The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  “Why would you do this…?”

  “My business. And I have put my career and life…”

  “…I will consider your generous, and unofficial, offer.”

  More static, and then the video goes black, and Jiang’s heavyset boss sighs and reorients the computer screen back to his own private view.

  “That doesn’t sound like you were trying to convince him to return Mel Keating to you, now, does it?”

  Jiang tries to stay relaxed, face impassive. “That recording…sections are missing.”

  “Ah, so the sections where you follow orders and try to convince Asim to release the president’s daughter—those are the missing ones. How convenient.”

  Jiang slightly shrugs. Don’t wilt, he thinks. Make Li talk.

  His boss shakes his head, jowls quivering. “You’re to leave at once and get to Libya, meet up with your old connections and assets, and get Mel Keating. Understand? Whatever it takes. Get her.”

  Jiang stays quiet, his emotions roiling, knowing how close he came to being executed for disobeying orders.

  Li says, “Something concerning you?”

  Jiang says, “I know it’s coming from Beijing, but I hate aiding the Americans.”

  “Because of what they did to your family in 1999?”

  “Among other things,” Jiang says. “But yes, I hate them because they murdered my father.”

  “Would you think otherwise if the Americans hadn’t murdered him?”

  Jiang tries to keep his voice calm and collected. “But they did murder him, by bombing our embassy. It was an unprovoked attack by their Air Force, and the Americans tried to cover it up by blaming it on an inaccurate map.”

  Li smiles and scratches at his left ear. “Yes, that was a particularly stupid cover story, wasn’t it? But many want to believe in the dumb, bumbling Americans raining bombs from the skies, so the cover story was mostly accepted. But what happened there, it wasn’t unprovoked.”

  Jiang can only say, “Comrade?”

  A sad shake of Li’s head. “During those NATO bombing attacks to convince the Serbs to stop massacring their Muslim neighbors, the Serbs shot down one of the American stealth aircraft, their F-117 Nighthawk. The Serbs gathered up all the wreckage they could and made a deal.”

  “A deal?” Jiang asks.

  “Yes, a deal,” his boss says. “NATO was bombing the shit out of the Serbs’ military communications systems. And the Serbs offered us the F-117 wreckage—giving us about a five-year advance in stealth technology—if we would allow them to transmit military orders and information from our embassy basement. We were never sure whether NATO tracked down the source of those transmissions, but the American bombing destroyed that Serb military facility in our embassy. They said it was a mistake, and we pretended to believe them. We lost three of our dear comrades, including your father, but we gained so very much in stolen American technology.”

  Jiang licks his dry lips.

  Li leans over the desk, voice stern. “Put away your irrational hatred of the Americans over your father’s death and do your job. Get the president’s daughter back in our custody. Beijing needs something to thaw our relations with Washington, and this teen girl is the key. Now get out of my sight.”

  Jiang stands up, nearly stumbles over the chair, and walks to the exit, thinking of how many times he and his mother have burned joss offerings to the memory of his father, including elaborately created mansions of paper, to honor his spirit in the afterworld and to vow revenge for his needless death.

  Now Jiang feels as though his entire life and drive have turned into a joss structure, intricately made and created, only to go into ashes with just one spark.

  Time to do what is right.

  Rescue the president’s daughter for Jiang’s party and country.

  Chapter

  90

  Georgetown University

  Washington, DC

  Samantha Keating is in her room at the Georgetown University Hotel and Conference Center in Washington, DC, about ten minutes away from attending a cocktail party and reception for the five-day annual meeting of the Society for American Archaeology. She feels tired but also excited, knowing that Mel is alive and that Matt and his crew are now on their way to rescue her.

  She thinks, Matt will get it done.

  Samantha won’t allow herself to think anything else.

  Even coming here is something she is surprised that she’s done. She has a nervous energy these days: she’ll move around, read a newspaper, put it down, look at a television program for a few seconds, and then switch to another channel.

  But here in Georgetown, at least she will be busy with something, not sitting back at that motel in Maine, staring at her phone, watching the minutes ooze by, wondering when Matt might be in Libya.

  Waiting, always waiting.

  No.

  Better to be doing something, even if she’s back in the city she has hated for years.

  At the annual meeting’s official opening tomorrow night, she is to present the Gene S. Stuart Award for the best article on archaeology that appeared last year in a newspaper or magazine, and she’s feeling a bit giddy, hoping that by the time she gives that award, another award will have been presented to her half a world away.

  The safe return of Mel.

  Her quiet, hopeful mood is disturbed by the ringing of her iPhone.

  She picks it up, seeing the digits of the incoming call and recognizing them as coming from Matt’s burner cell phone.

  Sam looks at her watch.

  Shouldn’t they be in the air by now, over the Atlantic?

  Oh, God, something’s wrong.

  She answers the phone. “Matt?”

  “…grounded.”

  The reception is awful.

  She walks to the window, puts a finger in her left ear. “Matt, I can’t hear you! What did you say?”

  “…flight has been grounded. We’re still at Pease.”

