and puffy, and says, “Sir?”
I say, “You have a connection with the Federal Bureau of Prisons, right? A…sister? Cousin?”
“Niece, sir,” she says. “My niece Sharon.”
“Can you call her?” I ask. “Find out if there’s been any movement in getting those three prisoners out of the super max. The ones that Asim Al-Asheed wants freed as part of his ransom demand.”
The barest pause, and I think, You’ve gone too far, you’ve pushed her too much, but before I can take it back, Maddie says, “Yes, of course, Mr. President. I’ll get right to it.”
I go back into the suite. Agent Stahl is talking in a low voice on the phone, and Samantha is sitting cross-legged on the suite’s bed, hugging a pillow in her lap, and I say to her, “I’m working on it. We’re getting her back.”
Sam says, “I know,” and her eyes, while moistened from an earlier burst of tears, are filled with anger as well as contempt.
She says, “They lied to us, back in the Oval Office.”
“No,” I say. “The president and the chief of staff will tell us later that they told us the truth while we were there. When we left, facts on the ground changed, there were new developments, news they couldn’t pass on to us because of time constrictions.”
“Like what?”
“I’m going to find out,” I say. I go back to my little work area, try again to call Sarah Palumbo, deputy national security advisor for the National Security Council, and once again, the call goes to voicemail.
What message to leave?
I say, “Sarah, guess we’re all having a bad day. Right?”
I hang up and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call out.
My chief of staff, Maddie, comes in, face drawn and worried, and she says, “Sir…I’ve talked to Sharon. My niece. From the Federal Bureau of Prisons.”
The look on her face says it all.
“Nothing, am I right? No movement of those three prisoners from the super max.”
She nods and says, “I’ll…I’m going back to work, Mr. President.”
“Thanks, Maddie.”
It’s time to call President Barnes.
Unlike what bad novels and even worse movies portray, former presidents and current presidents rarely make phone calls to each other, for the nation has only one president at a time, and now her name is Pamela Barnes and she lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. And if there is a phone call, it’s usually from the current president to the former, not the other way around.
But I still need to talk to her, and it’s going to be a chore to get past the phone operators and gatekeepers. There is a private number that goes through the White House switchboard so friends and family members of POTUS can be connected without delay, but that number is changed every time a new administration moves in.
So I call the main White House switchboard—202-456-1414—and after it’s picked up after the first ring by a brisk young man saying, “The White House,” I say, “This is Matt Keating. Could you please connect me with Felicia Taft?”
Felicia is the deputy chief of staff, and there’s a moment of silence, no doubt as the operator checks in with her to see if she’ll accept my call, and then Felicia comes on the line and says, “Good morning, Mr. President. What can I do for you?”
From the unmade bed, Samantha is giving me a good hard look, and I feel like I am back at BUD/S training, being given a cold unflinching evaluation by an instructor who’s judging my every step and utterance.
I say, “Felicia, I need to talk to Richard. As soon as possible.”
“Ah, may I ask what this is about, Mr. President?”
“Do you really have to ask, Felicia?” I say, and I immediately regret my tone because I’ve put her in a terrible bind and she’s the gatekeeper who’s going to decide whether this call goes any further, but she’s a professional and says, “Hold on, Mr. President. I’ll see if he’s free.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I sit down, rub my face, think of Mel out there, a captive, tired, hungry, wondering if her dad is going to find her, and then the familiar voice comes on the line.
“Matt, Richard Barnes here.”
I say, “Richard, I need to talk to the president.”
“Ah, Matt,
that’s going to be a challenge.”
“Richard, whatever you said to Sam and me yesterday is so much bullshit, and you know it,” I say. “There’s been no action to get the bitcoin secured for the ransom, and those three prisoners that Asim Al-Asheed wanted free are still in solitary at the super max. What’s going on?”
“Matt, you know as well as I do that circumstances change and—”
“Richard, I want to talk to the president. Now.” I look at my watch. Good Lord, is it really nearly 9 a.m.?
“I’ll see what I can do. She’s quite busy.”
