Samantha feels as though she’s on one of those Tilt-a-Whirl carnival rides from when she was younger, going in all directions, up and down and sideways, not even sure what is true and secure. This unexpected visit, Matt dropping in here without warning, it seems too good to be true, a dream that she’s in the middle of experiencing, a dream where Mel is still alive.
“Matt…are you sure? It looked so real!”
With confidence he says, “Faraj, Asim Al-Asheed’s cousin, spent months in Paris, studying film and special effects. That’s how it could have been faked. And there’s another piece of information.”
Now she’s afraid that if she says anything, she’ll burst into tears. Samantha just nods.
“If the beheading was faked, why not the location?” Matt goes on, still holding her tight. “Asim said he and Mel were still in New Hampshire. I found a geology professor from Dartmouth last night. He said the rock surface in the video isn’t from New Hampshire, or even New England. The video was recorded in Libya, in the Nafusa Mountains, where Asim is from and where he likes to hide out.”
“The floatplane,” Samantha says, finding her voice. “It took her north. To an airport somewhere. That’s why there was the delay in the videotape. They had to have enough time to fly her to Libya.”
Matt says, “Exactly.”
Samantha now feels incredibly light all over, as if she could float off the bed and gently bump into the ceiling if Matt wasn’t holding on to her so tight. “Matt, do you have that forensic professor with you? Or the geologist?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just Agents Stahl and Washington.”
“But…”
She stops. She knows what she’s feeling, what she is about to say. Evidence. You need solid evidence before coming up with a theory, especially a theory like this one, so welcome yet so unsupported. I want to believe, she thinks. I have to believe, but I need to see the evidence for myself. Before I start hoping again.
I need to see the evidence.
Matt says quietly, “Sam? You were going to say something?”
She squeezes his hand right back.
Trust him. Trust your man.
She says, “Yes. This information. Do you think anyone else has it? Somebody from the FBI or Homeland Security?”
“No,” he says. “Not right now.”
“Good,” she says.
Matt releases his grip to get a better look at her. “Sam? What did you just say?”
“You heard me,” she says, feeling stronger, happier. “What are the chances that if someone in the government found this out it would remain secret? Somebody might want to leak it to impress their husband or wife, or to get a favor from a news reporter. They wouldn’t care. It’s just another headline, another deposit in somebody’s favor bank. Or they would take their time, trying to confirm, and reconfirm, before doing anything.”
Matt stands up, holding her hands, bending down to kiss her, and then breaking away, his hands still in hers.
“Sam, I’m going to get our girl back.”
“I know you are,” she says. “You get Mel, you get her safe and you bring her home. But you’re going to do one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
She kisses his hand. “Once you get Mel back safe and sound, you kill that son of a bitch Asim.”
Chapter
79
Lake Marie, New Hampshire
Secret Service agent David Stahl watches as one of the two Boston Whalers owned by Homeland Security motors out to the flat and clear waters of the lake, and he stifles a yawn. He’s drunk three more cups of coffee than his usual daily ration, but he still feels as though he could close his eyes and sleep until the sun rises the next day.
A long, long night and early morning, driving straight through from Enfield to Hitchcock, Maine, and then back again to Lake Marie, traveling mostly on narrow country roads, twice dodging moose rambling out in front of the Suburban. On the way to Maine, Harbor briefed Agent Washington, and now she’s part of the rescue mission planning. David is confident that she has Harbor’s back.
Nice to trust your team.
He’s still running down a mental checklist for Harbor’s mission when he hears steps on the dock. He turns as Agent Brett Peyton, his supposed deputy here on the detail, approaches. David has the irrational feeling that if Peyton was out as long as he was last night, the guy wouldn’t look tired or even have a hair out of place.
“How goes it, Dave?” Peyton asks.
“It goes,” David says.