  “Who did that?”

  The reception suddenly clears up. “The order came straight from the Pentagon,” her husband says, voice tight with anger. “Which means the secretary of the Air Force was overruled. And that means the White House, Sam.”

  She closes her eyes tight. “What now?”

  He says, “I’m working through options, Sam, but it’s not looking good…”

  The reception dies for a few seconds.

  “…I’m not giving up. Trust me, Sam. I’m not giving up. Hold on. The pilot’s coming out again…gotta go.”

  He disconnects the call, and she lowers the cell phone.

  Not giving up.

  “Me, neither,” she says.

  Sam rummages through her luggage for a moment, gathers up her purse, a light wrap, and then leaves her room behind.

  She waits and waits in front of the elevator.

  Waiting.

  Ding!

  An older couple, well-dressed and looking as though they’re going out to dinner, joins her as she finally enters the open car. She punches the button for the lobby, stares at the door sliding shut, thinking, Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  The elevator starts moving.

  “Excuse me?” the man says.

  Samantha ignores him, watching the floor indicator lights flicker.

  The White House grounded Matt’s flight.

  Somehow President Barnes or her husband found out about Matt’s flight.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the man persists. “Aren’t you…”

  Ding!

  The door slides open.

  “No,” Samantha snaps, and then quickly moves through the lobby, staying focused, not catching anyone’s eye, ignoring the few calls of “Hey, Dr. Keating! Dr. Keating!”

  Blessedly outside.

  A well-dressed doorman. “Ma’am?”

  “A taxi,” she says. “Please.”

  He lifts his arm, a green Diamond cab rolls up, and she fumbles in her purse, slips two one-dollar bills into the doorman’s hand.
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  In the cab.

  “Yes, lady?” the driver asks.

  “The White House.”

  He turns to her, grinning, the look of a DC resident who knows a lot more than this woman from out of town.

  “Lady, it’s late,” he says. “No tourists allowed.”

  “Fine by me,” Samantha says. “Get me to the White House gate at 15th Street Northwest. And make it quick.”

  The taxi driver pulls out onto West Road and Samantha sits back, hand up to her face, hoping she has the courage to do what must happen next.

  Chapter

  91

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  President Pamela Barnes steps away from the Resolute desk, picks up the soft leather dispatch case that carries her evening reading, which is done up in the family quarters. Memoranda, email printouts, and briefing papers. The evenings of sitting back, sipping her whiskey, and leafing through the Washington Post or the New York Times are long gone.

  Richard, lured by his love of racehorses, is at a charity event in Georgetown for the Equus Foundation. Since Pamela has always been allergic to horses and really wants to spend the night here, Richard is off on his own.

  Which is fine.

  After finding out about Matt Keating’s mad plan for a rescue mission overseas—the latest news is that FBI agents are en route to the halted aircraft—Barnes thinks that a quiet night is just what she needs.

  She shudders to think of what might have happened if he actually made it overseas. Suppose he was killed? Or captured?

  And she tries to forget what Richard told her just before he left: Pam, imagine he succeeds…that would be worse than him being caught or killed.

  True, as much as she hates to admit it.

  The curved door to the Oval Office opens, and one of her staff members, Lydia Wang, dressed in a black pantsuit, steps in, looking concerned.

  “Madam President?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  She says, “Ma’am, the Secret Service is reporting a situation at the 15th Street Northwest gate.”

  “What, a trespasser? Somebody making a threat?”

  “No, ma’am,” Wang says. “It’s Samantha Keating. She says she needs to see you, right now, and she won’t take no for an answer.”

  A few minutes later, Barnes is back in her chair, hands clasped in front of her on the desk. The dispatch case is on the floor.

  Cold anger is flowing through her, like a harsh mountain stream pushing everything aside.

  The door opens and Samantha Keating walks in. She’s dressed nicely but her hair is in disarray, and her face is taut, making her prominent nose seem even larger.

  “Madam President,” she says, approaching the desk. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Glad to do it,” Barnes lies, thinking, How dare you threaten me, how dare you come back to a place where you don’t belong, how dare you…

  Barnes knows with 90 percent certainty why Samantha is here, but she’s damned if she’s going to make the first move.

  Let her work for it.

  Barnes motions to one of the chairs in front of the desk. She doesn’t get up, doesn’t offer a hand or an embrace.

  “Have a seat,” Barnes says, not bothering to offer a drink or anything else. “And please, can you make it quick? I have a stack of official papers to review and sign off on before I can even have dinner sent up.”

  Samantha sits down and says, “I’ll make it quick. There’s an Air Force plane about to fly from a base up in New Hampshire. My husband and others are on it. Please allow it to leave.”

  Barnes offers a chilly smile. “Why in the world would I want to do that?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do, Madam President. Matt is on a mission. Please let him do it.”

  Barnes firmly shakes her head. “No. Not a chance.”

  “Please,” Samantha says.

  “No,” Barnes quickly replies. “This country has one president, one foreign policy, one Department of Defense. I can’t allow your husband to go out on a rogue mission, grieving as he may be. Trust me, Samantha, we’re doing all we can to bring Mel’s killers to justice.”

