The Suburban comes to a halt and he and Agent Ferguson slide out, joining Agents Washington and Stahl as Harbor exits the Suburban’s rear door, looking more relaxed and grungier than usual. Harbor is wearing a worn dark brown leather jacket, Dartmouth ball cap, blue jeans, and black sneakers, and it looks as though he hasn’t shaved in two or three days.
Stahl takes lead and goes into the diner—a one-story brick and wood building with a pitched roof, abutting a river at the rear—with Harbor right behind him and Washington riding tail. Brett nods to Ferguson and says, “Okay, then,” and Ferguson walks around to the rear of the diner while he maintains his post outside the front door.
He can’t help it.
Brett yawns.
An early-morning mist is hugging the dark green of the forested hills around this part of the town of Leah. There’s a gas station and convenience store across the street, a couple of smaller homes down the road, and, about a hundred feet away, a bigger, sagging yellow house that’s known around here as a Colonial. Brett grew up in Phoenix, worked in the Arizona Department of Public Safety before joining the Secret Service, and one big surprise is seeing how old everything around here is. Hell, Phoenix didn’t become an official city until 1881 or thereabouts, and folks here don’t think it’s a big deal to own a house that was built in the 1700s.
He yawns again.
Brett thinks that one day somebody should write a book called Boredom: A Secret Service Agent’s Memoir.
From his earpiece, he hears from inside the diner, “Stahl here with Harbor.”
Brett speaks into his wrist—“Roger that”—and there are echoing responses from Ferguson and one of the on-duty agents back at the former president’s home.
“Lake Marie, acknowledged,” says a woman’s voice.
More than an hour later, Brett is pacing the dirt lot, no longer bored.
What the hell is taking Harbor so long?
Over the last hour, there have been quick updates from Stahl, all repeating the same thing: “Harbor is secure.”
But doing what? Working on his third breakfast?
Brett brings the wrist microphone to his mouth and says, “Ferguson, is Harbor back there helping to empty the trash?”
“Only thing going on back here is a turf war between chipmunks and squirrels,” she replies via his radio earpiece.
He says, “Stahl, this is Peyton. What’s your status?”
An older couple walks out of the diner, the man saying, “Don’t know why you have to overtip all the time, Jenny…”
No answer.
“Stahl, this is Peyton. Reply, please.”
The older couple climbs into a dark blue Volvo sedan. She starts the engine, and they drive off on the narrow and empty country road.
What the hell?
“Ferguson, this is Peyton,” he says, voice tight. “Something’s wrong. I’m going in.”
Ferguson says, “See you inside.”
He slides his light jacket aside, hand on his SIG Sauer P229 semiautomatic pistol, and he quickly enters the diner.
Snapshot view.
Tables and booths to the left.
Counter with round stools in front, half or so occupied.
Everyone here turning their heads to look at him, and then to see Agent Ferguson come in through the kitchen area from the right.
No President Keating.
Nor Agent Stahl.
Nor Agent Washington.
A bone-thin white-haired woman wearing black slacks and a pink top comes by, expertly balancing a tray on her left shoulder, and Brett steps in front of her. “President Keating! Where is he?”
She shrugs. “He went down there a while ago.”
“Where?” Brett demands. “Went where?”
She gestures with her free shoulder to the far corner of the diner, where there’s a closed wooden door next to towering piles of cardboard boxes, and he gets to the door, throws it open, sees a staircase leading to a cellar.
Light switch on.
Agent Ferguson is right behind him.
Down the worn wooden steps to the cellar, low ceiling.
“Mr. President?” he calls out. “Stahl? Washington?”
There are two freezers, shelves filled with canned goods. Ferguson slides past, and there’s a roaring in Brett’s ears, hands cold, now holding his SIG Sauer, thinking, An ambush? Another kidnapping? Why no gunshots?
“Peyton! Over here!”
