The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  Trask says, “Make it one. I’ll be the second.”

  “Trask, a great offer, but—”

  “Matt,” he interrupts. “I’m in as good shape as I was when I left the teams. I hit the range almost every day, and with me, you’ve got funds and options.”

  I say, “But I also have Trask Floyd, actor and movie director. Extremely recognizable, with lots of weird fans following your every move.”

  “And you?” he says incredulously. “The former president?”

  “The former president wearing ratty clothes, sunglasses, beard stubble, and a baseball cap,” I say. “Just another guy out there in a car or catching a flight. Ex-presidents are recognizable when they’re dressed well, surrounded by a group of Secret Service agents, making a speech, or appearing on a cable news show. That’s not what I’m going to do.”

  He says, “Then we should make it three. Matt, I want in.”

  “You get me two operators and some additional funds and support when I need it, then you’ll be in, Trask. Don’t make this any harder.”

  A sigh. “Okay. You got it. Two operators. Where should I send them?”

  “I’ll call you at noon, your time, in two days. That work?”

  “It’ll have to, now, won’t it?”

  “Thanks.”

  Trask says, “Okay, and if I’m not going to be riding shotgun with you on wherever you’re going, I’ll still be behind you. And if you come back with that son of a bitch’s head in a box filled with ice, we’ll have a celebration at my ranch that they’ll talk about for a hundred years. You be safe, Mr. President.”

  “Thanks, Trask,” I say, disconnecting the call. I pry open the rear of the Tracfone, remove the battery and the SIM card, and then snap the SIM card in two. I get out of my chair, and a few minutes later I’m at the end of the dock, a quiet late night on Lake Marie.

  The clouds have cleared the northern New Hampshire night sky. I take a moment to appreciate all those stars, and all those billions of galaxies out there. Some nights, a sight like this fills me with awe—to think of a Creator who put this all together. Other nights, it fills me with despair—to think of that grandeur out there, and yet on this little speck of dust, so much time is spent hating and killing.

  I toss the broken SIM card and phone into the dark waters of the lake and stop looking at the stars. I reach into my pants pocket and touch Mel’s ring, the one she left behind when she was kidnapped, and which was later returned to us by the FBI.

  “Asim,” I whisper, “I’m coming for you.”

  Chapter

  73

  Lake Marie, New Hampshire

  Secret Service agent David Stahl is outside the garage at President Matt Keating’s home, near Harbor’s workout shed, ready to go into town to run a few errands this early evening, when a high-pitched male voice calls out, “Hey, David! Before you leave. Got a sec?”

  Coming toward him with a big fake smile and happy eyes is fellow Secret Service agent Brett Peyton, and David keeps himself from sighing in disgust at the man’s approach. Peyton looks like some Homeland Security hiring officer’s dream agent: tall and well-built, tanned and toned, perfect brown hair that’s never messed up, and with a charming way about him.

  He’s also a favorite agent of Faith Murray, deputy assistant director in charge of the Presidential Protection Detail; she’s David’s boss and the woman who told him months ago to stop providing unofficial protection for Mel Keating. And in addition, for long weeks now, David has been pushing to have a deputy special agent in charge to assist him, and Brett has been named to that position.

  “Sure, Brett,” David says. “What’s up?”

  “Going into town?”

  No, you damn fool, David thinks, I’m taking a drive to Cape Cod.

  “Sure seems that way,” he says. “Can I get you anything? Some Green Mountain coffee? A cruller? Bottle of Moxie?”

  “No, no, no,” Peyton gently protests. “I just think it’s odd, that’s all. You’re in charge of this protective detail, and yet here you are, doing something that a rookie agent should be assigned to do.”

  “I like to get out on occasion, see what’s going on in the community, get a feel of the place.”

  “That’s in your official procedures, then?” Peyton asks, and David is reminded once again why Peyton is really here: not to assist in protecting Harbor or to help David, as his deputy, but to gather information and intelligence on David and the detail, so they can be publicly and loudly humiliated and fired at the appropriate time for letting the president’s daughter get kidnapped and murdered.

