The President's Daughter Page 13

  “Here,” Grambler says. “Go see Yvonne Clarkson, up on Mast Road. Number four. Somebody stole something from her this morning and she’s pretty pissed about it.”

  Corinne takes the paper, thinking, Are you kidding? She learned from her very first day that the cops in this small town were called on for everything from a broken mailbox to a dog running loose and chasing someone’s chickens.

  “Okay,” she says. “But why did you call me in? Reaching me through dispatch would have been quicker.”

  Grambler smiles, puts his hands behind his head, leans back so Corinne can hear both his chair and back creak. “Yvonne’s been around for a while. Used to be a selectman and on the planning board. Lots of folks don’t like her much, so why give the gossips with police scanners something to talk about?”

  She glances at the address, folds the paper in half. “Anything new about Mel Keating’s kidnapping?”

  “Nope.”

  “You hear anything from the state police or the county sheriff?”

  “Nope.”

  She squeezes the paper hard in her hand. When she was with the Massachusetts State Police, she twice took part in a security detail assisting the Secret Service during a presidential visit, and she loved the rush and buzz of being part of something bigger, something important.

  “We could help with the search, you know,” she says. “We could cover areas that—”

  “Corinne, go do your job, all right?” Grambler says, picking up a copy of the Union Leader. “And your job is seeing Yvonne Clarkson. Go.”

  Later that day, she’s spent twenty minutes in Yvonne Clarkson’s cluttered and dusty living room, drinking warm iced tea made from concentrated powder, listening to the older woman’s health complaints and political observations, before trying for the fourth time to steer the conversation to the reason for Corinne’s visit.

  “Ma’am, yes, I’ll make sure to remember what you said about Dr. Yahn if I ever have foot surgery over at Dartmouth-Hitchcock,” she says. “But please. Can you tell me what happened this morning?”

  The woman appears to be in her seventies, hair dyed black, with equally dark eyebrows, and she’s wearing a loose yellow top and khaki shorts down to her wrinkled knees. Her toenails and fingernails are painted a bright red, matching her lipstick.

  “Well, it’s like this,” she says, sighing with apparent frustration. “Monmouth has changed so much since I’ve lived here, ever since the college and medical center kept on expanding and expanding, forcing good locals out with the high property taxes and rents. Things happen that just shouldn’t happen.”

  “Like what?” Corinne asks for at least the fourth time.

  Yvonne Clarkson leans forward, her voice a whisper. “Theft. Actual stealing of one’s private property. Used to be you could keep your doors unlocked, your trucks parked in the driveway with the keys in the ignition. No longer.”

  “And what was stolen?” Corinne asks.

  “My morning newspaper, that’s what,” the woman says. “Can you believe it? Right out of the delivery tube!”

  Corinne struggles to keep her face blank. She thinks, When I was in Massachusetts, I responded to DUI accidents and saved at least two lives by performing immediate first aid. I’ve done four traffic stops resulting in the seizure of at least a hundred pounds of heroin, and once I provided a shift’s worth of backup at an armed hostage situation in Melrose.

  “Your newspaper?” she asks.

  “That’s right,” she says. “My USA Today. They’ve only just started home delivery in the area and those damn thieves took it this morning.”

  “Thieves?”

  A triumphant nod. “I’m an early riser. I saw the little bastard—excuse my French—step out of a black SUV and pull it right out of the newspaper tube, easy as you please.”

  Corinne scribbles a few notes.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” the woman says. “Two shitheads. One driving, one who stepped out and grabbed my paper. You think you can find them?”

  Corinne tries not to sigh.

  A stolen newspaper, a street value—try not to laugh!—of two bucks.

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll give it a go, but there’s not much to go on. I mean, a guy and a black SUV.”

  Her lips purse. “You’re from away, so you didn’t know my uncle Caleb, did you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Corinne says, once again having to defend herself for the crime of being born in Massachusetts.

