Danny says, “Perfect. That’s where she is, Matt. God bless.”
I disconnect the call to find that Chief Nick Zeppos and another man have come into the small maintenance hangar.
“Matt,” Nick says. “This is Captain Youssef Zbidi, a Black Hawk pilot with the Tunisian Army’s Groupe des Forces Spéciales, their Special Forces. I had the…honor of working with Captain Zbidi last year in a training assignment.”
I take a quick moment to write the coordinates on a slip of paper and pass it over to Claire Boone, and then I go to Nick and nod in his direction.
“Captain Zbidi,” I say.
The pilot is wearing a flight suit and is muscular, dark-skinned, with a thick mustache, and his face slowly goes from skepticism to slight awe. Nick says, “I talked to Joe—that was our nickname for him back then—and told him what we were up to. Naturally, he didn’t believe me, but I convinced him to at least come over here and see for himself.”
Right then I see an abrasion under Nick’s left eye and notice that the Tunisian Army pilot’s right cheek seems swollen.
Some convincing.
“Captain Zbidi,” I say, “then you know what we’re up to. Can you help?”
Zbidi nods and says, “Only for one thing. Do this thing…and it’ll be fine.”
The tired, overworked, and mercenary part of me wonders what the pilot is looking for—money, citizenship, gold bullion—and I give him the only answer I can.
“Absolutely,” I say. “What is it?”
He steps forward, slightly smiles, and extends his right hand. “For the honor of shaking the American president’s hand.”
I give his hand a quick shake. He grins at both me and Nick and says, “For you, sir, and to rescue your daughter, my aircraft and crew are yours.”
A few minutes ago, I was so dog-tired and depressed it felt like my butt was about to start dragging on the ground, but no more. I’m quickened, energized, and then Claire says, “Got it. Got it right here.”
I’m walking over to Claire when my phone starts ringing again. I’m tempted to ignore it but since so few people know this burner phone’s number I answer it.
“Keating,” I say.
Another familiar voice comes on the line. “Matt. Are you well? Can you speak?”
It’s Ahmad Bin Nayef, former deputy director of the General Intelligence Directorate of Saudi Arabia. I say, “Ahmad, of course. What is it?”
Then it feels like Christmas in June, for he says, “We have her location. We know where Mel is.”
I’m almost giddy with relief. Just a few minutes ago I had no idea where my girl is being held, and now I have two of the finest intelligence services in the Middle East coming through for me at the very last moment.
Two sources, confirming where she is.
Intelligence doesn’t get any better than that.
“Is it the Nafusa Mountains in Libya?”
“It is,” he says. “There is a courier who brings special supplies for Asim’s cousin, Faraj. Contractors working for us found him just as he was leaving Asim’s compound. He was…interrogated and came up with the location. He says the word in the camp is that a very important prisoner is there, a young girl, the daughter of the former American president. Matt, I am so pleased for you.”
“Ahmad, thank you so much,” I say, my throat thickening. “Samantha and I are eternally in your debt.”
“Do you require any other assistance?” he asks. “I might be able to get a force of men for you within the next twenty-four hours.”
I say, “We don’t have the time, Ahmad, but thank you. We’re heading out tonight.”
“Then adhhab mae allah, friend,” he says. “Here are the coordinates where she is being kept. Twenty-five or so fighters are also there, so be careful.”
Ahmad slowly and efficiently gives me the coordinates, and I write them down on a slip of paper, and—
Something is seriously not right.
“Ahmad, can you repeat that?”
“Certainly.”
He does that, and I write down the coordinates once more. Phone still in hand, I go to Claire and hand her the slip of paper.
“Claire, Saudi intelligence is saying these are the coordinates where Mel is being kept. Key them in, will you?”
“Certainly,” she says, and she works the keyboard. By now we—including the Tunisian pilot—are standing in a quiet semicircle behind her.
On her laptop screen is a topographical map of the rough and rugged Nafusa Mountains. With her keyboard input, a blinking red triangle appears.
I’m not an expert on computer mapping by any means, but I also see that there’s an earlier blinking red triangle.
“Claire?” I say.
She swivels around in her chair, looks up at me.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” she says. “The coordinates don’t match. The Israelis say she’s in one place, the Saudis in another. About twenty klicks apart.”
Chapter
108
Nafusa Mountains, Libya
Jiang Lijun remains seated and quiet, not daring to say a word, or to move, or to otherwise do anything that will attract Faraj’s attention even more, but Asim’s cousin stands up and says, “Let’s make progress, shall we? Let’s stipulate you’ve just spent ten or so minutes denying everything I’ve said. Very well. Now it’s my time to speak.”
Faraj goes to the satchel he brought in and starts unzipping the top. “Three years ago, Asim’s family were killed when the American SEALs attacked the small village where they were living. I’m sure you recall this…especially since you were serving at your embassy here when the raid occurred.”
He halts in opening the satchel and says, “Horrible, wasn’t it? A woman and her three children, innocents all, killed in an explosion. Worldwide news, with Matt Keating going on television later to apologize for this botched military operation.”
He pauses. “But suppose it wasn’t the Americans who did it?”
