The President's Daughter Page 8

  “My day is full of moments,” I reply. “What’s going on?”

  “Sir…”—the tone of her voice instantly changes, worrying me—“sir, this is unofficial, but I wanted to let you know what I learned this morning. Sometimes the bureaucracy takes too long to respond to emerging developments, and I don’t want that to happen here. It’s too important.”

  I say, “Go on.”

  She says, “I was sitting in for the director at today’s threat assessment meeting, going over the President’s Daily Brief and other inter-agency reports.”

  The jargon instantly transports me back to being POTUS, and I’m not sure I like it.

  “What’s going on, Sarah?”

  The briefest of pauses. “Sir, we’ve noticed an uptick in chatter from various terrorist cells in the Mideast, Europe, and Canada. Nothing we can specifically attach a name or a date to, but something is on the horizon, something bad, something that will generate a lot of attention.”

  Shit, I think. “All right,” I say. “Terrorists are keying themselves up to strike. Why are you calling me? Who are they after?”

  “Mr. President,” she says, “they’re coming after you.”

  I manage to get dressed while the deputy national security advisor goes on via my phone’s speaker. “The chatter and email intercepts are proving hard to crack, but your name keeps coming up, along with numerous phrases expressing a desire for revenge, for loyal jihadists everywhere to rise up and kill you. It’s serious enough that the information warrants passing along to Homeland Security and the FBI, but that can take time…which is why I’ve called. To let you and your Secret Service detail know right now.”

  I wipe at my damp face with a towel. “Thanks, Sarah. I appreciate that…but going outside of channels could get you into a lot of trouble.”

  She says, “Mr. President, I didn’t like the way you were treated when the vice president took you on. That campaign…it made me sick to my stomach. And I wasn’t going to sit on this information without warning you.”

  “I didn’t like the campaign much myself,” I say. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Be safe, Mr. President.”

  I find Agent Stahl sitting on the large wraparound porch, pounding the keys on a black government-issue laptop, away from the refurbished barn that serves as the detail’s headquarters. I give him a quick briefing, and he hangs on every word, his face serious.

  I say, “I want you to get word out to your Portland office or the Maine State Police. Get coverage on my wife. She’s at a BU dig site in…Hitchcock. Yeah, that’s the place. Hitchcock, Maine. She’ll put up a fight, but see if they can quickly get her someplace safe until we find out just what the hell is going on.”

  He nods, slams the lid of his laptop closed. “Got it, sir.”

  “Then I want you to fire up the Suburban,” I say. “You and I are going to get Mel. Maybe take along another agent and as much firepower as we can carry.”

  He stands up and puts the laptop under his arm, hesitates for a second.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I need to advise you, in the strongest terms, not to do that,” he says. “It’s not safe.”

  “The hell with that, David! A serious terrorist threat coming after me means both Samantha and Mel might be in danger as well. You know that, David. We’re going to get into the Suburban, drive to that mountain trail, and best as we can start running up that path. Scoop her up and bring her back.”

  He’s troubled. “Mr. President…the Suburban we have isn’t armored up, nor does it have the same level of protection as the presidential limo. It’s too risky.”

  “Don’t care,” I say, feeling a pressure beginning at the base of my neck.

  “I care, sir, and that’s my job,” he says. “The threats that are out there…maybe they want you to leave the compound, get yourself exposed with only an agent or two to assist you. There might be a team of attackers waiting for you to drive out.”

  “Then round up the day shift, and we’ll all go. Strength in numbers.”

  “Mr. President, please,” he says. “We need to protect you and defend the compound. I can’t strip this place of agents to have them head to the mountain and get Mel. And even if we took every vehicle we have, none of them are armored. A couple of automatic weapons from roadside terrorists could destroy each vehicle and kill whoever’s inside.”

  “David…”

  He looks strained. “Sir, I’ll contact the New Hampshire State Police, the Grafton County Sheriff’s Department, Fish and Game, get some personnel up to the mountain, soon as I can,” he says. “They can protect Mel, bring her back here.”