He goes around a set of shelves to an old brick and stone foundation, and there’s a heavy wooden door set in the center. Ferguson tugs the door open, steps through, flashlight in hand, lighting up the interior.
A brick-lined tunnel, going into the darkness.
Brett stands next to Ferguson. “Holy shit,” he says.
A woman’s voice behind them—“Nothing holy about it”—and there’s a laugh.
Brett turns, and the older woman with the black slacks and pink top is there, wrinkled face smiling. He says, “What is this? A storage room? Root cellar?”
A firm shake of the head. “Nope. Smugglin’ tunnel, back during Prohibition.”
Ferguson says, “Where does it go?”
“About a hundred feet, over to the Trainor house. Back in the day, the boats would come down the Trinity River from Ontario, with all that fine Canadian whiskey and beer. They’d drop it off at the house, and then it’d get brought over here through that tunnel, back when this place was a roadhouse. Exciting times.”
Ferguson says, “Peyton, we’ve got to get the word out.”
Before Brett can reply, the older woman digs into her slacks, pulls out a folded envelope, and says, “You Agent Peyton, Secret Service?”
He nods.
“This is for you, then,” she says, passing over the envelope.
The envelope is buff ivory, professionally made, and in the upper left corner is the seal of the United States, and under that the words OFFICE OF MATTHEW KEATING.
Brett’s own name is handwritten in the center.
He tears open the envelope, quickly reads the single sheet of paper, knowing with a sharp clarity, like a lightning bolt nearby, that both his career and the former president are gone.
Chapter
82
Autumn Leaves Motel
Contoocook, New Hampshire
The largest room the Autumn Leaves Motel offers is crowded this morning, with myself, Secret Service agent David Stahl, and the two Navy SEALs, Alejandro Lopez and Nick Zeppos, who earlier undid the frame of one of the two beds and put it and the mattress and box spring up against a wall.
Piled in one corner are variously sized duffel bags containing our equipment, and on the thin blue carpet a large-scale topo map of Libya is spread out. We’re drinking coffee from a local Dunkin’ as our planning continues.
Hard to explain, but I feel pride, hope, and exhilaration being with these fellow warriors, preparing to go into the field one more time. The cliché of Shakespeare’s famed Henry V speech before the Battle of Agincourt—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother
—is a cliché because it’s true.
These men here, no matter the outcome, will always be my brothers.
To the head of my Secret Service detail I say, “David, how long before the Secret Service gets mobilized and starts beating the bushes for me?”
“Never,” he says.
Even the two SEALs seem to sit up and take notice. “Why’s that?” I ask.
David says, “Once you left Secret Service protection, it became an FBI matter. The same when Mel was kidnapped. The FBI took control.”
Alejandro smiles. “But he hasn’t left Secret Service protection. You’re still here, eh?”
David doesn’t smile in return. “Official protection, not what we’ve got going on here. Once the…once Matt left, it became the FBI’s responsibility. Word probably went right to the top, to Dir
ector Blair, and they’re gearing up right now to start the search. It’s going to be one intense effort, sir.”
I say, “But the note I left behind at the diner—won’t that buy us some time?”
David says, “Doubtful. The FBI can’t take that letter at face value. They’ll have to assume that this is part of a kidnap plot, maybe a follow-up to Mel’s kidnapping, and respond appropriately.”
“Good,” I say.
Now all three of my fellow brothers-in-arms are staring at me. Nick says, “Sir?”
“Good,” I repeat. “By now Director Blair has briefed President Barnes. Do you think she wants word to get out that I’ve disappeared? After the news leaks and columns about their botched response to my daughter’s kidnapping? No, they don’t want the added humiliation. That’s the biggest reason governments keep secrets. Not because they’re sensitive. Because the secrets are embarrassing.”
Alejandro says, “It’ll get out eventually.”
“Sure,” I say. “In a day or two. And by then, we’ll be in North Africa, God willing and the crick don’t rise. And if Agent Washington makes good distance before being picked up.”
