I stop.
There’s a slight smile on his face.
I say, “Sorry, David. I’m telling you your job, the ins and outs of tradecraft. You don’t need to hear that from me. You know what I need, and how best to do it.”
“That’s all right, Mr. President,” he says, getting up from the chair. “I’ll be checking the perimeter here in a few minutes. If you have the cash when I come back, I can get to work.”
“Thanks, David,” I say.
“But I have to say, and with my apologies, sir, that I already knew what you were up to.”
That surprises me. “How?”
“Because when you’ve been working out in the shed over the past two weeks, I knew that you had your weapons with you, and had been practicing dry firing, getting reacclimated to holding an automatic rifle or pistol. Pretty clear if you stand close enough to the shed and listen.”
I should probably be upset, but instead I’m impressed. “Good job again, David. Thanks.”
As he walks to the screen door, he does something very unprofessional and very un–Secret Service like.
A gentle grasp of my shoulder.
“No, sir,” he says. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
He goes back into the main house and I wait for a while, peering up at the cloudy skies where it looks like the rain has finally stopped, at least reducing the misery index for those soaked agents out there in the two Boston Whalers.
I rub my face and chin.
Time to get shaved, showered, and dressed in clean clothes.
It’s time to get back to work.
Chapter
70
Lake Marie, New Hampshire
After checking the perimeter security—and finding out that a two-agent CAT team has just arrested a photographer from a supermarket tabloid trying to sneak onto the property to take photos of the grieving former president—Agent David Stahl goes to the kitchen, looking to grab a glass of cold water before heading out. A few minutes earlier he was in his small office in the barn, where he found a white business-sized envelope with twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills on his chair.
But Chief of Staff Madeline Perry is blocking his way to the stainless-steel refrigerator in the large kitchen, a hard and determined look on her face. She has on black slacks and a red pullover sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and she doesn’t look happy.
“We need to talk, David.”
“Okay,” he says, not sure what the problem is, and hoping it’s nothing major. David has had years of experience dealing with White House staff, and those folks have run the gamut from thinking Secret Service agents are servants at their beck and call, grim-jawed angels of death, or part of the background to be ignored. All in all, David prefers to be ignored. Being part of the background is what the job is all about.
When it comes to Madeline, David has found her to be tough but reasonable. She understands the Secret Service’s job at this former president’s home but isn’t afraid to push back if she thinks some of the agents are too gung ho in enforcing the rules.
For the most part, he’s liked working with her, but a few seconds later that observation goes down in flames, like a World War II bomber being taken down by fighter aircraft.
She says in a cold voice, “What in hell are you thinking, helping Harbor plan a kill mission for Asim Al-Asheed? That’s nuts!”
How the hell? he thinks, and she says, “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not proud of it, and I own it, but I was walking by the screen door to the porch when I heard you talking to Harbor. David, what the hell are you thinking?”
David is thinking furiously—that’s what he’s thinking. He knew that down the road he’d have to do some serious spinning and falsification to make this happen for the president and himself, but he didn’t expect the damn thing to be compromised before anything even started.
He says, “It’s not nuts.”
“It sure as hell sounds like it,” she says. “I know he’s grieving, I know he’s looking for revenge—we all are!—but this is lunacy. Let the professionals handle it. Not a former president with a bum hip who’s overwhelmed with grief and guilt.”
David says, “Professionals? The Barnes Administration didn’t cover themselves in glory, now, did they? Especially with that bullshit story that the president really wanted to pay the ransom but was overruled by the FBI and others. You’ve seen the follow-up stories. Her spin was so much crap.”
“We don’t know that for sure, do we?” she says. “It’s just one side spinning against the other. Typical DC bullshit, I know, but please: you know this should be left to the professionals.”
“Well,” he says, “the professionals have been looking for Asim Al-Asheed for years and they’ve come up empty, time and time again. Why is this time going to be any different?”
“And you think Harbor will be able to do it? Really?”
Stahl takes a breath, tries to ease things out and keep his cool. “Maddie…what’s going on? You’ve worked with Harbor, his wife, and his daughter for years. Why this pushback?”
She looks away and David knows he’s struck home. Something is behind this chief of staff’s blustery attitude, more than just her wish to derail Harbor from doing what must be done.
Perry is now looking back at him, eyes wide, moistened. “I believed in him, David. And it sucked when he was denied a second term. And I thought I could do well by him by following him in his post-presidency, especially when he said he’d be setting up a charitable foundation for vets.”
The tears start trickling. “Harbor doesn’t know this, so please don’t tell him, but one of my cousins served with honor in the Rangers. At the end of Harbor’s term, he froze to death on the streets in Detroit, like other homeless veterans across the country. Harbor said that would never happen again, and that his foundation would take care of vets…all of their needs.”
Now it all makes sense, Stahl thinks. “The foundation hasn’t been set up yet, has it?”