  “No, Brett,” David says, tapping the side of his head. “It’s part of my field experience. You should try it someday.”

  Peyton keeps on smiling, and David climbs into one of the four black Chevrolet Suburbans belonging to the detail and heads off to Monmouth.

  The access road is dirt but well maintained, and as he drives, he thinks about Harbor and what he wants. David is surprised at how thinking about this improbable mission has improved his mood, has charged up his batteries.

  There’s no way in hell it’s going to succeed, he knows, not with so much attention out there, keeping track of Harbor, but by God, he and Harbor and whoever else Harbor recruits are going to give it their best.

  Up ahead is a new wooden gatehouse, staffed by two of the new agents transferred here, and they wave him through, and he turns right, heading into the small village of Monmouth. He comes up against a roadblock maintained by well-armed troopers from the New Hampshire State Police, and they let him through as well. He spots the black bands around their badges—still mourning the death of Monmouth officer Corinne Bradford, who did so much to locate Mel Keating’s place of captivity.

  He notes with pleasure the reduced number of people crowding each side of the country road, ghouls looking for some sign of a sad and lonely Harbor. For more than two weeks, the town of Monmouth has been under siege from the news media and assorted losers, psychics, and attention seekers, and David wishes a winter blizzard would suddenly descend here, months ahead of schedule, to drive these people back to their sorry homes.

  Rodney Pace walks back and forth, back and forth, in the crowded dirt parking lot of Cook’s General Store, waiting, knowing that if he doesn’t see Matt Keating today, then it will mean another night of sleeping in the back seat of his old Monte Carlo sedan, and he’s not sure his back can survive that.

  Three days ago, he made a momentous decision to drive up here from his crappy and cluttered studio apartment in Baltimore, to personally meet the former president and explain what’s really going on, but his attempts to approach Keating’s lakefront home haven’t even come close to succeeding.

  Too many roadblocks, too many police, and most of all, too many people.

  In researching this rural place, Rodney learned that Monmouth is supposed to have a population of only six hundred or so, but in looking around the parking lot, he thinks it sure seems as though the town’s population has doubled in size. In the dirt parking lot are news vans from various cable channels and local stations, rental vans and cars, and people just wandering around with coffee cups, chatting and gossiping, all waiting.

  Not waiting for the search and rescue to end—no, those words have changed.

  It’s now a recovery.

  The body of Mel Keating.

  As if.

  The store looks like a rehabbed two-story Victorian-style yellow house, with a wide-open wooden front porch. Hand-drawn signs outside announce church-sponsored Sunday pancake breakfasts, hay for sale by farmers, raffles to help pay for someone’s kidney transplant. Inside, along the creaky wood floors that must be at least a hundred years old, boxes of cereal are for sale one aisle away from motor oil, and another aisle away from nail clippers and brushes for horses.

  Rodney’s stomach grumbles.

  His plan was to see the president, be rewarded for his efforts, but he is out of money, with less than a dollar in change in his right
jacket pocket.

  What now?

  A black Chevrolet Suburban pulls up across the narrow road, and a muscular man steps out, and Rodney stops walking back and forth, back and forth, awed by what he’s seeing.

  Secret Service agent.

  That’s who that man is.

  Right over there!

  Now all he needs to do is convince the Secret Service agent to take him to see President Keating.

  Rodney starts walking to meet up with him and puts his hand in his thin cloth jacket’s right pocket, grasping the butt of the Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver that belonged to his dad years ago when he was a cop in Baltimore.

  One way or another, Rodney is going to see President Keating.

  Chapter

  74

  Monmouth, New Hampshire

  Secret Service agent David Stahl gets out of the Suburban, starts walking across the narrow country road toward Cook’s General Store, shaking his head upon seeing the circus over there. Three weeks ago, he could have parked right in front of the store, maybe with two or three cars and a mud-splattered pickup truck or two in the gravel lot, and now there’s no space for any other vehicles. The store’s interior is always crowded as well, and instead of spending a fun few minutes chatting with Mrs. Grissom, the store’s owner, or her two sons, Clay and Todd, now David just goes in, does his business, and heads back to the compound.