He wants to get back to his barn office but Peyton gently steps in front of him. Smile still firmly secured, Peyton says, “Odd that during my brief time here, I think I’ve found the root cause of why this detail failed. Too comfortable, too loose. Like your travels all last night with Harbor. No planning, no logistics. Just saddle up and go.”
David says, “Harbor was feeling stir-crazy, having been stuck here in the compound since he came back from Virginia. Agent Washington and I took him for a drive. His mood improved. Then he wanted to go see Harp. It’s been a while.”
Peyton still has that frozen, know-it-all look on his face, and he says, “Still. Unorthodox.”
“You know how it is, Brett,” David says. “You need to balance keeping the protectee safe with not keeping him or her stuck in a room, covered with bubble wrap. Keeping the protectee both safe and happy. A hell of a job, isn’t it? If most of your career had been spent in the field instead of behind a desk chasing down cybercriminals, you might be more aware of that.”
Peyton’s smile fades. “It’s an important job.”
“True, but not as important as protecting POTUS, other government officials, and foreign dignitaries,” David says. “That and counterfeiting were our original roles. Then some fools years back decided it was a good idea to do a power grab, get the Secret Service into areas it has no business being in, like cybercrime. Which seems to be the business you love.”
Peyton steps closer and now the smile is gone. “It’d be better for you and the agency if you and this entire detail resign. Within the week. I have it on good authority that the director and the secretary of Homeland Security would look favorably upon it.”
“But nothing in writing, I’m sure.”
“Of course not.”
“Well, I’ll certainly keep that under consideration, Brett. In the meantime, I’ve got lots of work to do.”
“Including additional unorthodox trips with Harbor?”
Those words make David feel as though he’s just had his feet nailed to the dock.
What the hell does Peyton know?
He keeps his voice controlled. “Within reason, certainly. Harbor’s not under house arrest. If he wants to leave the compound, we’ll make it work.”
“Suppose it’s another long trip? Like last night?”
David says, “Like I said, within reason.”
“That’s the situation, isn’t it?” Brett goes on. “You have a protectee who’s deep in grief, probably feeling guilt over what happened to his girl, guilt at knowing his actions as POTUS led to her death. It might pressure him to do something…unwise. And our job is to keep him safe and keep him grounded. Right?”
David knows he’s about thirty seconds away from tossing Peyton into the lake.
Brett lowers his voice. “Resign, already. You’re too close to Harbor. If he were to do something reckless, you might not want to stop him. David, you’d do him and the agency well by leaving. Sooner rather than later.”
David slowly nods. “From your point of view, Brett, I’m sure that makes sense. Leave. Wash your hands. Put your head down and bail out. But from where I stand, where I’m continuing to stand until told otherwise, leaving is another way of quitting.”
He walks forward, enjoying jostling Peyton as he passes him on the dock.
“If you had been in the Marines like me, you would’ve known I’m not a quitter,” David says. “And if you haven’t figured it out yet, neither is Har
bor.”
Chapter
80
First Congregational Church of Spencer
Spencer, New Hampshire
It’s just past 11 a.m. on a Sunday in this plain white Congregational church that was built when America was still only thirteen colonies, and I’m enjoying every minute of being here. I grew up in a small crossroads town in the flat plains of Texas, and its history—Native Americans, first settlers, cotton farms, conflicts here and there, and the joy of Juneteenth in 1865 and additional long years of drought and deprivation—could be written on a pamphlet.
In this town, first settled in 1758, the history fills three leather-bound volumes, and a retired history teacher from the local regional high school is hard at work on volume four. One of my quiet hobbies is reading up on the history of my new home and surrounding towns and retaining quirky bits of knowledge, like the fact that in this county, there are five fake Underground Railroad stations for every real one that helped escaping slaves cross the nearby Canadian border.
And why are so many fake?
Because it usually adds 10 percent value to the sale of historic homes.