Secret Service agent Nicole Washington, devoted to her career and to protecting me. A Black woman from Anacostia in DC, and not the part of Anacostia that’s being gentrified with cafés and brick sidewalks. When I asked her to do this one task that has a good chance of ruining her life and career—drive on back roads through rural Maine carrying my iPhone and David’s Android and radio gear, in case our searchers can track those instruments—she just nodded and said, “It’ll be an honor, Mr. President.”
What did I and the country ever do to deserve such people?
I take a sip of strong coffee. “Back to the original question. Where do we insert in Libya? I can make some calls, get us private transport from one of my deep-pocketed donors…though it might take some time, finding a transatlantic jet to get us there.”
David says, “Libyan customs might frown upon letting us in with all that gear we’re carrying.”
I say, “Then our air transport goes for a private strip. Money gets passed around, the Customs folks decide all at once to kneel down and tie their shoes as we depart. But what next? Steal or rent some ground transport and make a high-speed run to the Nafusa Mountains, hoping we get actionable intelligence by the time we arrive?”
Alejandro shakes his head. “Mr. President, I—sorry, Matt. I don’t like it. I was there six months ago. Libya is damn fragile, especially once you get out of the coast cities like Tripoli or Misrata. There are pretty much only two major highways that run into the interior from the western part of the country, and you stand a good chance of running into armed checkpoints. Depending on who’s getting paid and what day of the week it is, those checkpoints could be regular Libyan army, militia, or tribesmen looking for tribute. Too messy.”
I nod. “Good point. Plus, I’m sure our Chinese friends are all over the place, still pouring money into their Belt and Road Initiative. They see four Americans show up at any airstrip, we’ll have a ground asset or drone following us as soon as we leave the runway.”
Nick leans over the large map, taps a finger, and says, “Tunisia. We get to Tunisia, at their air base at Sfax-Thyna, on the coast. They have a unit of the Groupe des Forces Spéciales—their Special Forces group—based there. Me and a platoon spent five months there last year, doing training.”
I like what I’m hearing. “Go on, Nick.”
“With some…encouragement, I bet we can get them spun up for a training mission. And if it goes cross-border into Libya, well, navigation accidents happen all the time. But that’s a closed base. No civilian aircraft allowed.”
“Then we’ll get over there on a military flight,” I say, staring at the detailed map of Libya while my mind sees a map of New England. “Vermont has an Air National Guard unit at Burlington, but only F-35 fighter jets are stationed there. No good. And Maine’s Air National Guard base is up in Bangor, and that’s at least a four-hour drive away, and gents, we don’t have four hours. It’s going to be Pease, over on the New Hampshire coast. In Newington. Less than an hour away if we push it.”
David says, “What’s there, Matt?”
“Refueling tankers, both the KC-135 and the newer KC-46. Both have the range to get us there. But getting us on one of those aircraft…”
I fall silent, knowing that with the right phone calls, I can get the necessary information as to what refueling jets are stationed at Pease: Are any leaving within the next several hours, and oh, by the way, are any of them going to the Mediterranean, and would it be any problem to take along four passengers with enough weaponry to go up against a squad of ISIS fighters?
But making phone calls means leaving digital crumbs out there for the FBI or the White House to locate.
What to do, what to do, what—
A firm knock on the door.
We all look in the same direction.
The knock comes back, harder.
I say, “If that’s the FBI, then I’m seriously impressed.”
Nick says, “Hard to believe, sir. We paid for the room in cash. With black IDs. There should be no trace that we’re here.”
Another knock and I say, “Dave, answer the damn door. We don’t need anybody out in the parking lot reporting a disturbance. Nick, fold up the map.”
Alejandro says, “Maybe you should hide out in the bathroom.”
The suggestion irritates me. I sit in the corner, pull a plain black baseball cap down on my head. “I’m not hiding, but Dave, get rid of whoever’s out there.”
