The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  In a demanding voice, his copilot asks, “Who’s back there? What’s the big deal?”

  Ray says, “Ginny, you don’t know, and trust me, you’ll never want to know. Let’s just get this bird up and running.”

  Chapter

  87

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  After FBI director Lisa Blair updates President Pamela Barnes about the search for Matt Keating—“We’re flooding the area with FBI agents, we’re working with local officials without alerting the news media, but he’s done a good job covering his tracks, Madam President”—Barnes stares again at the printout of the handwritten note that Matt Keating left behind at the breakfast place in upstate New Hampshire.

  To Director Blair she says, “What the hell does that last phrase mean?”

  Blair glances at the older male FBI agent sitting next to her—both are directly across from Barnes, in front of the Resolute desk—and says, “I’d prefer Dr. Abrams to explain that, Madam President. He’s the best forensic psychologist in the Bureau.”

  Barnes lifts a hand. “Just a moment. I want to read the damn thing again.”

  She looks once more at the clear and strong handwriting of her predecessor, the message directed to the head of Homeland Security, who is ultimately in charge of the Secret Service.

  Dear Secretary Charles,

  I’m writing this of my own free will, under no duress or the orders of any outside agency. My decision to depart my residence at Lake Marie is personal and is being done against the strong advice and recommendation of my Secret Service detail.

  No one in my detail should be blamed or reprimanded for my decision, and in fact, praise should be given to the head of my detail, David Stahl, who has decided to accompany me, knowing the irreparable harm it will do to his career.

  As to why and where I’m going…

  I am just going outside and may be some time.

  Sincerely,

  Matt Keating

  Barnes shakes her head. That damn handwriting. That same damn arrogance from a year and a half ago, when she read that letter he had placed in this very same desk.

  The letter in the Resolute desk from one president to another is a tradition to honor the peaceful transition of power, but that son of a bitch had to take it one step further on that January 20.

  Barnes focuses on Dr. Clint Abrams, the FBI forensic psychologist, and says, “Tell me. Do you think he’s telling the truth, that he’s not under duress?”

  Dr. Abrams, slim, well-dressed in a gray suit, and completely bald save for two bushy white eyebrows, says, “Yes, I do. Without a doubt. The handwriting is firm, not wavering or shaky. The voice he is using is strong, confident, and it’s very unlikely he’s written this with a gun to his head, or a knife to his throat.”

  Barnes taps the paper printout. “But that last line. The quotation. Where’s it from? What does it mean?”

  The FBI doctor says, “It’s a historical comment. From British Army captain Lawrence Oates. He was on Robert Scott’s expedition to the South Pole in 1912. They meant to be the first to get there, but they were beaten by Roald Amundsen, from Norway. By about six weeks.”

  Barnes says, “Damn fascinating, I’m sure, but what’s Keating saying?”

  Abrams says, “When the Scott expedition was returning to its base camp, it was slowed by vicious weather, and some of the expedition members became quite ill. Oates was one of them, with severe gangrene of his feet, and he knew his condition might end up killing everyone else. During a fierce blizzard, he left the tent and spoke those very words: ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ It’s considered one of the great acts of self-sacrifice and an example of the legendary British calmness under peril.”

  Barnes says, “But Keating’s not British, he’s not sick with gangrene, and he sure as hell isn’t walking out into a blizzard.”

  Blair says, “From my perspective, Madam President, it’s a boast. Or a statement. Matt is saying he might be sacrificing himself for some greater good, and he doesn’t care.”

  “Getting his daughter back,” Barnes says. “But we don’t know for certain if she’s alive. Or where she might be. That’s still being chased down.”

  “That’s true, Madam President, and—”

  There’s a sharp knock on the door, and Barnes’s husband and chief of staff strides in, face colored, looking incongruous in a tuxedo, dressed for a fundraising event later that evening.