Jiang finally says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Faraj laughs. “Oh, don’t insult me, dear Lijun. Let me finish, and then you can insult me. After the raid was over, and the bodies buried, I was bothered by the news. I talked to survivors who were there the night of the attack. They all agreed as to what happened. The Americans arrived, fighting began, but before they reached the house where Asim’s family was residing, it exploded.”
Jiang says, “A Hellfire missile, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no, not sure,” Faraj says. “Why would the Americans use a Hellfire missile with so many of their soldiers nearby? Unnecessarily exposing them to danger? And when I went later to investigate with a good friend of mine, a man we call the Engineer, well, the first thing we learned was that the explosion came from inside the building. Not outside. Easy to see if you are standing there.”
Jiang remains quiet. Sweat is starting to trickle down the back of his neck.
Faraj opens the top of the satchel. “The Engineer…he is an expert student in all things electronics and explosives and graduated with honors from the American University of Beirut. Ironic, eh? But he told me that we were fortunate that the explosion took place inside the building, because important clues and components would still be there. And he was right.”
Jiang is fearfully focused on the satchel Faraj has brought in. What could be in there? A blowtorch? Pruning shears? Sharp knives?
Faraj says, “You should have seen him at work. Very methodical, very slow, but after two days of searching, he found it. An electronic triggering device was inside a shipment of 82mm mortar rounds that were temporarily being stored there. Mortar rounds that were shipped to Asim from…you. And the device would be triggered by a cell phone call.”
Faraj reaches into the satchel, pulls out one, and then two—
Cans?
Jiang’s eyes widen as he sees the familiar blue and white logo of a mountain climber ascending a peak, and the Chinese characters written on the side.
Snow
beer.
Jiang says, “How…”
Faraj deftly opens one can, brings it over to Jiang, and with Faraj holding the can to his lips, Jiang takes a deep, refreshing swallow of the cold beverage. Faraj steps back, opens the second can, and takes a long drink as well.
Faraj says, “My cousin knows nothing but Allah, jihad, and revenge. I, on the other hand, appreciate the technologies that the West has afforded us. Like this.” He gently nudges the satchel with his foot. “A battery-powered cooler. Ingenious, eh? Like that explosive device you attached to those mortar rounds.”
Jiang says, “Thank you for the beer. It’s quite refreshing.”
Faraj laughs. “My, nothing seems to bother you. No wonder you make such a good intelligence man. You would probably continue to deny everything even if I was sawing your balls off. But it makes sense—it all makes sense. Asim was an asset of yours, for many years, but there always comes a time when an asset becomes a burden, an embarrassment. He must be retired. And somehow that night, three years ago, you learned the Americans were going to attack Asim. And the thought came to you, my intelligent friend, that a single phone call from you could retire your asset and also kill or humiliate the Americans. What they say, a win-win.”
Jiang says, “You tell a good story, Faraj.”
Faraj approaches and offers the can of beer one more time. Jiang thinks of the drinking games he endured back when he was at Columbia, and he swallows.
The can finished, Faraj steps back and says, “But Asim lived. His family died. And your actions probably caused the election defeat of Matt Keating. All in all, a good trade-off, am I right? But here is tonight’s trade-off. Later there will be an opportunity for me to kill Asim. When that is finished, you will make the arrangements for my pay, new identity, and new home. Then you will get the girl.”
Jiang says, “It will take some time to do that.”
Faraj finishes his own beer. “I have all the time in the world. But just remember: you don’t.”
“What?”
Faraj places the two empty cans in the cooler, zips it shut, and stands up. “You betray me in any way, and Asim’s other relatives and friends will be told of what you did, and you will not live out the week.”
Chapter
109
Nafusa Mountains, Libya
Mel Keating is sitting on the dirt and stone floor of her cell, knees drawn up, arms across her lower legs. She’s thinking and observing, and damn it, she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.
Or not seeing.
The stone room has a lightbulb hanging from a black cord run through a drilled hole in the doorframe, a wooden shelf with water bottles and various crackers and fruit snacks, and…
That’s it.
No latrine.
And more importantly:
No bed.
Which means Asim doesn’t plan on keeping her here for any lengthy amount of time.
But he has said that she will be his “forever.”
Lots of ways to interpret that, none of them good.
Mel struggles to get up because her damn ankle is still throbbing something fierce. Tears come to her eyes, and it’s not just the pain.
Trapped.
Oh, my God, she is so trapped.
Once she’s on her feet she goes to the shelf, drinks some water, eats some dry crackers and then some fruit snacks. One snack appears to be made of some kind of cherry slop, and she gets red juice all over her fingers.
Interesting.
She keeps the juice on her fingers and plays with it for a while, and then licks them clean, and takes another swig of water.
Mel takes a deep breath, tries to ease the shakes in her arms and legs because she knows no one’s coming for her. Mom and Dad think she’s dead. Asim is a murderous terrorist, but he’s right about something: she’s on her own.
Time to get out of here.
But how?
She walks around the small interior, fingers on the bare rock, looking and evaluating, and—
It’s bare rock.
Only way in and out is through that heavily locked door.
Sure, she thinks, I’ll break through the door and overwhelm the armed guards outside, and then limp my way to freedom.
