The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  The man in front swings a Halligan tool, smashing the window, raking and clearing the broken glass, ducking down and then moving away as the second man slams a metal ladder against the wall under the window.

  I think, Flash-bang grenades, M84s, and the operator with the ladder tosses one through the broken window, and there’s a brilliant flash of light and a cloud of smoke, and a similar light and blossom of smoke erupt from the other side of the house.

  The third operator races up the ladder, followed by his two teammates, and this all takes place in just a matter of seconds as they quickly climb into the house. I think now of the controlled chaos erupting in the house’s interior, the armed HRT operators moving sharply, yelling, “Down, down, down, hands, hands, hands!”

  The HRT’s mainstay in operations like this: Speed, surprise, and violence of action.

  When I was in the teams, we often trained and sometimes worked with the HRT, and the band of tension around my chest is slightly lightened at knowing the kind of operators who are going in, knowing that apart from the operators in the teams or Delta Force, these are the best at what they do.

  From the speakers comes the satisfied voice of the HRT leader. “Assault team reports two men in custody. No shots fired.”

  Samantha says, “Oh, thank you, thank you,” and Maddie wipes at her eyes with her free hand, smiling with relief.

  The HRT leader says, “Assault teams proceeding to the basement.”

  My God, what Mel must be thinking and hearing right now, I think, the explosions of the stun grenades, the thumping of the feet overhead, the yells, and I smile through my own tears, knowing our girl is seconds away from being freed.

  And how long to get back to New Hampshire? For a reunion of reunions? Will we even sleep in the next twenty-four hours from the excitement and joy?

  And will we ever let her leave our compound alone again?

  “Team moving into basement.”

  I smile wider.

  “Team in basement.”

  Samantha leans into me, silently joyful, and then it all ends.

  The confident voice of the HRT leader is no longer confident.

  “Say again?” he’s asking someone next to him from his position in New Hampshire. “Repeat. Confirm that.”

  Samantha says, “Matt, what’s going on?”

  I just don’t know, and what I hear next nearly makes me stumble back, like a sudden punch in the gut from pure black darkness.

  The voice from the speakers: “Assault team confirms, third male in custody in the basement. Repeat, third male.”

  Director Blair says, “HRT leader, I need another confirmation. Are you saying there’s a male in the basement? Not a female? Not Mel Keating?”

  A few seconds of static crackling.

  “Confirmed, Director Blair,” says the weary voice. “Three males in custody. Appear to be locals. No female, no Mel Keating. More information forthcoming, ma’am.”

  Director Blair’s face is pale, and I can just imagine what Sam and I look like.

  Terrified and frightened parents, seconds away from receiving the most joyous news of our lives, ready to celebrate and hug and cry at the utter delight of having our kidnapped daughter safely freed and returned to us.

  And then falling off a hidden cliff.

  Director Blair says, “Matt, Sam…I…we’ll find out what happened. Honest. We’ll find out in a few minutes. I promise.”

  I check my watch.

  It’s 12:15 p.m., fifteen minutes past Asim Al-Asheed’s ransom deadline.

  Which has not been met.

  My wife sees me look at my watch, and she notes the time as well.

  Trying to keep her voice steady through the flowing tears, Sam says, “Matt, they didn’t pay the ransom. They’ve killed our girl.”

  Chapter

  58

  Macomber residence

  Monmouth, New Hampshire

  HRT team leader and FBI special agent Ross Faulkner walks into the kitchen of the target house, removes his ballistic helmet, takes a look at the scene, his booted feet crunching on broken window glass. A wooden table is on its side, two chairs are smashed, and the air smells of exploded firecrackers; the odor is coming from the magnesium charges in the flash-bang grenades. Four of his team are in the kitchen, and others are fanning out through the house. An evidence-processing squad will be here in just a few minutes to search through every room, closet, and cabinet, as well as the nearby garage.

  Three barefoot young men are sitting up against the kitchen wall, shaking, faces red, eyes watery, their arms behind them, flex-tied tight. The one on the right is wearing only a pair of plaid underwear, and the other two are wearing sweatpants and tank tops. The one in the middle’s tank top is blue with red letters that say UMASS LOWELL.

  All three have large wet spots just below their waists.

  Standard procedure is to split up these three characters and start interrogating them separately, but Ross and his team don’t have time, and today is definitely not standard. Hundreds of miles away, FBI director Lisa Blair and Matt and Samantha Keating are waiting for answers.

  “Who are you guys?” Ross demands. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The one on the left, stockier than the others, with short blond hair shaved high and tight, says, “My name’s Bruce Hardy. That’s Gus Millet, and that’s Lenny Atkins. We go to college down at UMass Lowell.”

  “You or your parents own this place?”

  Bruce protests, “We’re not trespassing! Honest to Christ! We’re here legit!”

  Ross says, “When did you get here?”

  “About…an hour ago. Maybe ninety minutes.”

  “If none of you own it, do you know the owners?”

  The one in the middle, skinny, red-haired, with freckles on his face and bare shoulders, says, “We won this place.”

  “What do you mean, won?”