  “We’ve got him,” Richard says. “He’s trying to fly out of the country aboard an Air Force refueling tanker, at a base up in New Hampshire. Looks like he’s got a couple of military folks with him. He’s no longer missing, Madam President.”

  “Where’s the aircraft headed?”

  “Rota, in Spain.”

  She says, “Southwestern Spain, right? Just a hop and a skip to North Africa.”

  Her husband, Richard, nods. “Absolutely right, Madam President. With armed men accompanying him, it looks like he’s conducting a search for his daughter.”

  Damn it, Barnes thinks, knowing what kind of media and political storm is about to descend upon her if word gets out that Matt Keating is starting a rescue mission on his own.

  Who’s in charge? Her or the former president?

  Barnes turns to the head of the FBI. “Director Blair, he can’t be conducting military operations on his own. You’ve got to send agents there and stop him.”

  The FBI director’s voice is skeptical. “Stop him from doing what? He’s ex-military and an ex-president. I’m sure he called in some favors to get aboard that Air Force aircraft. That isn’t against federal law, Madam President.”

  Barnes gives it right back to Blair, cold gaze to cold gaze, knowing that at some point this damn Keating appointee is going to get her due.

  “Very well,” Barnes says, and goes to her phone, picks it up. No time to debate with this stubborn FBI director. Protocol for what she’s about to do would be to go through her secretary of defense, but he’s currently on a tour in South Korea and Japan, and she knows she doesn’t have the time to make nice with the DOD bureaucracy.

  “Madam President?” her secretary, Paul McQuire, says over the line.

  “Paul,” she says, “I need to be connected immediately with the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon.”

  “Certainly, Madam President,” he says. “Hold on for a moment.”

  A brief moment of dead air. Barnes’s husband, the FBI director, and the FBI forensic psychologist are all looking at her. Despite her inherent dislike for the military, damn it, some days it’s good to be commander in chief.

  Her secretary’s voice returns and says, “Madam President, I have Army colonel Susan Sinclair on the line.”

  “Colonel Sinclair?” Barnes says.

  “Yes, Madam President,” says a woman’s voice.

  Barnes says, “There’s an Air Force refueling tanker departing Pease air base up in New Hampshire. The flight is going to Rota, Spain. I want that aircraft grounded. It is not to leave without my express permission. Do you understand, Colonel?”

  A brief hesitation, and Barnes imagines this colonel stuck somewhere in the bowels of the Pentagon with all the computer screens and equipment and memorized procedures and plans, and then getting a call like this.

  So what? she thinks. Do your damn job.

  “Yes, Madam President. I understand.”

  “Good,” Barnes says. “I don’t care if you have to contact the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the head of the base, or the pilot himself, but that plane is not to leave the ground.”

  “Understood, Madam President.”

  “Good,” Barnes says. “Contact the White House Office of Communications when you have confirmation, so I’ll know for certain that the aircraft has been grounded.”

  “Yes, Madam President.”

  “Very well.”

  Barnes hangs up the phone, and to Director Blair she says, “I don’t care how you do it, or wha
t laws get stretched or bent, but I want FBI agents to get to Pease and escort Matt Keating off that aircraft. Say we’re doing it for his own protection, or because we have concerns about his current state of mind, or because we need to interview him about a criminal matter—I really don’t care. Get Keating off that Air Force jet.”

  Blair says, “It might take some time, Madam President. We’ll need to coordinate with base security and its commanding officers to allow our agents on that field.”

  Barnes says, “With that jet not going anywhere, I’m not concerned with how long it’ll take.”

  She sees the approving look of her husband, Richard, and that makes her feel as though she’s doing exactly the right thing.

  A good feeling indeed.

  Barnes adds, “But I want it done.”

  Director Blair starts to get up, joined by Dr. Abrams.

  “Very good, Madam President.”

  Chapter

  88

  Aboard Granite Four

  Pease Air National Guard base, New Hampshire

  I’m sitting in the red webbed seating along the interior fuselage of the KC-135, fastening my seat belt, and next to me, Agent David Stahl says, “Not like the last time you flew out of Pease, am I right?”