  Today’s business is getting some coffee for the evening shift, as well as a few other odds and ends, and David hopes he can get out without some journalist recognizing him and asking questions, starting with, How did you let the president’s daughter get kidnapped and murdered?

  The porch and the parking lot are filled with those damn reporters, hangers-on, mourners, and thrill seekers hoping to see Harbor make an appearance or—more exciting!—to see a dark green van from the New Hampshire medical examiner’s office drive by, escorted by New Hampshire State Police cruisers, carrying the mortal remains of Mel Keating, age nineteen.

  To hell with them all.

  David changes his earlier wish for an off-season blizzard to strike these fools, and instead is wishing for Old Testament fire and brimstone to strike when he spots somebody coming at him who looks like an Old Testament prophet. Skinny, baggy jeans, torn tan jacket, scraggly beard, and thick greasy hair, one eye swollen, driven look on his face, and David thinks, Great: another one.

  There are Secret Service groupies, hangers-on, who want to pass on news about UFO landing sites or alien lizard–occupied office buildings, and this one—

  This one’s right jacket pocket is weighted with something heavy.

  Like a weapon.

  The man puts his hand into the pocket and says, “Agent Stahl, Agent Stahl, I need to see the president, right away!”

  The hand starts to come out, holding something, and David instantly responds.

  My God, how fast and mean that agent is, his hand going to his side, whipping out a baton that instantly expands, and the baton is cracked against Rodney’s hand, sending a bolt of pain through his entire right arm and shoulder.

  Rodney yelps and drops the revolver, and the baton swings again, hitting him at the back of the knees, and he tumbles to the ground. Strong hands are poking and patting and prodding, and there’s a snap-click as handcuffs are slapped around his wrists, and Rodney can’t help it, he starts to sob, thinking, Failed again, failed again, failed again.

  The agent is speaking into a radio, it seems—Rodney hears something like “…requesting a pickup at Cook’s General Store, one in custody…”—and then he’s rolled over onto his back.

  The Secret Service agent is glaring at him in anger, reminding Rodney of his university’s president staring at him with disgust throughout that damned hearing last year.

  Agent Stahl says, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  There’s gravel and dirt in Rodney’s mouth, and he spits it out and says, “Agent Stahl, it’s me! Don’t you recognize me?”

  The agent is standing over him, and then leans down some. “I…no, I don’t think so.”

  Rodney says, “It’s me, Rodney Pace. From the University of Baltimore. You…when I was a professor there, I taught some seminars at your Rowley Training Center. You were in two of my seminars, I’m sure!”

  Agent Stahl squats, looking closer. A ring of people starts to gather around, and Stahl says, “Professor Pace…it’s really you? Forensic sciences?”

  Sweet relief flows through Rodney. Maybe this will work out after all.

  “Yes, yes, that’s me,” he says.

  “You…what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I need to see the president—desperately so,” Rodney says. “I have vital information for him.”

  “What kind of information?”

  Rodney tells him and Agent Stahl’s angry face instantly changes, and he grabs Rodney’s upper arm, pulls him to his feet, and then starts briskly walking him across the street to the Suburban. Just before they reach the parked vehicle, Stahl says, “Hold on a sec.”

  Rodney’s wrists ache with relief when the handcuffs are removed, and Stahl quickly calls someone on his radio, speaking into his wrist microphone: “This is Stahl. Cancel my pickup request.”

  And then Rodney is put into the rear seat of the Suburban, and before he can even fasten his seat belt, Stahl is in the driver’s seat, roaring the engine to life, and the Suburban makes a sharp U-turn, tires squealing, and heads away from the store.

