The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  Barnes says, “That was quite the roller coaster ride earlier, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Pamela, it was.”

  “The whole bright afternoon and the following days were ahead of us, weren’t they?” she goes on, settling back in the chair. “The daughter of the former president rescued. One of the world’s most wanted terrorists captured. Superb footage of our FBI in action, not screwing up for a nice change of pace. Lovely news reports about the Keating family being reunited. Perhaps even a meet later in the Oval Office, with me giving awards to the FBI agents who rescued her, complete with the happy Keating family looking on. Smiles and handshakes and hugs all around.”

  Her husband and chief of staff remains quiet.

  Good.

  “Our poll numbers reaching the sky,” she goes on. “And with all this wonderful news going on, another side benefit is, maybe the macho, red-white-and-blue wing of the party that still worships that Navy boy would finally shut up and get on the team for our upcoming reelection campaign. But that’s not going to happen, Richard, is it?”

  “No, Pamela.”

  She rubs the cold glass tumbler against her forehead, sees the framed photos and plaques and other remembrances from when she was governor of Florida. Up there is an old Florida flag from the late 1800s, showing the state seal against a white background, before that damn red Saint Andrew’s cross was added back in 1900. Most historians believe it was added to show nostalgia for the old Confederacy.

  One of Barnes’s quiet goals as governor was to strip that disgusting red cross from the flag before she left office, but she knew that most of the voters and their representatives in Tallahassee would never go for it.

  That’s the joy and the scourge of politics. Doing what was right, but also knowing your limitations.

  Another strong sip.

  She says, “You’re going to let slip a story in the next hour to a trusted reporter, high up in the business, and I mean trusted, Richard. There can’t be blowback on this, linking it back to you, or to me. Especially me.”

  “Absolutely,” he says.

  She sharpens her voice. “I mean it, Richard.”

  He clasps his still-worn cattle rancher hands in front of him, smiles. “A trusted foreign policy advisor for one of your predecessors said that most DC journalists are twenty-seven years old, no real experience except for reporting on political campaigns, and they literally know nothing. That’s still true today, fortunately.”

  “Good,” Barnes says. “The story I want to see appear later on the Internet is that the Barnes Administration was led on by an intelligence failure from the top levels of the FBI and Homeland Security. That the Barnes Administration was ready and willing to secretly pay the ransom to free Mel Keating but was strongly advised not to do so by these advisors. President Barnes was told by agencies she trusted that they had a strong lead on the whereabouts of Mel Keating, and, trusting their professional judgment, she let the professionals do their job. That’s why the ransom wasn’t paid.”

  Richard doesn’t say anything.

  Barnes goes on, feeling strength returning to her with every word she speaks. “The story should also say that President Barnes is personally heartbroken over today’s failed rescue mission, and that she is ensuring that all federal and local law enforcement officials are redoubling their efforts to find Mel Keating. Got it?”

  He nods. “That’s…pretty bold.”

  “What’s that old saying: Fortune favors the bold? Or the brave? As you pointed out a couple of days ago, Richard, our fortunes are in the tank. We need to climb out, no matter what it takes.”

  “There’ll be pushback from Director Blair and that moron Paul Charles in Homeland Security. They’ll deny everything.”

  “Fine,” she says. “There were no aides or notetakers with us during our last meeting. The FBI can deny all they want, and Paul Charles won’t see that he’s getting played. He’ll leak out to his own pet journalists that he agreed with me, to pay the ransom, and he’ll say that it’s all the FBI’s fault. The fool won’t see that by defending himself, he’ll just be confirming our position.”

  Her husband says, “Impressive. When do you want it?”

  “Now,” she says, and Richard gets up from his chair. Before he steps away, she says, “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Barnes holds out her empty glass tumbler. “It’s been a bear of a day. Get me another drink.”

  He takes the glass from her hand. “Absolutely, Madam President.”

