Asim says, “My blessed friend Omar, again, I am honored to be under your roof and with your strong and devout sons, but I wonder: what kind of example are you providing them by refusing an old friend such simple hospitality?”
A wave of the fat man’s hand. “Ah, but these are not simple times, are they, like when you started your jihad? Then you could live and regroup here, with few concerns, and your neighbors would always be willing to help. Today? The Russians, Turks, and Chinese all crawl around our lands, with money and influence and weapons, and now the Americans are coming.”
“The Americans are always coming,” Asim says. “Until they get bloodied, like in Somalia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, and then they leave.”
Omar’s smile is still there but seasoned with a brisk shake of the head. “This time is different. You murdered the daughter of the former president. The Americans are a soft people indeed, but when you go against their children like this, especially one so prominent, they will not give up until you are dead.”
“A risk I’ve always been comfortable to meet,” Asim says, the anger growing harder inside of him.
“Your risk, yes, is quite admirable. But your presence here is putting my family at risk, and my people.” Omar points to the ceiling. “At this very moment, an American drone could be circling overhead, and CIA agents could be reviewing its video footage, watching you walk inside…and then missiles will rain down on us. Many of us will die, women and children as well, but do you think the Americans would care? No. They would only care that they had killed you. My family and I would be, as they say, collateral damage.”
“Omar, my friend—”
“No,” he says, heaving himself out of his chair. “Enough. Your vehicles have been refueled, you have been given water and food. Leave. Now.”
Asim slowly stands up, gives a quick nod in Omar’s direction, and says quietly, “I am in your debt for offering me shelter, even if it was for a short time. But the Chinese, Russians, Turks, and even the Americans will someday leave. And you will remain, and so will I. And we will meet again, dear friend.”
Omar says, “If you are alive at that time, I shall look forward to it.”
The door outside opens and Asim passes by the angry-looking sons and approaches a concrete stairway, which empties into a modest tiled courtyard. Small electric lamps light the way outside, and Faraj is standing in the courtyard, along with the two men who were guarding the president’s daughter.
From the looks on all three of their faces, Asim knows what’s happened.
“How?” he asks.
Faraj starts to speak and Asim changes his mind.
“No, later,” he says, knowing that Omar’s sons are looking at him, and not wanting to give them any satisfaction or gossip to be taken back to their father, and thus to the tribesmen here, and to others in these mountains.
It takes only a few minutes for his three-vehicle convoy to depart Omar’s village, and from the lead Suburban, he tells his driver, Taraq, to pull over, and then he assembles everyone in the glare from the vehicle’s headlights.
There is a confusing conversation lasting two or three minutes during which the two men tasked with guarding Mel Keating blame each other for her escape, and when they pause in their weeping and pleading, Asim takes out his 9mm Beretta pistol and shoots the first one in the head. The man slumps to the ground and his companion makes a run for it. Asim fires twice, catching him in the back, and then he goes to the figure on the ground and finishes him off with a bullet to the forehead.
He takes a deep breath.
The anger is still roiling within him.
To his cousin Faraj, Asim says, “Take these two and drag them into the desert. Leave their bodies to the birds and the rats.”
Faraj barks out the order to the group of men, comes over to Asim, and says, “Then, Asim?”
He puts the still-warm pistol in his hidden waist holster.
“We find Mel Keating,” Asim says, “and finish it.”
Chapter
96
Family quarters
The White House
President Pamela Barnes is alone in a living room that is part of what’s known as the family quarters on the second floor of the White House, a tumbler of Glenlivet and ice in her hand. She takes another sip, the biting taste refreshing, and she pushes away the temptation to knock the drink back and make herself another.
Just one, she thinks. That’s all she’ll allow herself, despite the day she’s just had. Before her is a large-screen TV, muted and set to the History Channel. Tonight’s documentary is about the very building she’s living in, and when and how it was built.
Another small sip, trying to ration it out, and she thinks sourly of her long-ago predecessor, John Adams, whose words were carved into the stone mantel of a fireplace in the State Dining Room back in 1945:
I Pray Heaven to Bestow the Best of Blessings on This House and All That Shall Hereafter Inhabit It. May None but Honest and Wise Men Ever Rule Under This Roof.
She lowers her glass and whispers, “Guess you never imagined us ladies ruling here, eh, Johnny?”
The door opens and her husband and chief of staff, Richard Barnes, comes in, still wearing his tuxedo, but with the tie undone and dangling down the front of his starched white dress shirt. He rubs at his face and says, “Man, what a night. I could go for another drink.”
“Take a seat, Richard,” she says.
“Sure, in a sec,” he says. “I got a thirst that needs to be quenched.”
“Now, Richard,” she snaps, and she waits, and like a chastened boy, he comes over and sits down on the couch adjacent to her comfortable chair. The History Channel keeps on broadcasting in silence.
Quiet.
Richard finally speaks. “Is Matt Keating in custody?”
“In a matter of speaking,” she says, staring at the television, the program now showing the interior redecorating done by Jacqueline Kennedy, the colors and the ache of the history still so strong.