“In three hours, we hit the deadline,” I say. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Our jobs,” he says. “Along with the FBI, Homeland Security, the Secret Service, every—”
I say, “Don’t you dare insult me like that, Richard. I’m getting my daughter freed, with or without you.”
A cold pause. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I still have a few friends in the DC media,” I say. “How do you think they’ll react when I tell them that you’re playing games with my daughter’s life? That for whatever reason, you’re dragging your feet, and you have no intention to pay the ransom?”
“Matt, don’t you dare.”
“Then don’t you dare ignore me, Richard, because I’ll make it happen,” I say, my voice rising in anger. “And if the deadline expires and Mel’s not released, her blood is going to be on your hands, and on the hands of your damn wife!”
I lost it.
I shouldn’t have lost it.
Richard’s voice is tight. “The president is a very, very busy woman. Your daughter is only one of her concerns. The world’s a big, nasty, and dangerous place. You know it just as well as we do. And we’re leaving it up to the professionals to find her, and if you leak some crazed story that we’re not doing anything to find your girl, this administration and I will come down on you like a ton of cement. Got it?”
I say, “Find my daughter, Richard.”
“We’re working on it,” he says. “And if she can, I’ll have the president reach out to you later today. But don’t hold your breath.”
I disconnect the call and exhale loudly. I stand up, pace some more, and Agent Stahl is looking at me and so is Samantha, and it’s time to go full DEFCON 1.
I get to my phone, start scrolling through my contacts, knowing I’m about to violate about a half dozen laws, social compacts, and unofficial DC ways of doing business, but I don’t care about any of that.
Mel.
That’s it.
I told Samantha I’m getting her back, and there’s no stopping now.
There.
I find a private cell number, press it without hesitation, and it rings, and rings, and is answered by a woman, near breathless.
“Director Blair,” she says. “Who the hell is this?”
Realizing that her caller ID is registering UNKNOWN, I quickly say, “Lisa, it’s Matt Keating.”
“Oh, Mr. President, I—”
“Lisa, I don’t have time for pleasantries,” I quickly say. “What the hell is going on?”
“Mr. President, I—”
“Lisa, tell me they’re not dragging their feet. Tell me the bitcoin is being prepared, tell me the three prisoners are being prepped for transport to Libya. What the hell is going on over there?”
“Mr. President—”
“Lisa—”
She nearly snaps my head off through the airwaves. “Mr. President, shut your damn mouth!”
I pause mid-stride, breathing hard.
“Director,” I manage to say. “Go on.”
Then the universe seems to contract to nothing but my phone and the FBI director’s excited voice.
Lisa says, “I’m trying to tell you, sir. We’ve gotten good intel from New Hampshire. We think we’ve found your daughter.”
Chapter
53
Eastfield Regional High School
Eastfield, New Hampshire
In the gymnasium of Eastfield Regional High School, near banners hanging from the rafters honoring the Eastfield Explorers’ achievements in basketball and lacrosse, FBI special agent Ross Faulkner, team leader of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, is doing his very best not to punch out the New Hampshire State Police major standing in front of him, nearly toe to toe. Ross is a ten-year veteran of the FBI’s most elite unit, and before joining the FBI, he was a Marine gunnery sergeant, having served three tours in Iraq. He has experience negotiating with various tribes and militias in northern Iraq, but this local cop is really starting to piss him off.
Major Harry Croteau of the New Hampshire State Police is dressed in a black jumpsuit and boots, like every other man in this guarded gymnasium, and his fleshy face is red with anger as he says, “I’ll tell you again, Agent Faulkner, you don’t have jurisdiction here.”
“I say otherwise,” Ross says. “It’s a kidnapping.”
Croteau raises his voice. “It’s only a federal offense under certain circumstances, like a minor child being taken, crossing state lines with the victim, or the crime taking place aboard an aircraft. None of these fits in this situation. It’s a state crime, and we’re taking lead.”
Ross says, “With all due respect, Major, I don’t have time for this bullshit. We’re here, the president’s daughter is out there, and a known terrorist is holding her. That’s all I need, and that’s all it’s going to be.”
“The hell you say.”