  Samantha says, “That’s just the point. Matt thinks she’s still alive.”

  How the hell did he get that information? Barnes thinks.

  “Perhaps,” she admits aloud. “Our own intelligence and military professionals are exploring that possibility. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to allow an armed former president of the United States to fly on a military aircraft on a personal matter. No matter how much he is grieving. I can’t allow it to happen.”

  “Pamela…”

  She says, “Madam President, if you don’t mind. And besides everything else I’ve said, I can’t have a former president expose himself to possibly being wounded, captured, or killed.”

  Barnes makes a point of looking at her wristwatch. “Now Samantha, as I said before, I have a lot of papers to review and sign tonight. I’m sorry I can’t allow Matt to fly overseas. I have to ask you to trust the professionals in this. If there’s evidence that Mel is alive, we’ll track her down and find her. We won’t let anything get in our way.”

  Samantha’s voice is so slight that Barnes has to strain to hear it: “Like when you refused to pay the ransom? Is that what you mean by not letting anything get in your way?”

  Barnes stands up, reaches down, and picks up her dispatch case. “Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers or on the Internet. I thought you would have learned that when you were in the White House.”

  Samantha remains seated. “And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

  Barnes is standing behind her desk, wondering how in God’s name she can get this woman out of here without having the Secret Service grab her arms and drag her out.

  “Nothing,” Barnes says.

  Samantha reaches into her purse, pulls something out, and gently drops it in the middle of the Resolute desk.

  “How about something that can destroy your presidency in the next forty-eight hours?”

  Chapter

  92

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Samantha Keating feels a sharp sensation of satisfaction upon seeing the president look at the thumb drive and then slowly sit down behind the historic desk that was once Matt’s.

  She remembers all the times she’s seen Matt defeat his home Secret Service detail while playing poker through the night, even when the cards weren’t in his favor. Once he said, Sam, it’s all in the way you handle yourself. If you can stay calm and collected, you can win with a pair of deuces. But if your opponent sees your eyes flicker, your hands tremble, or you look away…they’ll go through you like a buzz saw.

  High stakes poker, Samantha thinks.

  That’s what she’s playing tonight.

  “What is that?” Barnes asks.

  “A thumb drive,” Samantha says. “With a video on it.”

  Samantha keeps her mouth shut.

  Whoever folds and talks first, she thinks, has lost.

  She stares at Barnes, and Barnes stares right back.

  “All right,” the president says. “What’s on the video, and why should I care?”

  Samantha coolly presses on.

  “Three years ago next week,” she begins, starting to utter the sentences she practiced, over and over, on the fifteen-minute taxi ride to the White House, “your husband flew to Macau, to attend a reception and eightieth birthday party for one of his casino investors. You were serving as vice president then, so Richard flew over there alone.”

  Barnes shakes her head. “I don’t remember that. Sorry.”

  Samantha says, “Oh, he went there, all right. There are news accounts, and photographs, and a number of blog postings, including some criticizing your husband for spending time in a Chinese-controlled territory.”

  Barnes attempts a bit of humor. “What’s on the video
, then? Richard singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Mandarin to some Chinese Communist Party apparatchik?”

  “No,” Samantha says. “The video shows your husband engaged in sexual congress with three individuals in his hotel room, none of whom appear to have reached the age of puberty.”

  The president’s face pales, and she says, “I don’t believe you. What, that thumb drive magically appears in your mailbox at BU? After it was made at some cyber facility in Moscow or Beijing? Utter bullshit, Samantha. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Samantha planned for this reaction. She says, “When Richard was staying at the Golden Palace Macau, a former grad student of mine was in that same building, working for a respected international firm updating security software. He saw what was going on—despite the surveillance jamming instrument Richard was carrying; the Chinese know how to get around that—and was so shocked at what he saw that he recorded your husband’s activities. I’m sure he’d be happy to testify as to what he saw and recorded.”

  “And he just gave this to you now?” Barnes demands.

  Stay calm, Samantha thinks. Stay right on target.

  “No,” she says. “He gave it to me right after you declared you were running against Matt for the nomination.”

  Barnes’s eyes flicker down to the black thumb drive, and she looks at it as if it were a poisonous reptile, ready to scuttle across her desk and bite. “But…”

  “But why didn’t I use it back then, during the primary season?” Samantha asks. “Because I’m not like you. Or your Richard. I wasn’t going to use this to win an election. That was too disgusting to even consider.”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  Samantha gently taps the thumb drive. “But I will use it to save my daughter. Make the phone call, allow that aircraft with Matt and his crew to depart, and I won’t release the video.”

  Barnes says, “Go ahead. Release the video. Who will believe you? No one will touch that. It’s too…”

  “Repulsive. Horrible. Oh, I’m sure the major news media won’t touch it. But there are some Internet news sites that would love to run the story. It’ll be worldwide news within a day. The so-called legitimate news organizations will be forced to report on it. The pictures will be everywhere.”