  The red-haired guy—Gus Millet—starts coughing and coughing, and at his side, Bruce says, “Yeah. I won it. I got an email from some outfit, saying I had won a week here, for free. Got my name from Facebook. One of those games where you answer the questions about what kind of movie star you are, you know? That’s how it worked.”

  Ross doesn’t know but nods otherwise. “Go on. Make it quick.”

  “The outfit sent me a money order for a thousand bucks,” Gus says. “Said there was another thousand bucks in cash waiting for me and my buds when we got here. The place would be open. No need for keys. And yeah, just like the email said, there was a thousand bucks in cash. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills, stuck in the silverware drawer.”

  To Ross it’s all becoming clear in a logical and horrid way; he knows of Asim’s expertise in setting up clandestine support networks. He says, “And if you arrived here at a certain time, and if there were three of you, there’d be another payment of a thousand dollars coming your way after the week was done. Right?”

  Bruce says, “No. There’d be another two grand. Not one. Sent to me by another couple of money orders. Hey, was this legit? Was it? Shit, if not, I’m not giving the money back. It’s mine. I won it, fair and square.”

  Ross says to the young man on the right, Lenny Atkins, who’s wearing just plaid underwear, “And what the hell were you doing in the basement?”

  Lenny’s face is pale, and he swallows and swallows again, as if he’s desperately trying not to vomit.

  He says, “Uh, when we got here, I was still pretty hungover from last night. I just needed to sleep it off more. These two kept on talking and yapping and farting around and I couldn’t stand it. Downstairs had a bed, and I went down there and crashed.”

  Ross turns away as HRT team member Neil Spooner comes up from the basement. “There’s a cell down there, built against the concrete foundation. Bed, chemical toilet, lamp. Nothing else. Even the bed’s been made.”

  Ross nods and goes out to the main living room, the foul taste of failure in his mouth. He and his team did exactly what they
were ordered to do. They managed a perfect breach and entry with only minutes to prepare, and in any other universe, this would be checked off as a successful op.

  Sure.

  Like that old joke: The operation was a success, but the patient died.

  Were Asim Al-Asheed and his cousin Faraj really here? Was Mel Keating?

  Behind him, one of the three captives yells out, “Hey! When do we get out of here? I wanna call my dad!”

  Ross ignores him.

  Shit.

  A voice comes through his earpiece. “Faulkner, this is Martinez.”

  “Martinez, go.”

  “We’ve got a dead female on the property, about thirty meters to the east of the house.”

  Something cold seems lodged in his throat. He checks the time. It’s 12:35 p.m., long after the ransom deadline.

  Faulkner says, “Is it the president’s daughter?”

  “No,” is the firm answer. “It’s a woman in her early thirties, dressed in camos, carrying a holstered SIG Sauer and an ID saying she’s a cop with the Monmouth Police Department. Must be the one who sent in the original sighting call. And that’s why we couldn’t raise her later.”

  Faulkner sighs. “Roger that. Cause of death?”

  “Throat slit. Pretty messy. And I’d say she’s been dead just a few hours.”

  A woman’s voice comes to him through his earpiece. “Agent Faulkner, this is Director Blair. Just want to reconfirm what I’ve been hearing over the traffic. You’ve got a dead police officer on the property, correct?”

  “That’s affirmative, ma’am,” he says. “We’ve got evidence-processing teams working the house, seeing what actionable intelligence we might find. But I’d say that with the officer’s sighting and her eventual murder, I’m confident that Asim Al-Asheed was here.”

  The director doesn’t reply to his message, but she doesn’t have to.

  Ross knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

  Most likely Asim Al-Asheed was here.

  But what about Mel Keating?

  Where’s the president’s daughter?

  Chapter

  59

  Saunders Hotel

  Arlington, Virginia

  Secret Service agent David Stahl sits slumped in a chair in the hotel suite belonging to the Keatings, knowing his career and his life are pretty much done. Not that it’s anything compared to what’s happening to the president and his wife, but it’s his, and he owns it. Over the years he and other agents, during drinking bouts and bull sessions, would talk and discuss successful protections—Rawhide in Washington on March 30, 1981—and the agency’s biggest failure, Lancer, in Dallas on November 22, 1963.

  Now the historians will add Hope to that list, with his name firmly attached.

  He thinks of haunted Secret Service agent Clint Hill, who was with the Secret Service vehicle riding behind the presidential limousine on that day in Dallas. Even though he risked everything to jump on the car and shield the First Lady and the fatally wounded Lancer with his own body, he carried a deep guilt for years, thinking that if he had only been a second or two faster, he could have taken the third bullet and saved the president.

  With his own guilt gnawing at him, Stahl turns away from the stricken looks of Matt and Samantha Keating and stares at a framed print of some Winslow Homer painting depicting an ocean scene. Even after that horrid day, Agent Hill stayed with the Secret Service, performing with honor, becoming special agent in charge of presidential protection and then assistant director of the Secret Service before his retirement.

  Stahl knows he can’t do anything like that. He’s done with the Secret Service, either this month or next. He should have disobeyed orders, should have maintained discreet protection of Mel Keating via his detail’s “training sessions.” Or he should have convinced Harbor to spend the money to assign private security to Mel.