Phones are ringing, other members of Ross’s twenty-member team are around the gym, their weapons and gear scattered on large folding tables, their vehicles parked outside in spots marked FOR TEACHERS ONLY. They’ve been here for nearly a day, after departing Marine Corps Air Facility Quantico in a borrowed Air Force C-17 Globemaster transport aircraft and landing at nearby Lebanon Airport. The HRT prides itself on being only four hours away from any location in the United States, and this trip has been no different.
Ross says, “Yes, the hell I say, along with the FBI director and the attorney general. This is our op and—”
“Ross!” is shouted from the other side of the gym. “Over here, now!”
He says, “Major, get the hell out. Before I arrest you on suspicion of income tax evasion or some damn thing.”
Ross goes to a table where one of the HRT members, Gus Donaldson, swivels in a folding chair, communications gear and telephones behind him, and holds up a sheet of paper with writing on it.
“Ross,” Gus says, voice tight with excitement, “we’ve caught a break. A good one.”
Other HRT members gather around. “Go,” Ross says.
“Early this morning, a local cop spotted a black Cadillac Escalade entering the garage of a large vacation home at the end of an unmarked dirt road, near a pond, isolated. The dirt road is off Route 113, marked with a sign that says Macomber. Near an RJ’s hardware store. She saw the driver step out of the garage. She’s positive it was Asim Al-Asheed.”
“Did she make the call to us?”
Gus says, “No. She reached out to a sergeant she knows in the NH State Police, he kicked it over to his superior in his local troop, and that got pushed up the ladder. He vouches for her, says she’s a straight shooter. No bullshit artist.”
“Where is she now?”
“Out of contact,” he says. “Cell phone coverage is pretty spotty around here.”
“Tyler!” Ross calls out to another HRT member. “You copy that location info?”
Tyler is the team’s research pro, and right now he’s stationed before two large terminals. He says, “On it,” and starts tapping away. Ross heads over, and in the very few seconds it takes to approach Tyler, the researcher says, with joy in his voice, “Got it! It’s in Monmouth, near the border with Spencer. Property owned by a Dan Macomber, from Salem, Massachusetts. Here’s the tax map.”
Again, the HRT members cluster around, staring at the right-hand screen. Not only does the online tax map from the town’s assessor’s office
have a floor map of the residence, but there’s even a photo.
Two-story wooden house. Detached three-car garage. Front door and side door to the house. Large bay window to the right of the front door. Standard window to the left of the door. Windows on the second floor.
The floor map shows two large bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Bathroom downstairs. Large living room and small bedroom off to the right of the front door, kitchen and dining room to the left.
Thanks to his years of training and on-the-ground ops, Ross is quickly running through deployment options, seeing where he should post the initial squads. He says, “Sniper recon team, go. Split up when you get there, one squad to the east, the other squad to the west. I want eyes on target soonest. Check in when you’re secure…and head out quiet, like you’re making a Dunkin’ Donuts run. There’s so many reporters out there that we don’t want a goddamn media escort.”
As one, the team members scramble to the tables, picking up their weapons and gear, racing to a rear exit of the gym, their booted feet echoing loudly in the space. Ross feels tired, tense, wired. In any other hostage situation, there would be time to build a full-scale mock-up of the target house to allow the HRT assault teams a chance to practice their dynamic entry, over and over again.
But the time is slipping away. This is going to be a fast-moving op.
He goes down the line of tables, stopping at the end, where there’s a young red-haired woman with black-rimmed glasses. She’s wearing a T-shirt for some rock band Ross has never heard of. She sits in front of a set of complex keyboards, staring intently at a terminal streaming rows of letters and numbers.
“Ma’am,” he says, forgetting her name for the moment, knowing only that she’s from the National Security Agency and says she volunteered, “did you hear our update?”
“Uh-huh,” she says, chewing on her lower lip. “That I did, thanks. I’m doing data harvesting now.”
Next to the NSA representative is a skinny young Black man in Air Force fatigues with the bars of a first lieutenant, name tag COLLINS, and he’s murmuring to himself as he works a joystick. On the large monitor before him is an aerial view of a forested peak, and rows of numbers run along the bottom and side. Then a pond comes into view, and then a house.
The President's Daughter Page 19