She adds, “He’s in custody, all right, but in the custody of the New Hampshire Air National Guard, heading across the Atlantic, just as he wanted.”
Richard shifts in his seat, anger rising to his face. “How the hell did that happen? What Air Force officer disobeyed orders? Who let this happen?”
“You,” she says. “You let it happen, Richard. You.”
He looks angry and confused. “I’m sorry, Pamela. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She reaches down and picks up her dispatch case. “Here are my daily set of papers, briefings, and analyses of various world problems. But there’s not one single document in there telling me the details of a trip you took to Macau nearly three years ago. When I was vice president. When you had recently sold that cattle land for a casino development. And you flew off to Macau to celebrate one of your investors’ birthdays. True?”
He starts to rub his hands together. “It’s…been a while, Pamela. Three years.”
“That’s all right,” she says. “While you were out partying tonight, I was unexpectedly debriefed on what happened during your trip. To the Golden Palace Macau. You had a wonderful time. But at some point, at about 2 a.m. local time, you received three visitors. Three young visitors.”
His face darkens even more. His chin appears to be quivering.
Barnes says, “I’m sure you thought you had it covered. I’m certain you brought along a certain toy you had showed me back then, a military-grade jamming device that blocked the recording of any voices or images in a room. But the device didn’t work, Richard. There’s a recording of your…activities that night.”
His hands are rubbing each other faster, almost frantically. “How…how does this have anything to do with Matt Keating?”
“I’m disappointed—again—with you, Richard,” Barnes says. “Can’t you see what’s obvious? In exchange for that video not being publicly released, I had to let Matt Keating go.”
His once-strong voic
e is shaky. “Who had that video?”
“Samantha Keating,” she says. “She came here about three hours ago, told me that she had received a thumb drive containing the video from a former grad student working in Macau who saw you, Richard. He was there at the same time, updating the hotel’s security software. Samantha offered me a deal. Let her husband go, and the video never gets released.”
Richard says, “But letting Matt fly out like that…you should have bluffed, Pamela. Demanded more time, asked to review the video and verify—”
Barnes nearly drops her glass. “Verify? For God’s sake, Richard, do you think I wanted to see even five seconds of that video?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks down at the room’s carpeting.
She sighs. “Tomorrow afternoon you’re announcing your resignation as my chief of staff for medical reasons. I, of course, will accept it with tears and sorrow, given that your health is so very important to me. We’ll have a brief press availability out in the Rose Garden, you’ll say some nice words, I’ll say some even nicer words. It’ll be a wonderful send-off, Richard, but before we do that, I want your office belongings packed and on the way out of the White House.”
He chokes out the words, “But…but I’m not sick, Pamela!”
“Oh, yes, yes you are, where it really counts.”
She rattles the ice cubes in her glass. “But you get to stay on as First Gentleman. You’ll smile and keep your mouth shut, and you won’t talk to the press or anybody else in the government. You’re going to find yourself traveling a lot in the months ahead, as we plan for my reelection. But when it comes to day-to-day politics here, Richard, you’re through.”
“But…Pamela, please…”
On the TV screen is Pat Nixon. Poor old Pat Nixon…a First Lady who never really seemed to thrive in this so-called People’s House.
“Richard, I can’t have you as my chief of staff. Too much risk that you might be compromised one of these days, if Chinese intelligence has the same video that Mrs. Keating has.”
He slowly stands up, wipes at his eyes with a rough right hand. “Is that it, Pamela?”
Barnes takes a sip of the whiskey-flavored ice water left behind. “Almost. Tonight…you’re not welcome in my bedroom.”
“But…where do I go?”
“There are sixteen bedrooms in this house,” she snaps. “Go find one.”
Chapter
97
Somewhere in northwest Libya
From the lightening of the horizon, Mel Keating can see that the sun is about to rise and the last stars above will eventually fade out. Her feet hurt, her right ankle is throbbing something fierce, and she is desperately thirsty. She knows that the rising sun will make the day even hotter, but at least she’ll be able to see. Since escaping from Asim Al-Asheed’s men some hours ago—how long, she has no idea—she has stuck mainly to the dirt road, thankful that it runs mostly north, according to Polaris. During rest breaks, she’d leave the road and go into the sands, where once something crawled over her legs and she shrieked loud enough to be heard for miles.
And twice during the long night she heard the sounds of a loud, speeding vehicle coming her way, the headlights illuminating far ahead, and both times she raced into the desert and flopped down, pulling the dirty blanket over her, praying that scorpions and spiders wouldn’t crawl in with her.
Once a vehicle stopped nearby, close enough that she could hear distant voices and the rumble of the engine idling, and a handheld spotlight shot out, sweeping both sides of the road. Mel closed her eyes, remembering the times when she was younger and afraid of ghosts in her bedroom and would think, If I close my eyes, I can’t see them, and they can’t see me.
If I close my eyes, I can’t see them, and they can’t see me.
She kept her eyes closed until she heard a disappointed shout, then the roar of the engine and the vehicle leaving.
Still, she didn’t move, and that was a smart thing, for the vehicle—maybe a pickup truck?—suddenly stopped and the spotlight kept racing, as if it wanted to catch her coming out from her hiding spot.