  “He ran one of the biggest car dealerships in Manchester,” Clarkson says. “Double-C Fine Autos. I worked summers there for many years, helping out, from typing to working in the parts department. I knew cars then, and I know cars now. I can tell you exactly what kind of SUV was in front of my house early this morning.”

  Corinne says, “What kind was it, then?”

  A pleased nod. “This year’s Cadillac Escalade. Black. With tinted windows.”

  Chapter

  38

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  When the curved door to the Oval Office silently opens, President Pamela Barnes gets up from behind the Resolute desk and approaches her predecessor, Matthew Keating, and his wife, Samantha. Both look worn and haunted, and Barnes has a brief memory of when she was governor and met with a delegation of parents who had lost their children to shootings. The two people in front of her have the same look on their wan faces.

  “Matt, Samantha,” Barnes says, striding forward. “I’m so sorry to hear what’s happened to Mel, and trust me, we’re doing everything possible to get her back safely.”

  Samantha Keating looks a bit dazed as she gingerly walks forward, but her husband looks as though he wants to kill someone, his eyes sharp and hard. Barnes remembers a bit of history: back when President William McKinley was assassinated, his good friend and power broker Senator Mark Hanna said about Theodore Roosevelt, “That damned cowboy is president of the United States!”

  Three years ago, she had the same reaction upon hearing of President Lovering’s sudden death, and she said to her husband, “That damned sailor is now president!”

  She tries to put all that behind her. She gives Samantha a quick hug, squeezes Matt’s hand, leads them both to the two couches in the center of the Oval Office. Accompanying them are Lisa Blair, the director of the FBI, and Paul Charles, secretary of Homeland Security, along with Barnes’s husband, Richard, and a young aide, Lydia Wang.

  Matt and Samantha sit together on the couch across from Barnes, tightly holding hands, and she says, “I’m so sorry for what’s happened to Mel, and I promise you both that the full strength and resources of the federal government are responding to safely locate her.”

  Yet the words her husband and chief of staff told her earlier stab at her:

  Pamela, when you find out what they want for a ransom, you’re going to say no.

  Samantha nods at her soothing words but Matt gets right to it.

  “Tell me what you’re doing,” he says.

  Direct and to the point, without a single ounce of courtesy or politeness—which is why this is my home now and not yours, she thinks.

  “Director Blair?” she says. “The latest?”

  Blair sits forward on the cream-colored couch, hands clasped in front of her. “We’re flooding the zone, Madam President, even pulling in agents from field offices in Canada. Our investigation is currently moving along two tracks. The first is talking to Mel’s fellow students, friends, teachers, and dormitory residents, to see if anything unusual has been going on in the last few weeks. Strangers hanging around the campus, asking questions about Mel, break-ins or unusual occurrences.”

  Barnes says, “What’s the second track?”

  “Trying to find her,” Blair says. “We’ve taken the lead and we’re working with the New Hampshire State Police and every local law enforcement agency up there, including Fish and Game personnel. Roadblocks are being set up on every minor and major road near Mount Rollins, and
every home and business within a twenty-mile radius of the kidnapping scene is being investigated, residents and business owners being interviewed. We also have K-9 units moving along the more popular hiking trails in the area.”

  “How many border crossings into Canada are there?” Matt asks.

  Homeland Security secretary Paul Charles seems surprised to be asked a question, and Barnes once again regrets the political deal that put him into his position. Like an old-time cop, he pulls out a tattered notebook, flips to a page, and says, “There’s twenty-four between Maine and Canada, one in New Hampshire, and fifteen in Vermont. Our, uh, Border Patrol units are on alert. There’s a tremendous backup in traffic leaving the States and going into Canada. I’m sure there won’t be many complaints now, but Madam President, there’s going to be a huge squawk if, um, we don’t lighten up on those restrictions. And soon.”

  Before Matt can speak, Barnes says, “Not now, Paul, not now. What’s the status of the Secret Service?”