Nick quickly folds up the map and Alejandro pulls a sheet from the disassembled bed, tosses it over the pile of black duffel bags containing our gear. Dave goes to the door, unlocks it, opens it.
A slim young woman is there, early twenties, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with a red anarchy symbol on the front. Her red hair is cut short and she’s wearing plain black-rimmed glasses, and she says, “Oh, good, you haven’t left yet.”
Dave says, “Excuse me, what did you just say? And who the hell are you?”
She ducks down, picks up a computer bag and her own black duffel bag, and comes into the room seemingly without a worry in the world. She spots me, drops her stuff, and nods.
“Mr. President,” she says. “Claire Boone. National Security Agency. I was here a couple of weeks ago as part of the response to help find your daughter, and that sure as hell turned into a goat rope of epic proportions, didn’t it? Let’s do it right this time, okay?”
I take off my baseball cap, stand up. “What do you mean, do it right?”
She dumps her computer bag onto the remaining bed, unzips it, and takes out a laptop, and then sits down on the bed next to it. “We need to get to the Med as fast as we can, and I think I’ve got an asset lined up.”
The NSA woman powers up her computer and looks around at the four silent men standing in the room. “What, you can’t speak? You want me to leave?”
“No,” I say, stepping toward her and her laptop. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Chapter
83
Autumn Leaves Motel
Contoocook, New Hampshire
As Claire’s computer comes to life, I say, “I…how in the world did you find us?”
Nick says, “Yeah, I was thinking that, too. Damn it.”
His SEAL partner adds, “Me, too, Chief.”
My Secret Service escort says, “Sir, I know her. She is with the NSA. I was with her in the joint agency debrief after that raid on the house in Monmouth. The house where we thought Mel was being kept.”
Claire glances up at David. “Gosh, doesn’t that feel sweet? Being told by a man what I’ve already told you all a few seconds ago. Make you feel special? Smart?”
David seems at a loss, and I don’t blame him.
She looks to her computer screen and says, “As to how I found you, it was all numbers. We all use math every day, even when we don’
t realize it. Predicting the weather, designing software, making money. Math is logical. It’s rational. And it can’t lie. When I found that a local airport has had an unexpected uptick in car rentals, as small as it was, I took notice. And a rural motel on the edge of bankruptcy makes a large cash deposit? That got my attention, too. And when the passenger manifest for said airport listed two passengers with too-perfect IDs and backgrounds, a little more digging revealed who they really were.”
Claire sighs with pleasure. “Then there’s you, Mr. President. Do you realize how many heads are exploding in DC because of your disappearance? Books will be written, news specials…that is, if you get to the Med and get Mel back.”
My mouth dries right out. “You…they know my daughter is alive?”
She works the keyboard. “No concrete information, I’m afraid. Various theories and suppositions. It seems that there’s digital evidence that the beheading video—ugh, I couldn’t watch it—was a deepfake, and that the filming probably didn’t take place in the White Mountains. But nothing actionable. There are meetings, debates, arguments, seminars…you know DC: it’ll take a couple of weeks to make up their mind. And then they’ll be wrong…ah, okay, here we go.”
The room is quiet, save for Claire’s fingers working the keyboard. “Pease Air National Guard in Newington. The 157th Air Refueling Wing. They’re participating in a large-scale exercise in the eastern Mediterranean, centered at Naval Station Rota, in Spain. One of their aircraft was delayed in deploying for twelve hours because of a maintenance issue. This KC-135…looks like its call sign for the upcoming mission is Granite Four. It’s departing in ninety minutes. I’ve done what I can, Mr. President. It’s up to you to get us on that aircraft.”
I feel like I’m on a dream movie set, with everyone else knowing their lines and roles, save for me. “Claire…why are you doing this?”
She smiles. “Don’t you recognize me, Mr. President?”
A faint flush of embarrassment. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
The President's Daughter Page 29