  Chapter

  61

  Saunders Hotel

  Arlington, Virginia

  Samantha Keating is sitting on a chair in the hotel suite, staring out the window. She can’t stand looking at the large-screen television, even with the sound off, seeing video of the failed rescue mission repeated over and over again, and seeing the various talking heads debate, discuss, and argue over whether her girl is still alive.

  To hell with them all.

  Matt is talking with FBI director Blair, and Agent Stahl is in the conversation as well. Next to her, sweet Maddie Perry is staying quiet, holding a Gideon’s Bible in her hands, silently reading and praying for Mel.

  Samantha closes her eyes, seeing again the overhead view of that damn house and the pond nearby, and she’s not sure why, but there is a nagging feeling of déjà vu, as if she’s seen that house, as if she’s been to that house, and she knows it can’t be true.

  It’s impossible.

  But still the feeling remains.

  She’s a doctor and a professor, she believes only in evidence and, especially when it comes to archaeology, solid evidence. No research or digs stemming from legends of Druids or Irish monks landing in North America—only facts. That is what propelled her in her Basque research. The facts of their voyages to North America were true and were signposts for her eventual research and digs and that lovely discovery of a previously unknown Basque settlement in the Americas.

  She wishes she could remember the sheer innocent joy of discovery that happened days back in that coastal town of Hitchcock, before those two Maine State Police detectives raced up to tell her that her life was broken.

  More talk over there in the corner with her husband and the FBI and Secret Service, thrashing out options, where to go next, and how to go next. One big question is how the world’s most wanted terrorist and his cousin were able to slip Mel out of that house through such a tight law enforcement cordon.

  For Samantha and everyone else are certain that Mel was there.

  The gold ring, carefully hidden, proves it.

  Maddie continues her silent reading.

  The three over there continue their chattering.

  And that memory returns, of being at that house, over the water and—it comes to her.

  Nearly two years ago, Samantha was contacted by a friend of hers from the University of Maine, in Orono, who said an elderly uncle claimed to have some Basque pottery he had recovered while working on a fishing trawler. The uncle was convinced by his niece to turn over the pottery to Samantha, but the problem was that he had left his life as a fisherman and gone full prepper, moving to an isolated lake in the Great North Woods in upper Maine.

  Getting there meant driving for hours over dirt roads, or—

  “Matt,” Samantha says, getting up and going over to him and Agent Stahl and FBI director Blair.

  “Yes?”

  “That small pond…the one adjacent to the house where Mel was kept. How big is it?”

  “What?” Matt asks, confused.

  “How big is it? The longest stretch?”

  Director Blair says, “I don’t see why—”

  Matt says, “David, you know how to work Google better than me. Find out.”

  “On it, Mr. President.” Agent Stahl goes to the keyboard and Blair still looks confused, but Samantha sees a look on Matt’s face that shows he understands what she’s looking for.

  “Got it, Mr. President,” Agent Stahl
says. “Long Pea Pond. Its greatest length is…just over three thousand feet.”

  Samantha says, “Floatplane. That’s how they got out without being noticed…a floatplane came in and took the three of them away.”

  Director Blair says, “How do you know?”

  Tears are coming to her eyes as she remembers that sunny day, a peaceful and pleasant day, no real worries, remembers flying over forested lands and peaks, glimpsing ponds and lakes below, eagerly looking forward to seeing what that old fisherman found.

  Which turned out to be a Sears and Roebuck soup bowl, circa 1930.

  Samantha says, “A Cessna T206 floatplane with a load of four passengers can take off and land from a body of water that’s two thousand, nine hundred and thirty-two feet in length. I know that because I flew on one two years back. That’s how they did it. Flying low to the ground, getting in and out, and then…”

  Her husband says, “If he or she is a good pilot, flying low to the ground to avoid radar…it could work.”

  Director Blair steps away, gets on her phone, starts speaking quickly and firmly to whoever’s on the other end.