It’s getting lighter.
Her thirst is growing, and she chews on her tongue and inner cheeks, trying to get some moisture started.
Nothing.
She picks up a pebble, puts it in her mouth, starts chewing on that. A bit of saliva starts to emerge, but God, it really doesn’t help.
Mel knows that the traditional way to survive in the desert is to move at night in the coolness and hide out and conserve energy and water in the daylight. Find a shaded place. Look for a depression in the sand, where plants might be growing. Dig into the soil there, find water. Find a piece of shiny metal, flash an SOS to any overhead aircraft.
All wonderful ideas, but only worthwhile if you’re lost on your own out in the desert, she thinks. Not if brutal killers like Asim and his followers are out there, chasing you. Hiding in these sands and rocks means not moving, and she has to keep moving, has to find water, shelter, and, hopefully, people.
People who can help her.
Who speak English.
And have a truck or a car or a motorcycle to put more distance between her and Asim.
With the sun starting to rise, the landscape comes into clearer focus. Sand, exposed rocks, low scrub brush. Dirt road that she’s walking on, with occasional ruts where tires have worn through. Low mountains and mesas all around her. Good places to hide; no wonder Asim brought her here.
Wherever here happens to be.
Getting lighter.
She starts looking carefully at what’s on either side of the road, sees empty cans, some flattened cardboard boxes, and white plastic trash bags, which will probably last for another thousand years.
There.
A broken wooden box, some nice slats. Mel kneels down, tugs out the longest slat. In a flat patch of dirt, she shoves the slat in about a half foot or so, and then sits down, looks at her feet.
What a goddamn mess.
No sneakers or boots since her kidnapping, leaving her with only strong hiking socks. Over the days the socks have taken quite the beating, gotten torn and worn. Her feet are blistered and cut, but there is no point in taking the socks off without water and soap to wash them and bandages to wrap around her feet.
Mel retrieves two of the plastic trash bags, puts her feet in them, wraps them tight. With long threads torn off the edge of her blanket, Mel ties the bags as tight as she can.
Hot, miserable, but at least her feet will have more protection.
The sun is higher now.
Mel goes to the slat of wood she’s stuck into the dirt. A shadow extends from the wood, marking west, since the sun is in the east. Meaning…north is that way.
Mel spots an oddly shaped piece of rock jutting out from a near peak. There. Head toward that rock, and you’re heading north.
North, to the sea and villages and towns.
Mel starts walking again, limping on her twisted ankle, blanket around her head and shoulders, and then the dirt road splits into left and right.
Now what?
The left is closer to north.
North it shall be, and she starts moving again, stomach grumbling, mouth oh so dry.
Dad, she thinks. Oh, if he was still president, imagine what he could be doing right now. Every FBI and CIA agent in the world would be looking for her, and every drone and overhead satellite would also be hunting for her.
But so what? she thinks.
Asim didn’t have to say anything, but Mel knows that with her fake execution, Asim wanted Dad and others to think she was dead.
Dad and Mom…probably together at Lake Marie, mourning her—hell, maybe even preparing some sort of memorial service.
How creepy: a memorial service when she’s still alive.
She keeps on moving, hurrying as much as she can. The only sign of life she’s seeing is a distant uncaring bird or two.
Sound travels far over this dry land, and when she hears t
he noise of the engine growing louder behind her, she gets off the dirt road, huddles behind some crumbled boulders. A cloud of dust erupts, extends maybe a hundred feet or so, and then a battered small white Toyota pickup truck appears, the front holding four people, squashed inside, and the rear overflowing with cardboard boxes and cloth bags, tied down with a series of ropes.
The truck roars by and the tailgate is down, and two women and two children are sitting there, feet dangling over the side, laughing as they try to stay in place with every bump and jostle.
Mel makes a quick decision.
She jumps up, hollers, waves her arms.
Waves her arms, takes off the blanket, and flaps it up and down, up and down.
“Help!” she screams.
The truck keeps on moving, disappearing into a cloud of dust.
The sound of the engine starts to quiet.
Mel kicks at a rock, starts to dry sob, wondering what she’ll do, how she can survive, how much longer she can keep on trudging along like this.
She swings the blanket over her shoulders.
The engine sound returns, whining, and the pickup truck comes back, in reverse. The two women and two children, clad in dust-covered tan and black robes, are looking at her with amazement.
Mel thinks of the many things she’s learned from Dad, one being, Always be aware of your surroundings—always. That’s how she instantly knew back at Mount Rollins—when she was bathing in that isolated pool with Tim—that the two men approaching were trouble. They didn’t fit.
But this group…men, women, children, a truck bed filled with packages and belongings.
Mel doesn’t think they’re jihadists.
She limps forward, her dry mouth cracked, and she loudly whispers, “Please…help…Can you help? Please…”
The women quickly start speaking in a language she doesn’t understand—and which doesn’t sound quite like Arabic—and one puts a child on her lap, and the other woman does the same, and both gesture for Mel to come forward.
The President's Daughter Page 34