  I have to smile. David is right. The interior of Air Force One is like a luxury hotel, the communications system is world-class, the meals are gourmet, and the sleeping arrangements are comparable to those in a four-star suite, though one that gets bumpy every now and then.

  And I was on Air Force One and at this base during that brutal primary season when my vice president was running an insurrection campaign against me. After I got my teeth kicked in at the Iowa caucuses, I flew here for a last-minute campaign blitz that resulted in a narrow win that gave me hope I could ride out Pamela Barnes’s challenge.

  That hope went nowhere, but I’m gambling my luck will change on this bare-bones Air Force jet, where I’m drinking bottled water and eating energy bars while trying to be comfortable in this old webbed seating. No windows, no outside view, just green-gray insulation on the jet’s airframe.

  I make two quick phone calls overseas, to Danny Cohen of Mossad and to Major General Ahmad Bin Nayef of Saudi Arabia’s General Intelligence Directorate, and I tell them of my plans.

  And each wishes me luck, and each tells me that he’s still working to locate Asim Al-Asheed.

  Across from me are Nick Zeppos, Alejandro Lopez, and Claire Boone. Alejandro is leaning back in the uncomfortable seating, arms crossed, eyes closed.

  Claire is playing a game on her iPhone.

  Nick is talking urgently to someone on a satellite phone, and then he grins at me, switches the phone off, unsnaps his seat belt, and strolls over, still grinning.

  He squats in front of me, lifting his voice as the jet engines whine louder and we begin to taxi out to the air base’s sole runway. “Got great news, Mr.—ah, Matt. Great news.”

  “Give it,” I say.

  “Just got off the phone with a bud of mine serving in a Team Six platoon,” he says. “They’re on a training mission in Tunisia. Guess where they’re stationed?”

  I nearly can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Sfax-Thyna.”

  A nod, a slap on my knee as he gets back up. “That’s right, Matt. That’s sixteen more operators coming along for the ride…and you know they’ll be on board once we get there and brief them. Transport, communications, heavy weapons…our odds just grew a hell of a lot in our favor.”

  We bump fists and he goes back to his side of the aircraft.

  David says, “That’s a good break, Matt.”

  “I’ll take every break we can get.” The jet engines whine higher, and I know we’re just moments away from takeoff.

  I close my eyes, like my brother Alejandro across from me.

  So many other times I’ve been on other military aircraft, eyes closed like this, listening to the whine of the engines—either jet or propeller—and getting ready for the upcoming mission. Highly trained, well equipped, going off somewhere for God and country, though the secret is, we never went out for God and country.

  We went out because of our team members, our friends, our comrades in arms.

  The same tonight.

  And we’re going out as well for my family.

  The engines whine higher, and there’s a slight surge, and I think, Mel, we’re coming…hang in there, we’re coming…

  It’s becoming real.

  And in a few seconds, it all comes apart.

  The engines whine down and the KC-135 eventually rolls to a stop.

  David says, “What the hell?”

  Even the dozing Alejandro opens his eyes.

  We wait.

  Claire still plays on her iPhone.

  The metal door to the cockpit flings open, and a shamed-looking Captain Josephs steps out, comes over to me, and shakes his head.

  “Sorry, sir,” he says. “We’ve been ordered to stand down. We’re not going anywhere tonight.”

  Chapter

  89

  Permanent Mission of the People’s Republic of China

  New York, New York

  Jiang Lijun of the Chinese Ministry of State Security is walking along East 35th Street in New York, wondering why his boss, Li Baodong, has summoned him back to the mission. Jiang isn’t giving in to the temptation to hurry his step. To his observers out there, a casual stroll would mean nothing, but hurrying would raise questions, increase attention.