Earlier, the pews were unbolted and stacked in the corner while I worked with other members of the church in the small kitchen in the rear. My specialty is flapjacks, which these stubborn Northerners call pancakes, and it’s good to be working hard in the small kitchen, with laughs and jokes and gentle ribbing as flapjacks, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, and French toast get passed out through a rectangular opening where church volunteers pick up the freshly cooked food and bring it out to the guests.
The church charges nothing for this Sunday feast, which is run by volunteers, and most of the food is donated, although there’s a large glass mason jar at the entrance for contributions. Mostly it’s a place to catch up with one’s neighbors, pass along the latest family news or gossip, and just maintain that elusive sense of community. As I help wash dishes, I get a warm feeling in knowing that this tradition has been going on for more than two centuries.
I grab a plate of flapjacks and bacon—volunteers eat last—and Agent David Stahl steps in and says, “Looks like you worked up quite the appetite, sir.”
“And I bet you’ve already eaten,” I say.
“Good guess, sir,” he says. “Here, this way.”
I follow his lead across the wooden floor, the old planks creaking, and I’m pretty much ignored by the guests finishing up their breakfasts, lingering over cups of coffee and tea. Another reason I like living around here is that in the true Yankee sense, people mostly mind their own damned business.
I approach a small folding card table underneath a large black-and-white photo of some stern-looking minister from 1901. Sitting there are two men, early thirties, one with a mustache, the other with a neatly trimmed beard, both wearing jeans and polo shirts. The one with the beard is wearing a plain red polo and his mustached seatmate is wearing a black one.
They nod as I sit down, and I say, “Enjoy your meal?”
“Pretty damn good,” the bearded one says, at my left. His companion nods.
An older woman volunteer smiles and comes by and drops off coffee in a chipped white mug, and I take a bracing sip. It’s made just the way I like: black with two sugars.
The bearded man starts. “Mr. President, I—”
I dig into my flapjacks. “Stop that. From now on, it’s Matt. All right?”
He knowingly nods. “Absolutely, sir.”
“Damn it, and cut out the sir crap, too.”
“Ah…” A pause, and then he says, “Habit. Sorry.”
“Not a problem,” I say. “Just as long as your buddy and you have kept other habits up to snuff.”
His companion says, “You got it. We’re ready to go wherever you need us.”
“Your status?”
The bearded man says, “Both of us on fourteen-days’ leave. And if that’s not enough, we’ll figure something out. We’re also geared up.”
I nod, continue eating. The flapjacks are delicious, of course, and despite New Englanders being New Englanders, I love their insistence on using real maple syrup. The first time I ever tasted the real stuff was when I moved up here eighteen months ago, and I’ve never looked back.
“Which teams are you with?”
The man on the right says, “Six. We’re both with Six.”
“And you know what you’ve volunteered for, right?” I say. “I’m sure you do, but I want to make sure there’s a complete understanding. This is unofficial, off-the-books, illegal, and even if it’s successful, prison time is a real possibility.”
The SEAL on the left says, “We’re all in.”
His companion says, “We want to make it right, for what happened to your daughter.”
My daughter!
I smile. “Since I’ve talked to Trask Floyd, the scope of the mission has expanded. It’s not just a zap mission. It’s also a rescue. That beheading video was faked. I’m pretty sure Mel is being held in the Nafusa Mountains, in Libya.”
I enjoy seeing the shocked looks on both of their faces. There’s a myth that SEALs are six feet tall with lots of ripped muscles on top of other muscles. The truth is, what counts in SEALs is the muscle between the ears. In BUD/S training, it was usually the overbulked and -exercised recruits who failed first. The ones who hung tough and kept their smarts about them were the ones who eventually got the tridents.
I reach into my coat pocket, pull out a slip of paper, slide it over. “A room’s been rented at this motel in Contoocook. I’ll see you there at noon tomorrow.”
“Going to be tricky for you,” the SEAL on the right says.
“Tricky is going to be our way of life over the next several days,” I say. “But before we go on, I’m sorry, I should have asked your names.”