  Agent Stahl does the same.

  Matt looks at her, obviously tired and anguished but nevertheless conveying his loving respect. Any other time or place or situation, Samantha would relish the look.

  “Good job,” he says.

  Samantha says, “I know how they got her out. I don’t know where she is now, Matt. Not good enough. Not by a long shot.”

  Chapter

  62

  Saunders Hotel

  Arlington, Virginia

  Following Sam’s insight, some busy minutes are spent on the phone, and then Director Blair says, “Mr. President, Mrs. Keating, I’m sorry to do this, but—”

  I give her a weary nod. “You’ve got to go. Back to your office. I understand. And probably take a nasty phone call from the president’s chief of staff.”

  She gestures to the chubby male FBI agent from before. “Special Agent Burke will stay here, will be my personal liaison to you and your wife. I’ll keep you apprised of any developments. And getting nasty phone calls from Richard Barnes is all part of the joy of the job.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.”

  Blair goes to Samantha, pauses, and gives her a hug, and then gives me one as well. Totally unprofessional and unnecessary, but I find it comforting.

  She says, “We’ll get her back safe. Honest.”

  “I know you will,” I say, but Samantha stares at the carpeted floor and says nothing as Director Blair and three of her agents depart.

  Madeline Perry, my chief of staff, says, “I’ll get back to work in the other room, sir. I’ll send up some food for you all. What would you like?”

  “Anything,” I say. “Nothing.”

  At some point, there’s a thick silence in the room that matches the smell of sweat, despair, and uneaten sandwiches and cheeseburgers. Sam is on her side of the bed, dozing, and FBI special agent Burke is sitting back in his chair, arms crossed against his plump chest. Agent Stahl is in his own chair, on the other side of the room, and he’s sleeping.

  About the only development came hours ago, when three witnesses in the area of Long Pea Pond said that they saw a light gray floatplane flying nearby earlier this morning, flying low, hugging the tree lines and peaks.

  One witness is certain that the aircraft flew north.

  Another is equally certain that it went west.

  And the third has no concept of direction, and could only vaguely say, “It was up there somewhere. I’m sure of it.”

  I go over and open the door to the adjoining suite. It’s quiet in there, with staffers and others dozing in chairs or on the floor, but Madeline Perry is staring intently at her computer screen.

  “Maddie?” I say.

  She seems startled and glances over at me. “Oh, sorry, sir. You surprised me. What is it?”

  I say, “It’s quiet now. I need to do something, something I should’ve done hours ago.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talk to Tim Kenyon’s parents,” I say. “Can you arrange it?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Madeline Perry comes into the second suite and hands over her phone.

  “Bill Kenyon, sir,” she says. “And his wife, Laura.”

  I take the phone, take a breath. When I was president, I made similar calls to the fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, of personnel who had been killed in the line of duty. None of the calls were easy, but there was a protocol to follow, the commander in chief expressing the nation’s sympathy to the family of those who had made the ultimate sacrifice.

  But now?

  Now I was expressing my own personal sympathy to a father and mother who lost their son because he was dating my daughter.

  “Mr. Kenyon? Mrs. Kenyon? This is Matt Keating.”

  A tired male voice—“Hello, Mr. President”—and a fainter, woman’s voice saying just “Hello.”

  “May I call you Bill? And Laura?”

  “I guess,” he says, and his wife doesn’t say anything.

  I close my eyes. We’re all grieving in our own ways, but their grief is real and solid. Mine is the grief of an unknown outcome for my kidnapped daughter, each second filled with terrible thoughts of what might be happening to her.

  I say, “Bill, Laura, I’m so sorry for what happened to Tim. I met him a few times during the last couple of months, and he was a great young man, very smart, very personable. I know Mel very much enjoyed being with him. I…”

  I run out of things to say. What else? Sorry your beloved son had the misfortune to date the daughter of the president, who made so many enemies, and died because he was collateral damage?