  “Not enough,” I snap.

  He shakes his head. “Sir, I’ll also contact our field office in Burlington, have a couple of agents hook up with those personnel going to Mount Rollins,” he says. “We’ll take care of your wife, and we’ll take care of Mel. It’s the best I can do, based on your…status.”

  I know what he’s saying, and Agent Stahl is too polite to say it out loud.

  If I was currently POTUS, I’d have an army of agents at my beck and call, and there’d be a helicopter loaded with armed personnel going up to Mount Rollins to pick up Mel and immediately bring her back. Members of the Secret Service’s Counter Assault Team would be roaming the compound, and there’d be heavily armed checkpoints at each road within miles of the place, stopping and examining traffic. Snipers and bomb-sniffing dogs would be prowling the woods and back roads.

  But I’m not POTUS anymore, and the level of protection for me and my family is not nearly what it was when I was at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “Sir,” Agent Stahl says. “Please, let me make the calls. Right now. I’ll let you know once everything is secure. And I’ll start working on getting more personnel to staff the compound.”

  I just nod, turn away, knowing Agent Stahl is right.

  Chapter

  23

  Sherman’s Path

  Mount Rollins, New Hampshire

  Mel breaks away from Tim’s sweet touch and yes, it’s all wrong. The two men are smiling but there’s no friendliness or humor in those gazes. And the slacks, dress shoes, and button-front shirts they’re wearing, with no knapsacks or even water bottles, are all wrong for being up in the mountains.

  Tim looks to the two men and then to Mel, and whispers, “Guess we got caught, huh?”

  She slowly treads water and whispers, “Tim, get the hell out of here. Now. Get to the other side of the pool, get into the woods. Run.”

  Tim is confused. “Mel, what’s the problem?”

  The two men are coming closer, still smiling.

  She knows.

  When Dad was first running for Congress and some Rotary Club guy was speaking at a Bonefish restaurant, a newspaper reporter covering the event asked a bored Mel what she thought, and she said, “He talks too much.”

  Which was true. But it got her into trouble with Mom at the time. Mel always had a knack for seeing people for what they really were.

  And these two aren’t hikers.

  They’re killers.

  The taller man stops. “Mel Keating, please get dressed and come with us. And your friend as well.”

  Tim says, “Who the hell are you guys? Why should we go with you?”

  The other man pulls out a pistol.

  Oh, God, Mel thinks, and the water feels so much colder.

  “Does that answer your question?” the nearer man asks, still smiling.

  Mel raises her voice, trying to be strong in front of Tim. “Don’t you want to avert your eyes as I get out?”

  He shrugs. “Oh, Mel Keating. I’ve seen much worse.”

  Besides registering a fear that’s making her legs and arms quiver, Mel Keating is rip-roaring 100 percent pissed off at herself as she climbs down the mountain with the two armed men and Tim, hair still wet, feet damp in her boots. When they suddenly appeared, Mel knew right away that something wasn’t right, even beyond their lack of proper outdoor cl
othing.

  It was their faces.

  Smiling and open, but Mel caught their eyes, saw the eyes of hunters. Growing up in Texas, she knew that most of her family were hunters, and when Dad was in the Navy and some of his buddies came by for a visit, just before they were about to go off on a mission, she saw that same look.

  Always moving, flickering, evaluating, ready to strike out.

  If they hadn’t been in the water—her suggestion!—and had been on the trail, she would have shoved Tim into the woods and they would have started running, taking advantage of the tangled brush and trees to escape.

  But in the water, there had been no escape. Just the humiliation of climbing out of the pond, getting dressed under the men’s stares, and being forced back on the trail, and then taking a separate path down the mountain.

  Tim is in front of her, his face pale whenever he turns to look back at Mel, and in front of him, quickly descending the trail, is the younger man. The older man is right behind her, and as the younger man slows down and gently negotiates a stretch of broken boulders, Mel says to the older man, “Why are you doing this?”