  He shrugs. “Not much.” He tries a smile. “I mean, the proverbial horse is out of the barn, am I right? I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Keating are right here, their residence on Lake Marie is being protected, and Mel…well, I just want to make it clear now, before we go any further, that the Secret Service wasn’t responsible for Mel Keating’s protection. She was nineteen, and—”

  Matt’s voice, low and as cold as granite, says, “Nobody’s blaming the Secret Service for anything. Madam President, may I?”

  Barnes says, “Of course, Matt, go ahead.”

  “Madam President, there were recent court decisions impacting information sharing between the FBI and the NSA,” he says. “Getting the NSA officially on board to assist the FBI will take time. Would you consider issuing directives and contacting General Winship at the NSA to immediately get their cooperation?”

  Director Blair turns on the couch, looks at Barnes, nods. “That could save us some important hours, Madam President.”

  “Consider it done,” she says, and continues, “Director Blair, can we—”

  The door to the Oval Office quietly swings open and Felicia Taft, a young Black woman and deputy chief of staff, comes in, holding an open laptop in her hands.

  Everyone in the room turns to her, and Barnes says, “What’s going on, Felicia?”

  She quickly comes to the center of the room, puts the open laptop on the coffee table.

  “Madam President, we’ve just received a news alert from Al Jazeera,” she says, nearly breathless. “They’ve received a ransom demand for Mel Keating, and plan to air it in one minute.”

  Chapter

  39

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  I’m still holding on to Sam’s hand, but back in this familiar room, I feel slipped out of time, out of place. The last time I was here was a year and a half ago, in the waning hours of my presidency, and now I’m back, not as POTUS but as one angry and frightened father, half listening to the woman before me—a polished politician who’s always found the proper meaning and phrasing to climb that slippery pole of political advancement—make the standard promises and vows.

  I want to believe her, but I’m too experienced, too suspicious.

  The men and women out there now, in the field, doing their very best to find Mel—I trust and believe in them.

  But their superiors, the directors and bureaucrats with clean fingernails and stained consciences?

  Not so much.

  Out there in those government buildings are deals to be made, grudges to be maintained, and in this emerging crisis, I know that some hard-hearted souls will be seeing this as an opportunity for their own advancement, and nothing else.

  The laptop swivels around and I look at the screen and there’s a male television anchor who’s blabbing about Mel’s kidnapping and the horror of it and the pain Sam and I must be feeling, and I ignore him, willing some producer out there in Doha, Qatar, to hurry the hell up.

  Sitting on this couch with me are Sam and Lydia Wang, an assistant to the president. Across from us are the president, Director Blair, and Secretary Charles. The president’s husband is standing behind her.

  The anchor’s face disappears.

  A blue screen appears.

  A clean-shaven man with an olive complexion and black hair appears in a white shirt neatly buttoned up to his neck. He’s apparently sitting in front of a black cement wall. (Good tradecraft, the old operator in me thinks, not giving out any identifying details from the background.) The man nods, his face determined, his dark eyes sharp as flint, and his first sentence hits me like an M4 buttstock to the gut.

  “I am Asim Al-Asheed, a warrior of Allah, and this is for you, Matthew Keating,” he begins. “I have your daughter Melanie in my control.”

  Sam squeezes my hand and moans. “Oh, Matt, it’s that…”

  “Yes,” I say. I’m not really thinking; the word comes out automatically. “That’s the terrorist whose wife and daughters were killed because of me.”

  And that old operator voice whispers to me again.

  No matter what is said or promised, you will never see Mel again.

  I stare at the screen, keeping focused.

  He pauses, and I know the bastard is doing so to stretch out the torment for Sam and me.

  I stare, and it’s like he’s staring right at me.

  “Your daughter is alive,” he says. “She is well.”

  Then his voice lowers. “Unlike my dead girls, killed under your orders, your direction. Can you imagine the pain of a father, knowing that not only is his wife gone, but his girls as well, his cherished offspring?”