  I finally say, “The FBI, Homeland Security, and hundreds of police officers and other investigators are tracking down Tim’s killer. I know that must be small comfort, but his killer won’t escape. I promise you that.”

  A long silence ensues, and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. Then I hear the sad sigh of Tim’s father. He says, “Those are good words, Mr. President, and I appreciate it, but right now it’s all words, isn’t it? I mean, you look at the news, you read the papers, and what do you see? A lot of stories about your girl, and nearly nothing about my boy. And what little there is about my boy is just so much crap—misspelling his name, or getting his age wrong.”

  I hear a few sobs and then a click, and I imagine it’s Tim’s mother hanging up.

  But his father continues. “Your girl has it all. Comfortable life, best schools she ever wanted, she could choose any life she desired. My Tim”—his voice struggles—“had to chase down scholarships, grants, and work after school and during the summer, to make enough to get to a school like Dartmouth. He had hopes, Mr. President, and Laura and I, we had hopes for him, too. Now he’s gone. Because he reached too far, wanted to date your girl, and that got him killed.”

  I wait, not wanting to interrupt this grieving man, and he says, choking back the tears, “My wife and I, we’re gonna pray tonight again for our boy. And then we’re gonna pray for you, and your wife. Pray that you don’t have to go through what we’re experiencing right now, Mr. President.”

  He disconnects the call.

  I put Maddie’s phone down and stretch my back and look up at the white plaster ceiling, hoping that if God is in an answering mood tonight he will answer the Kenyons’ prayers.

  Mel.

  Where are you?

  When I was a kid growing up in rural Texas, hours to the west of Austin, I was fascinated by the Navy, even though there were no rivers or lakes of note near our small dusty town. But we were close to Fredericksburg, where famed World War II fleet admiral Chester Nimitz was born, and I must have gone to the museum marking his life a half dozen times.

  Among the scores of books I read about the Navy in those years was one called The Terrible Hours, about the desperate attempts to rescue sailors trapped in the USS Squalus
, a submarine that in 1939 sank off the coast of New Hampshire during a training accident.

  A great book, a great title, and I mean no disrespect to those long-dead thirty-three rescued men, but I would gladly exchange their terrible hours for my own terrible hours during the glacial passage of time following the failed rescue of Mel.

  The hours slowly pass, with meals half eaten, phone calls, visits from representatives from Homeland Security and the Secret Service, even some cryptic briefings from CIA officers. I have some comforting words with Samantha, each of us trying to buck the other up as the red numerals on the various clocks flip their way into the next day.

  Maddie Perry is busy next door as well, juggling lots of phone calls and visits, an amazing number of them from psychics who claim to know where Mel is at this moment. Sometimes the “readings” are precise, with a street name and number, and other times it’s a psychic thinking that Mel is near a railroad by a body of water.

  One phone call that isn’t received, however, is from Pamela Barnes, president of the United States.

  At some point in the middle of the night, my body gives up and I fall into a troubled sleep on the unmade bed, Samantha cuddled up next to me.

  A touch on the shoulder and I’m instantly awake. A chubby man is looking at me, and for a moment I don’t recognize him in the low light of the suite’s bedroom.

  “Sir?” he says.

  Now I know who he is. FBI special agent Burke, who’s still dressed in his gray suit, though his white shirt is wrinkled and stained and his navy-blue necktie is undone.

  I swing off the bed, trying not to wake up Samantha, but she’s sleeping as lightly as I am, and she says, “What is it? What’s going on?”

  Burke says, “Sir, ma’am. Director Blair is coming here. She should arrive in about ten minutes.”

  Samantha says, “What time is it?”

  I look at the bedside clock. “It’s 2 a.m. Agent Burke, why is she coming here?”

  Burke looks tired, troubled. “Sir, we’ve received word that Asim Al-Asheed is going to be releasing a statement within the hour.”