  The man smiles, and his accent isn’t as heavy as before. “You know.”

  “But my dad…he isn’t the president anymore! If you’re looking for—”

  “Mel Keating, you have no idea what I’m looking for, now, do you?”

  “But you don’t have to do this,” she says, thinking furiously, and Tim looks back, eyes wide with fright, and she goes on and says, “Just let us go.”

  “Allah wills otherwise, I’m afraid.”

  Thinking hard, Mel says, “Please. Islam is a religion of peace, isn’t it? Prove it. Let us go. If you have a message, a concern, or a complaint, I’ll pass it along to my dad. He can see it gets to the right people.”

  The man doesn’t say a word, and then bursts out laughing. “Oh, you young ignorant girl. What you don’t know about me and Islam could fill a container ship. But I have been a patient teacher for many, many years…and you and your father have so much to learn, and I have so much to teach. I have been waiting a very, very long time for this.”

  He gently caresses her neck with the muzzle end of the pistol.

  “Now, please move,” he says. “All of this discussion is quite interesting, but I have a feeling you’re trying to…what is it? Stall. Yes. Stall in case we meet other hikers coming up this trail. As you hope for a distraction or an escape. Please. We did not plan this much and travel this far to allow a stray hiker or two to delay us. Melanie Keating, do start moving.”

  Tim is still staring at her, fear-wide eyes filled with moisture, and Mel wants to take a moment and say, Sorry, Tim, dating the president’s daughter didn’t turn out the way you hoped, now, did it?

  Another shove from the pistol.

  She starts down the trail, slowing her pace, and that’s instantly noticed.

  The older man says, “Move quicker, Miss Keating, or I will lose patience and leave your head on a trail sign.”

  Chapter

  24

  Huntsmen Trail

  Mount Rollins, New Hampshire

  The minutes slip by quickly, and with each footfall, Mel knows it’s up to her to get herself and Tim away from these men. If she were stuck in a snowstorm in these mountains, or washed up ashore on a deserted Maine island, there’s no one she’d rather have at her side than Tim.

  But this is different.

  She thinks of all the hard young men—and some women—she met when Dad was in the Navy, and later, when he campaigned for Congress. She heard the tales, sometimes eavesdropping when she should have been in bed, and she learned a lot about what was really out there beyond the borders and oceans. She’d trade anything to have one of those campaign volunteers here now instead of sweet, innocent Tim.

  Hell, her mom—who was at Dad’s side from the beginning and worked in the nasty backstabbing world of higher education—would be thinking like Mel right now, looking for options, a way out.

  The woods thin.

  The trail widens.

  The dirt parking lot comes into view and she looks and looks—

  Damn.

  Just one vehicle on this trailhead, a couple of miles away from where Tim parked his car.

  A black Cadillac Escalade.

  Oh, if only there were two or three cars here, full of hikers, maybe some rough, strong football or rugby players from the college.

  It’s still up to her.

  “Step faster now,” the older man behind her says.

  They’re on the dirt surface of the parking lot.

  Tim stops, and he takes two steps to her, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

  Tim tries to keep things together as he looks over the two armed men, thoughts roaring through his mind at the speed of Class IV rapids. Like being in a fast-moving and dangerous river, you observe the conditions and think through the best survival options.

  Damn it, he thinks. He should have listened better to Mel back in the pool, gotten up and raced away. Sure, running naked through the trees would have hurt like hell, but at least he could have eventually found someone, maybe someone with a cell phone, to put out the word that Mel Keating was being kidnapped.

  Back at the pool, Mel was the president’s daughter, sensitive to danger, and not Mel, the typical Dartmouth student.

  Mel steps forward and says, “All right. Look. Whatever you want, whatever you need, it all comes down to me. Not my friend here”—she points to Tim. “Take me. Leave him behind.”

  Tim can’t believe how brave and calm Mel seems to be, and he takes in her words, and thinks, All right, maybe we can do something here.