The one with the mustache says, “Alejandro Lopez, bosun’s mate first class. I go by Al or Alejandro.”
“All right,” I say, and the other SEAL is smiling widely, like he’s keeping a wonderful secret, and by God he is.
“Chief Nick Zeppos,” he says. “And Matt, you can just call me Nick.”
His name. That familiar voice.
Me talking to him, more than two years ago.
From my chair in the Situation Room.
Now you squids body-bag that son of a bitch for the country, the SEALs, and especially for Boyd Tanner.
“Chief Zeppos,” I say. “Damn it, you were lead on that mission to nail Asim, more than two years back.”
He’s still smiling, but it’s not a friendly smile.
It’s the look of a wolf, ready to hunt.
“That’s why I’m here, Matt,” he says. “This time, we’re going to get it done.”
Chapter
81
Mary’s Diner
Leah, New Hampshire
Secret Service agent Brett Peyton is riding in the lead black Chevrolet Suburban as Harbor decides to have breakfast at a local greasy spoon about twenty minutes away from his compound. Another typical outing for a very atypical former president, and Peyton wishes the damn man would just stay in his compound and brood, mourn, and play poker—Brett’s own favorite card game is cribbage, depending more on smarts than on just damn luck—instead of going out like this. The pathetic guy seems to need and thrive on mingling with the so-called plain folks in these small northern towns.
Agent Kelly Ferguson, a slim Black woman, is driving this Suburban, and behind them is the second Suburban, with Harbor in the rear and Agents Stahl and Washington riding up front. There was a small crowd gathered by the state police roadblock greeting the two-vehicle motorcade, and Brett wonders if Harbor waved back at them through the tinted glass.
And it’s odd: Kelly seems to have read his mind. She says, “You think Harbor waved back?”
“Who knows?” he answers.
“Tarpon wouldn’t,” she says, using their code name for President Barnes. “Too busy reading, plotting against her enemies, or listening to her husb
and. But Harbor…he would. He’s that kind of guy.”
Brett laughs. “You’ve been here less than a month. Drinking the Kool-Aid already? He’s just a former POTUS. Nothing else.”
Kelly says, “That’s your opinion, nothing more. And those folks at that suicide temple in Jonestown didn’t drink Kool-Aid; it was Flavor Aid. Get your facts straight.”
“Shut up and drive,” Brett shoots back, and he’s slightly surprised at how angry he’s just gotten. The truth is that Agent Stahl and others on the original detail are getting under his skin. When he was transferred here, Brett expected a group that was shell-shocked about what happened to the president’s daughter, nervous about the hammer that was going to soon come down on them.
But the detail acted nothing like that. They moved around and did their jobs and responded to Harbor’s jokes and gentle teasing as though nothing had happened. It’s an open secret that he has been sent here to collect information for the upcoming hearings and disciplinary action, but for the most part, he’s been cheerfully ignored by the original detail.
And that earlier comment from Stahl at the boat dock about cybercrime also struck home, for most of Brett’s career has been with the Secret Service’s Criminal Investigative Division, in DC, working on cyber investigations and other financial crimes. A few years back he was transferred to Protective Operations as part of his crawl up the career ladder, and although he won’t admit it to anyone, he’s looking forward to getting out of fieldwork.
Mary’s Diner comes into view on Route 115 as Agent Ferguson flicks on the Suburban’s directional, and Brett notes the battered pickup trucks and old Volvos and Toyotas parked in the dirt lot. Not much chance of any cybercrime happening here, and truth be told, that’s why Brett is tired of being in the PPD. The long hours of just…standing around. That’s it. Just standing around, wasting time. He’d much rather be in a cool and protected office somewhere, nine to five in front of a computer terminal, being a hell of a lot more productive than he feels standing in front of some out-of-the-way diner while the protectee is eating ham and eggs and shaking hands with the locals.
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