Perry shakes her head. “On paper, yes. But where it matters, in the accounts, there’s hardly any money in there. We were planning on him writing his memoir, covering everything from growing up poor in Texas to serving in the teams, and then a career in politics, and then the shock of being president. That book would earn him and his charitable foundation millions, and then the aid would start flowing, so never again would there be a homeless vet on the streets.”
She takes a deep breath. “But he hasn’t written a damn word! It’s always, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, or next week,’ while I’m trying to help Robert Barnett, his literary agent, negotiate a good publishing deal without even a damn outline. Now…he wants to go out on a revenge mission. You know it’s not going to work. It’s going to end in humiliation.”
“That might be,” Stahl says. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s going.”
“Yes, it does matter,” Perry says, voice firm. “If it fails, and you know it will, the publishers will stop returning my phone calls, and those vets he wants to help will be ignored.”
“Maddie, you’re making good points, but it’s above my pay grade. He’s doing it, and we can’t stop him.”
“Please, David,” she says. “Let the agencies hunt down Asim Al-Asheed. They have a lot more resources than Harbor could ever get on his own.”
Stahl starts to turn away from the president’s chief of staff, thinking he’ll have to wait a bit longer before getting his cold water.
“But they don’t have one thing, Maddie,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“A father who’s going to get the job done, no matter what it takes.”
Chapter
71
Lake Marie, New Hampshire
Alone in my office, which might make a good book title one of these days, the lights are dimmed, and I lean back in an old leather swivel chair that came with the place. The computer is off, and there’s no view out my small window, which is fine. No distant lig
hts over there on the lake, marking neighbors having fun and living life and laughing and talking amongst themselves.
The bookshelves in my small office are packed with histories, autobiographies, and reference books on military matters, and similar books are piled up on the floor. Samantha often teased me that I have too many books, and I retorted by saying, “No, the problem is, not enough bookshelves.”
What little bare plaster remains displays framed family photos, some faded color shots of me growing up in Texas with Lucille Keating, my mom, who died ten years back from lung cancer. My dad was Gus Keating, who worked on a rig in the Gulf of Mexico, got drunk on smuggled Jack Daniel’s, and fell overboard and drowned when I was five. There have been a number of books and studies concerning the SEALs, and one odd fact that has stood out is that most operators—like myself—either come from a broken home or were raised by single parents.
I’ve resisted the urge over the years to put up what I call a “See how great I am?” wall, with plaques, trophies, and framed certificates. That’s a sign of looking back, and I’ve always been one to look forward.
On my desk with the silent computer are the photos that mean the most to me: of young Mel growing up, of me standing proudly next to Samantha after she got her doctorate, and one taken here a couple of winters ago, in the snowy front yard, with the three of us standing and smiling amid the whiteness, ready for whatever was ahead for all of us during my post-presidency.
I pick up a yellow legal pad from a pile that Maddie Perry got for me months back, to help me write my autobiography. I get a pen and get to work.
No time to worry about the past, I think.
At my feet is a white-and-blue plastic Walmart bag, and I take out the first of about a dozen charged and active Tracfones purchased at various stores around the county. Using my personal iPhone as a directory, I make my first call overseas. It rings and rings and then an irritated voice with a touch of a Brooklyn accent answers.
“Who the hell is this?” demands Danny Cohen, retired head of Mossad. “And how did you get this number?”
“Danny, please, don’t hang up,” I say. “It’s Matt Keating.”
Instantly the tone of his voice changes, and he says, “Oh, Matt, Matt, so sorry to answer like that. My phone said unknown caller and—”
Interrupting, I say, “I’m using a disposable phone over here. Is yours secure?”
“It is,” he says. “Matt, again, Dora and I send you our deepest sympathies for the loss of Mel. Heartbreaking.”
“I know,” I say, the pen firmly in my grasp. “The card and the letter you sent us both were very much welcomed. But Danny…”
“Yes,” he crisply says. “You’re using a burner phone. This isn’t a social call. What kind of help are you looking for?”
“Everything and anything on Asim Al-Asheed, his friends, associates, anything that will give me a good lead on his current whereabouts.”
“You’ve got it,” he says. “How long are you going to have that disposable phone in your possession?”
“A day,” I reply, amazed at Danny’s quick and affirmative answer. “I’ll start with a fresh one tomorrow.”
He says, “Then feel free to call me, anytime, no matter what, for updates. I’ll get to work on this. I know your agencies are also looking for Asim, but we both know what happens when competing agencies are seeking the same information.”
I don’t need the reminder. The disaster of 9/11 could have easily been avoided if the CIA, FBI, Customs, and others had put aside their turf wars and if Congress had permitted cross-channel communications to allow these agencies to easily exchange data and intelligence.
Things have improved since that dark Tuesday, but there is still a ways to go.
I say, “Danny…this is incredibly generous. I was half expecting some pushback. Or a lot of questions.”