  Chapter

  75

  Lake Marie, New Hampshire

  I’m on the porch of my lakeside house, legal pad in my lap, lots of scribbled notes recording my day’s work. It’s now evening and I’m sure close to dinnertime, but I’m not that hungry. I don’t think I’ve been hungry in three weeks. The lights are on and various insects are battling and thumping against the porch screens.

  These past few hours I’ve been sketching out an operations plan, and setting aside the fact that I have no official support, no operators as of yet, no transportation assets, no tactical equipment or stores, and definitely no actionable intelligence, it’s been one hell of a productive afternoon.

  The door squeaks open and Agent David Stahl steps in. I look hard in his direction and he gives me a quick, mournful shake of the head.

  I don’t have to ask him anything. He’s just answered me. Mel’s body has still not been recovered.

  But it seems it’s his turn to ask a question.

  “Sir, will you come with me for a moment?” he asks.

  “Can it wait?” I ask.

  Surprise.

  “No, Mr. President, it can’t,” he says. “I need to show you something in the furnace room.”

  I get up, keep my pad and pen with me—I usually trust my detail, but I don’t really know the new agents yet—and follow David through the large and darkened living room, down a hallway leading to a bathroom and well-stocked pantry, and to a door, which David opens for me. We clomp down the wooden stairs, the lights already on, and emerge onto the dirt floor in this part of the basement. Lots of older homes up here still have dirt cellars, and I remember gently teasing Samantha that if she ever got tired of digging outdoors, she could start here and find out if there is anything interesting in our basement.

  “Like a hidden Indian burial ground,” I said. “That’ll explain the weird creaks at night.”

  And she shot back, smiling, “That still won’t explain the weird creak I share a bed with.”

  A happy lifetime ago, it seems.

  Up ahead is the confusing mass of pipes, vents, and wires, and the furnace and the dark fuel tank. Earlier, slabs of concrete were placed over the dirt. A workbench filled with tools is on the far side of the stone foundation wall, and an odd-looking man is sitting on a metal stool, next to the bench.

  On the bench is a large open laptop, its screen blank.

  “Mr. President,” David says, “this is Professor Rodney Pace. Used to be head of the forensic sciences d
epartment at the University of Baltimore.”

  The man smiles, nods. His thick dark hair is a greasy mess, and he’s wearing dirty jeans and a tan cloth jacket that’s torn and repaired with duct tape. He leans forward, offers a hand, which I automatically shake. The skin is cold and dry.

  “Ah, Mr. President, a true honor, and I have to admit that I’m a former department head and, alas, a former professor.” He sits back on the stool, shrugs, and says, “An unfortunate event involving a number of my students and a camping trip and certain illegal substances…well, a sordid story. Not enough time to discuss what happened to me and my career, but here I am.”

  I look in disbelief at David, and he says, “Sir, believe me, Professor Pace knows his forensics. Before he was forced to leave the university, he even lectured a few times at our Rowley Training Center, in Maryland. He’s the best in his field, knows his stuff, and he wants to show you something.”

  I look at the blank screen of the open laptop, and I know what’s hidden in there, in long strings of computer code, of ones and zeros: my daughter’s last moment broken down into something that could be saved forever.

  “I don’t want to see it.”

  David says, “I know, Mr. President. Believe me, I know…but please. Listen to what Professor Pace has to say.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask sharply.

  David says, “Sir, trust me on this. You have to see it cold. No preconceptions.”

  My legal pad feels useless and silly in my hands. I’m a former president, former SEAL, and former father. Not much of a legacy.

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  My visitor hops off the stool and goes to the keyboard. “It would have been best if I had the source video, could reduce the amount of pixelation and degradation for my examination, but we do what we can. Pay close attention, now.” He taps a few keys.

  A sound comes out, the anguished “Mommy, don’t—” and Rodney punches a key, and the audio goes silent, and there, in all their color and gore and excess, are the last few seconds of my daughter’s life, and I don’t look away, won’t look away. In the teams and when I was president, I saw enough grainy and bloody death videos to last several lifetimes, but this video is the only one that has woken me up in the middle of the night, shouting and with fists clenched in despair.