  Damn it, Harbor wanted to go out and get up that mountain, find and retrieve Mel on his own, and instead of sticking with procedures, Stahl should have taken the gamble, should have joined Harbor on the search with two or three other agents from the detail. Get the job done, screw procedures and policies.

  Beat Asim Al-Asheed to his target.

  The conversation on the other side of the room among the FBI director, the Keatings, and Madeline Perry catches his attention, with the president saying, “All right, with that police officer’s murder, it seems logical that Asim Al-Asheed was there. But that doesn’t mean Mel was being held there, right?”

  The president’s chief of staff says, “There was the homemade cell in the basement.”

  Keating shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean a damn thing. That bastard is good at covering his tracks, putting up red herrings. For all we know, Mel is with the cousin, Faraj.”

  Stahl finds his voice. “Search the cell.”

  FBI director Blair gives him a withering look, that of one law enforcement official gazing upon the failure of another. “It’s been done.”

  Stahl sits up straighter, finding his voice. “No. Get an evidence team in there, really search the place. Every nook and cranny, every square inch.”

  “And what will they be looking for?” she asks, barely veiled contempt in her voice.

  He says, “They’ll know it when they find it.”

  She stands there, and the president says, “Lisa, please.”

  “All right, then,” she says, and she contacts the HRT director on scene, and Stahl just sits and waits.

  And remembers.

  In Mel Keating’s bedroom on the second floor of the White House on one of those very busy few days after Matthew Keating was sworn in as president, Stahl said, “Miss Keating, I hope I haven’t scared you.”

  She shook her head, and Stahl thought, No, she’s the daughter of two smart and tough parents. She wouldn’t be scared.

  Mel said, “No, I’m fine. I mean, when Dad was in the teams, we were always on alert around the house, in case strangers were hanging around, or if there were hang-up phone calls.”

  “That’s good experience,” Stahl said. “But if you’re kidnapped, the kidnappers might decide to move you after a day or so. Make sure that after you’re aware of your surroundings, you try to leave something behind to help us know you were there. A hidden note. A bit of graffiti. Or some personal item that only your Mom and Dad would recognize. Think you can remember that?”

  And Mel looked at him almost with pride. “Of course, Agent Stahl.”

  The wait ends about six minutes later.

  “Director,” says the voice from the computer’s speakers. “This is Faulkner.”

  “Go,” Director Blair says.

  “We found something.”

  Stahl stands up. The Keatings and their chief of staff move closer to the computer terminal and its speakers.

  Blair says, “Go on.”

  “It was under the bed, against one of the metal posts holding it in place. A gold ring. There’s an inscription inside and it says—”

  Samantha Keating speaks up, joy making her voice shake. “‘From ST to KM, December 10, 1941.’ Grampie Steve gave that ring to my Grammie Kim, just after he joined the Navy when Pearl Harbor was bombed. I gave that ring to Mel on her sixteenth birthday.”

  Now they’re all looking at Stahl, and Director Blair says, “How did you know?”

  Stahl says, “A few days after President Keating was sworn in, when the First Family was moving in from the Naval Observatory, I had a meeting with Mel. I explained to her the challenges of living in the White House, and how her Secret Service protection was going to increase, because she was now the president’s daughter. Among the things we talked about was what she could do if she were kidnapped. I said even with her protection, something could happen.”

  Madeline Perry mutters something and Stahl is sure she just said, “That’s a goddamn understatement,” but he ignores her and goes on.

  “I said there would always be a chance that the kidnappers would try to move her fr
om one location to another. I told her that she should try to leave something behind, a scribbled note, a piece of clothing, or jewelry, so that we would know she had been there.”

  Director Blair says, “Smart and tough girl.”

  Samantha Keating looks to her husband. “Matt, so she was there. She was there!”

  And the next question hangs in the air, taunting all of them.

  Where is Mel Keating now?

  Stahl’s guilt increases.

  He has no answer for that, and thinks again, It’s all my fault.

  Chapter

  60

  Family quarters

  The White House

  President Pamela Barnes is sitting in a comfortable chair in her private quarters on the second floor of the White House, having her daily drink of Glenlivet and ice three hours ahead of schedule. Her husband, Richard, is sitting near her, sipping a tumbler of ice water, his long legs and expensive Lucchese Romia cowboy boots stretched out in front of him.

  He starts to speak, and she holds up her hand.

  He quickly quiets himself.

  One of the perks, she thinks, of having your husband work for you.

  Barnes asks, “We haven’t heard from Treasury again, have we?”

  Richard shakes his head. “No, Pamela. They’re trying various options to locate that account, but it’s gone.”

  She remembers those first few frantic minutes down in the Situation Room after the rescue went south, when she turned to Richard and said, “Pay the ransom. Now. Make it happen. Get those prisoners out of super max, draw up the goddamn pardon. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this damn disaster.”

  But there is nothing to be salvaged. The account that was prepared to receive the ransom via a Tor browser on what was called the dark web has been taken down.

  It seems the window for paying the ransom has been firmly closed by Asim Al-Asheed.

  She takes a strong sip of the bracing drink, feeling it jolt her, wake her, and considers what’s before her.