  He will not hurry tonight, even though he is angry. A few minutes ago, he was with his wife, Zhen, and their daughter, Li Na, during some rare free time, delighting in seeing the child make her first stumbling steps across the living room while he and Zhen clapped and cheered her on.

  Then his watch vibrated, he went to his small office and made the phone call, and he abruptly said to Zhen as he left, “Work.”

  Just one word, but he saw the hurt expression in her eyes, and even Li Na seemed to note the change in her parents’ moods. Her little cries were the last thing Jiang heard when he left their condo.

  As he gets to the mission’s entrance, he wonders again if he’s getting too old and has become too much of a father to continue in his position, being overseas, being sent out on a job within seconds.

  How did his own father face these same challenges back when he was in service to his country?

  Jiang frowns. He would be able to ask him if not for the damn Americans who killed him.

  Eleven minutes later he’s in the basement concrete-cube office of the fat man who is his supervisor. After Jiang sits down, Li Baodong blinks behind his thick gold-rimmed glasses and says, “You made good time, Lijun. That should serve you well, since you are shortly about to depart New York City.”

  “Comrade?” Jiang says, suddenly fearful. Is he being reassigned? Sent home in some sort of disgrace? Reduced in rank and humiliated here among his peers?

  “Yes, you’re off to Libya. Soon.”

  Jiang says, “But Libya…why? I haven’t been there in two years.”

  The eyes of the fat mushroom across from him flash in anger. “Because your asset Asim Al-Asheed is back in Libya, and we have reliable information that Mel Keating, his kidnap victim, is still alive and with him.”

  “But the video of her execution…”

  “The Americans believe it might be fake, a bit of video magic,” Li says, drumming his fat fingers on his desktop. “Our experts agree. And our embassy in Tripoli has received reliable information that Asim Al-Asheed and his nephew are there. You’re to go to Libya and get the former president’s daughter out. No matter the cost.”

  Jiang is stunned at what he’s hearing. “I doubt he will change his mind, considering our last meeting.”

  Li arches a thick black eyebrow. “Ah, yes. Your meeting with Asim, in New Hampshire. You reported that Asim wouldn’t release Mel Keating into your custody, no matter how many entreaties you made, from threats to bribery.”

  Jiang nods. “
That is correct, comrade.”

  Li stares and stares and Jiang is suddenly quite uncomfortable. He has seen that look from this Pàng mógū—fat mushroom—before, and he knows what it means: a trap is about to be sprung, and Jiang knows it’s for him.

  “Well, let’s remember that,” his boss says, and he goes to his computer terminal and keyboard, taps out a few commands, and then rotates the screen so he and Jiang can see what’s being displayed.

  An overhead video, showing a small body of water, then trees, a dirt parking lot, and—

  A rental car from Canada.

  Two figures standing outside, talking.

  Jiang feels as though his arms and legs have gone dead.

  “Look familiar?” Li asks with sweet contempt.

  Trying to put confidence in his voice, Jiang says, “Yes. Williams Pond. Where I met with Asim Al-Asheed.”

  “Very good,” Li says. “Can you explain this, then?”

  Li depresses another key, and sound comes from the speakers, and Jiang’s stomach seems to want to crawl its way up his tight throat as he hears himself talking to that Libyan creature a few weeks back.

  “Congratulations, Asim. One professional to another, this has been one impressive operation. It must have taken years…”

  Some static—thankfully!—but the videotape continues to play as Li sits back in his chair, hands crossed over his plump belly.

  “Thank you.”

  “But what now, Asim?”

  “You know of…”

  More static.

  Jiang’s boss quietly says, “Did you think I was going to have you perform such an important mission without employing our own surveillance? Unfortunately, our drone program still has problems with its listening devices.”

  The videotape goes on, and Jiang feels sweat trickling down his spine.

  Keep your face calm, he says to himself. Show not an ember of emotion.

  Especially as the videotape goes to the final seconds of their meeting.

  His voice: “I can provide you with funds, means of transportation, weapons. Some intelligence…”