She kicks at the door with her good foot, and then starts hammering away with her fists, yelling, “Hey, hey, hey!”
Mel steps back. Great: now both feet are aching.
Wait.
Hold on.
The door is being unlocked!
It swings into the cell and there are two armed men there, peering at her, both maybe nineteen or twenty, thin beards, white pants, brown vests over dark blue shirts. The one who’s closer has an AK-47 hanging from his shoulder by a strap, and his companion standing a few yards back has his AK-47 pointing straight at her. Beyond them is a corridor leading to the main door outside. The corridor is flanked with old stone stables filled with rations, bottles of water, boxes of ammunition and weapons.
“Yes?” the first man asks.
Thinking quickly, Mel says, “You know who I am, right? The daughter of the former president. Whatever you’re getting paid here, he’ll pay a lot more, a hell of a lot more to free me.”
The first man turns to the second one, laughs, and, back to her, says, “Yes?”
“Right, right,” Mel says. “My dad will make sure you two can come to America…with your families. Start a new life. Safe and secure. And he’ll pay whatever you want, I promise you. Just get me out of here.”
“Yes, yes,” he says, and Mel thinks, Really? Will it be this easy?
He steps forward, unshoulders his weapon, prods at her with the muzzle end of the AK-47, and, laughing again, steps back through the door, draws it closed, and locks it.
No, she thinks, turning away, her eyes brimming with tears, it won’t be this easy.
Again, she looks around the room. No bathroom or sleeping arrangements.
With a cold feeling in her gut, Mel knows that forever is coming very soon for her.
Chapter
110
Sfax-Thyna air base, Tunisia
Back on the phone, I say, “Ahmad, something’s not right. Are you sure on these coordinates?”
“Positive, Matt,” he says. “I was there during the interrogation, and we verified it with the courier by going over satellite maps and other resources. Those are the coordinates.”
“But did he see Mel?”
Ahmad says, “No. Just heard the stories in the camp. About a very important young girl being kept there, the daughter of the president. Matt, what is wrong?”
I rub at my forehead and continue staring at Claire’s computer screen and those two damnable blinking icons, so far apart.
“What’s wrong is that Mossad is telling me she is being held at another place in the Nafusa Mountains, about twenty kilometers away,” I say. “The video that Asim Al-Asheed sent out earlier was a live feed. The Israelis were able to track down where the broadcast originated. It’s not the same location that your source told you.”
Ahmad sighs. “The constant struggle, correct? Human intelligence versus signal intelligence.”
“Can you talk to the courier again? Just to make sure?”
A second of hesitation. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Matt. The courier…is no longer available.”
In that one sentence, Ahmad just told me the courier is dead. Either died under questioning or was shot while trying to escape, or because a rival of Ahmad’s and a supporter of Asim’s spirited him away, and then killed him to prevent him from talking anymore.
“I understand,” I say. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“No, I cannot, Matt,” Ahmad says. “My apologies.”
The call is disconnected.
The room is quiet, everyone looking at me, in the middle of making the proverbial life-or-death decision. Despite the self-serving stories from presidential aides or what happens in popular movies, there aren’t that many presidential de
cisions that are truly life-or-death. In fact, most presidential decisions are already made by the time an order or memorandum comes to one’s desk. Decisions are made in work sessions, cabinet meetings, briefings up on Capitol Hill, and when they get to the Oval Office, it’s almost perfunctory.
But not now.
The two blinking icons seem to mock me.
“Sir…” Nick starts, and then he stops.
I know what he’s thinking, what everyone else is thinking. We don’t have the assets to make two missions tonight.
Just the one.
But which one?
Ahmad is right. Human intelligence versus signal intelligence. HUMINT versus SIGINT. Left or right. Heads or tails.
Where do we go?
All up to me.
On my shoulders.
The burden of command.
What now?
“Claire,” I say. “Rerun the video of Mel, but no sound, please.”
Her fingers move fast, and the video comes back up, and I stare at Mel’s sad face, her soiled fingers holding up today’s Egyptian newspaper, her gaze nearly exhausted, her tired eyes staring out from her eyeglasses, the image grainy.
An old memory pops up.
After my dad died in the Gulf of Mexico, his two brothers—my uncles—decided to help Mom raise me, and usually that meant hunting trips, drinking beer while underage, and learning how to play poker. The ins and outs of dealing, betting, and, most importantly, the all-vital tells. Reading your opponent. Sensing if he or she is bluffing. It all comes down to—
The eyes, sport. Always look to the eyes. If they’re ice-cold, they’re not bluffing. But if they’re blinking, shifting, looking down, then they got squat in their hands.
The eyes.
Mel’s gaze, steady and even, and even with the poor quality of the video, it all becomes clear.
“It’s not Mel,” I nearly yell. “That’s not my daughter!”
Some murmurs from my crew, and I say, “David, get over here. Take a look. Tell me what you see.”
Secret Service agent David Stahl, who’s been at Mel’s side for more than four years, steps forward, leans over Claire, stares at the screen. I so desperately want to tell him what I see, but I need to keep my mouth shut.
The President's Daughter Page 38