“I have no questions for you,” he says. “Because I know what you are planning. And it’s not my place to argue with you, or to try to discourage you. You know our history, Matt. We know the importance of family, and the importance of settling accounts, no matter the time, no matter the cost. Again, call at any time. I’m honored to assist. Shalom lekha, my friend.”
He disconnects the call. I rub at my eyes and get back to work.
The second call is nearly identical to the first, except the accent is a touch of Arab and British.
“Who is this?” is the sharp demand of Ahmad Bin Nayef, former deputy director of Saudi Arabia’s General Intelligence Directorate. “Where are you calling from?”
“From New Hampshire, Ahmad,” I say. “It’s Matt Keating.”
As with Danny, the tone of the voice changes. “Ah, Matt, so good to hear from you, and again, my deep condolences. How are you and Samantha doing?”
“Samantha is back at work, trying to get by, day by day,” I say. “Me, I’m doing my best…Ahmad, is this call secure? I’m on a disposable cell phone.”
“Yes, yes, quite secure,” he says, “or my nephew will be in great trouble otherwise. Matt, please, what can I do for you?”
“Anything you learn concerning Asim Al-Asheed’s whereabouts,” I say. “It doesn’t have to be one hundred percent. It can be anything that can be developed into a lead. Whatever you have that can be shared.”
A moment or two passes. “Are you sure, my friend?”
“Absolutely.”
“This is a dangerous task you are taking on.”
I say, “Are you telling me no?”
“Oh, Matt, not at all, not at all,” he says. “It’s just…and please take this with my deep and true affection, and with the greatest respect, but this is a job for a younger man. Or younger men. More recent in their skills and not, alas, with a healed fractured hip.”
“This needs to be done.”
“Yes, of course,” Ahmad says. “But let me offer you an alternative. If I am incredibly fortunate and somehow manage to get actionable information on Asim, I will personally do something with it. I could pass on the information to the responsible officials here in the Kingdom, but it may stay there and be analyzed and reanalyzed, and not be shared with your agencies. Some here in Riyadh, I am sorry to say, admire Asim Al-Asheed.”
Hard to hear, but I know Ahmad is right.
He says, “As for me, though, if I know where he is, through luck and the kindness of Allah, I can send a squad of men, very hard, very tough, trained by your SEALs and the British SAS, and they will do this job for you.”
God, what a tempting offer, but one I cannot accept, not if I hope to live with myself in the years ahead.
“Ahmad, I am touched and honored more than I could tell you,” I say, “but I have to do this myself. For…my family.”
He speaks briskly. “I entirely understand. You know how to contact me, and I promise I won’t bark at you the next time I see unknown caller on my phone screen. But at any time, Matt, my offer remains. We can do this for you.”
“Thank you again, Ahmad,” I say. “But I have to see this through on my own.”
“Very well,” he says. “Wadaeaan, Matt.”
After my second call ends and before I resume my work, I think of the oddity that just happened. Years ago, Danny’s grandfather and Ahmad’s grandfather no doubt hated each other, hated each other’s country and people, and each in their own way would have been greatly pleased to see the other destroyed.
Now?
Not only do their grandchildren secretly work together in that turbulent region to bring some form of peace and stability, but both are now working to help a former American president in his own personal mission.
Maybe there’s still some hope out there, somewhere.
I go back to my phones and return to the task at hand.
Chapter
72
Lake Marie, New Hampshire
It’s 2 a.m. in Montana when I make my third call. As the phone rings and rings, I wonder just who’s going to finally answer this landline to an isolated
farmhouse near the Beartooth Mountains owned by Trask Floyd, movie director and action star and former operator who supplied me with transportation to DC those long days ago. The phone rings for a long while and then a sleepy male voice answers, and says slowly and with distinction, “If you’re some starlet convinced that you belong in my next movie ’cause you can giggle on cue, go away. And if you’re a former operator looking for a handout, send your resume to my P.O. box. Other than that, you call again, I’m gonna chase you down and kick your ass.”
I say, “How about the former leader of the free world?”
A quick expletive, and the wide-awake voice now says, “Mr. President! Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize the number.”
I say, “That’s for a reason, Trask. I’m using a burner phone, and I’m calling on your landline. And please: it’s Matt.”
A yawn from the other end of the call. “Sorry, Matt, just an instant reaction. And damn, I’m still so sorry about Mel. Good Lord.”
“Appreciate it, Trask.”
“How did you know I’d be home?”
“Saw a Google news story about you attending a film festival in Boise,” I say. “I figured you’d probably bunk down after a romp like that.”
He starts to talk and then stops himself and says, “Burner phone, huh?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need?”
Good ol’ Trask, getting right to the point.
I say, “Two skilled operators you know and trust. They have to be recently retired or on extended leave. They need to be quickly available and be able to drop out of sight for a while with no questions being asked.”
The President's Daughter Page 25