  In a side pocket of his knapsack is a folding knife that he can quickly unclasp. Back at the pool, putting the knapsack on, he had quietly unzipped the pocket. If he can get these two to let him take the pack off, he could get into that side pocket and—

  The older man lowers his pistol and says, “You would want that? To leave your companion behind? And go alone with us?”

  Mel nods as the younger man moves closer to Tim.

  Might work.

  Keep on talking, Mel, he thinks. Keep on talking.

  He says, “Hey, guys, my back is aching. Mind if I take my knapsack off?”

  Mel says, “Yes. That’s what I want. Leave Tim behind. I’ll go with you.”

  Tim starts to loosen his straps. Desperate, but if he can get the knapsack off, he can toss it at the guy with the gun, and then go after the other guy with the knife. Slice him or stab him, anything to hurt him, and Mel and he can start running through the woods.

  Mel says, “What do you say, sir? Will you do it? Doesn’t it make sense?”

  The older man says, “It certainly does.”

  Tim is thinking, Okay, let’s do this thing.

  “Young man,” he says. “Do you promise to stay here if we leave? Do you?”

  Tim thinks, Jesus, it’s going to work. This guy is letting his guard down.

  “You bet,” Tim says. “I promise.”

  Mel thinks, I’m making an impression. Maybe he’ll do just that. Let Tim go, and in a while, he’ll be with the cops and giving them a description of these two armed guys, the Cadillac, and what direction they were headed…this just might work out.

  To her shocked surprise, the older man asks Tim if he would promise to stay behind.

  Tim looks relieved. “You bet. I promise.”

  The older man says something quick—Arabic, perhaps?—and then in English says, “Very well, we will leave you here.”

  Thank you, God, Mel thinks. It’s going to be all right.

  The younger man steps over, sticks the end of his pistol in Tim’s left ear, and Mel watches in horrified silence as Tim tries to squirm his head away from the touch of the metal, and there’s a loud report.

  A spray of blood.

  Tim grunts, collapses upon himself onto the dirt parking lot, shudders, and quickly dies.

  Chapter
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br />   25

  Huntsmen trailhead

  Mount Rollins, New Hampshire

  It took some talking on his part and spending money for a day babysitter, but Clem Townsend is one happy guy this morning, with his wife, Sheila, by his side as they drive up the dirt road to the Huntsmen Trail, which leads up to Mount Rollins. Ten years ago to this day, the two of them hiked up here and he popped the question on the summit, holding a nice engagement ring he had bought at the Walmart over in West Lebanon. Of course she said yes, and this mountain and this trail have always had a special place in their memories, and every anniversary, they make it a point to repeat the climb. Ten years and three kids later, Sheila still looks pretty good, even with a few extra pounds, and Lord knows, he thinks, he’s added a few more himself—

  “Clem, look out!”

  He wrests the steering wheel of their old Subaru Forester to the left as a large black SUV roars down the narrow dirt road, coming within inches of sideswiping them on the right side. He calls out “Jerk!” as the Subaru’s left wheels drop into a shallow drainage ditch. Sheila holds on to the dashboard as their car goes thump thump thump and then manages to get back onto the dirt road.

  He stops, breathing hard.

  “Christ, that was close,” he says. “You okay, hon?”

  Sheila nods. “What a clown. He came so close I thought he was going to rip off the side-view mirror.”

  Clem eases up on the brakes and drives slowly for another minute or so, and they come out into the dirt lot for the trailhead, and as Clem parks near the wooden trail sign with yellow lettering, Sheila says, “Oh, look at that. Those idiots left a pile of trash behind. No wonder they were in a hurry.”

  He looks over and freezes. He and Sheila own a little gas station and convenience store in the nearby town of Spencer, where he’s a volunteer firefighter-EMT. He knows what he’s seeing, and it’s not trash.

  Clem switches off the engine. “Sheila…get your cell phone out. See if there’s service up here.”