  He seems to move his hands below the screen and then holds up three small color photographs showing young smiling girls with dark hair and curls, wearing bright clothes, and he says, “These are my loved ones. Amina, Zara, and Fatima. The ones burnt, crushed, and dismembered by you, Matthew Keating. Any reasonable father would seek revenge, would he not? Revenge for the death of his daughters?”

  He brings up another photo, a woman in a black chador, but her plump and smiling face is visible.

  “And my wife, Layla,” Asim says. “A wonderful and pious companion and mother. You, Matthew Keating, you are fortunate: your wife is still alive. Sitting next to you at this moment, I am sure.”

  He lowers the photo.

  He seems to take a breath. “As I have said, revenge would be a logical path, would it not? A reasonable one? But your daughter, Melanie, she is alive. I will prove it now.”

  The video dissolves into several seconds of a scared Mel, staring at the camera, eyes red-rimmed behind her glasses, hair disheveled, holding a copy of USA Today. I stare, make sure she’s breathing, she’s alive. All I see is her frightened yet defiant face and the paper under her chin.

  Next to me Sam is sobbing.

  The video dissolves back to Asim Al-Asheed.

  “There. With today’s newspaper, you can see she is currently alive and well. You, Matthew Keating, you killed my wife and my daughters. Here, I have proven to you that your daughter, Melanie, is still alive. Tell me now: who is the true terrorist? The true killer? The true barbarian?”

  Another pause.

  The fucker is taunting me.

  “You, Matthew Keating, have until noon tomorrow to fulfill the following demands.”

  I hear Richard Barnes whisper, “Oh, shit, here it comes,” and Asim says, “By noon tomorrow, Eastern time, I will release Mel Keating, safe and unharmed, if these conditions are met.

  “One. The release of the three fellow warriors who are currently being held in barbaric and inhumane conditions at your so-called super-max prison in Florence, Colorado: Ayaan al-Amin, Nawaf al-Khattab, and Arda al-Hadid.”

  Warriors, I furiously think and remember. Cold-blooded and happy killers who slaughtered scores of innocents across Europe and North Africa.

  “These three men will be released from Florence and flown to an abandoned airstrip in Libya, coordinates twenty-eight de
grees, twenty-four minutes, twelve seconds north, and thirteen degrees, ten minutes, and twenty-six seconds east. Any attempt to follow them or impede their journey will result in the death of Melanie Keating. This includes surveillance from your drones.

  “Two. A ransom in the amount of one hundred million dollars in bitcoin to be paid within the next thirty-six hours. You will access a Tor browser and enter the following letters and numbers in its browser window”—Asim rattles off a series of letters and numbers—“and follow the instructions that appear. Failure to pay the ransom will result in the death of Melanie Keating.”

  I can feel Sam’s body next to me, trembling and shaking.

  “Three. A complete and full pardon from President Pamela Barnes for any and all crimes I may or may not have committed against Americans in the United States or abroad.”

  He gives a knowing and pleased smile at that last one.

  “If the pardon is not made and published, you certainly know what happens next.”

  He pauses, staring right into the center of the camera lens.

  “Matthew Keating,” he says. “Now, at last, you have a hint, the briefest taste of what you did to me years ago.”

  He smiles. “Until we perhaps meet, Matthew Keating, ma’al-salāmah.”

  The video goes blank. The Al Jazeera anchor reappears. The Oval Office is silent, and I break the silence.

  “That damn fool,” I say. “He’s just made a huge mistake.”

  Chapter

  40

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  All in the Oval Office turn to me, and I see the barest look of irritation on President Barnes’s face because this is her space, and now everyone’s paying attention to me.

  “Matt,” she says. “Go on.”

  I say, “He just made it easier for us to find him, by a magnitude. Where would we be if he had just sent out an email listing his demands, with the photo of Mel attached? We wouldn’t know who he was, who was behind the kidnapping, or anything else. Now we do. Director Blair and every other intelligence agency of ours can start walking back the cat. Am I right, Director Blair?”