Chapter 60
The obvious question—“How exactly did we lose two people while in the process of watching them?”—would be hashed around for years to come, but at the moment such a discussion was a waste of time. They were gone!
The long table was packed with grim-faced men in uniforms, medals covering their chests. Trevor Keefe, however, was not intimidated, because he had worn a uniform. He’d been shot at in combat. Most of the generals had not.
Once prompted, Keefe gave a ten-minute summary with no excuses and only a few gaps.
He described the two signals—the first on land from somewhere outside Marseille, the second from the sea about a hundred miles south of Toulon.
Weather conditions could not be any worse and it was, so far, virtually impossible to find the boat.
The past twenty-four hours had produced no sign of Russo.
The French were practically blocking the streets of Paris, but so far, nothing.
Though it was not necessary, Keefe stressed the urgency of the situation and, once again, stated as bluntly as possible that the United States should immediately agree to the ransom demands and pray mightily that the terrorists would honor their part of the deal.
Otherwise, there could be executions, gruesome and in living color.
A two-star general, and one of the harder asses in the room, predictably repeated the tired warning that paying the ransom would only lead to more kidnappings.
Keefe listened diplomatically, then said, “We’ll deny we paid the ransom, sir.
We’re dealing with scumbags anyway, who cares if we lie to them?
Nothing matters right now but the safety of the five hostages.
” The group frowned in unison at the idea of such a blatant admission of lying, as if they had never considered such behavior.
“And you’re convinced the same group has all five?” asked an admiral.
“Yes sir. No doubt. It’s been confirmed by our contact in Dublin.”
The conversation soon lost steam because the only person who could authorize the ransom was busy with breakfast in Boston.
A three-star took the floor and reviewed the search-and-rescue plans, as they existed at that moment.
The glaring problem was that the Algerians were not budging on their refusal to allow American planes in their airspace.
The president, once finished in Boston, would have to intervene, grovel, and make threats.
If that went nowhere, the French were ready to step in and twist arms.
—
Pascal Goff spent the day killing time in the U.S. embassy in Dublin, which was not a bad place to hang out. Lunch was a two-hour feast with senior diplomats, followed by a nap, his cell phone by his side. Then he took a long, frigid walk and prayed he would not be in town for dinner.
At 5 p.m., he entered the office of the U.S.
ambassador to Ireland, and shook hands all around.
There were two senior diplomats, a CIA deputy, and an American general who did something with NATO.
The CIA man pulled rank, at least for the meeting, and knew more than anyone else in the room.
He clicked off the basic facts as they existed at that moment.
The intelligence officer, Rae Claire Russo, was missing and had not been heard from.
Her partner was believed to be with the terrorists and in transit.
There were two plots unfolding, both potentially disastrous.
The first was the ransom demand of $200 million for the safe release of all five.
The second was a rescue operation that was already underway.
Signals sent by their operative, Nash, had been picked up near the port of Marseille, then again about a hundred miles from shore in the Mediterranean.
The boat had not been found but it was believed to be destined for Algeria.
The success of the operation depended entirely upon Nash’s ability to send more signals.
The Algerians were adamantly refusing to cooperate, so the French were working behind the scenes.
An aircraft carrier from the Sixth Fleet was waiting ninety miles off the coast of Morocco with SEAL Team 7 primed and poised.
The problem, or challenge, was at the White House.
The president was stalling on the demand for ransom, ostensibly because the United States does not negotiate with terrorists, and so on.
Another reason might be that he was stalling to monitor the progress of the rescue.
The recovery of the hostages, along with the capture of the terrorists, would be another glorious moment, almost as dramatic as the killing of bin Laden.
Opinion was strongly split among those allowed to speak in the Situation Room.
The hardliners, primarily those in uniform, were staunchly against negotiating and believed the rescue should proceed at all costs.
The others, none in uniform, wanted to pay the money and get the hell out of Algeria. The president was clearly torn.
The meeting was adjourned until further notice.
Goff called Cully Pratt for an update, which revealed nothing.
It was late on a Friday. Pratt had had a long week and was frustrated at being in the middle of events he had nothing to do with.
They agreed to meet in a pub for a drink and a bite to eat.
—
The only person who could negotiate was temporarily out of touch.
Nabeed was still on the boat, still cowering in the hold with three of his men, all violently sick with nausea, freezing, hungry, thirsty, and bruised from being thrown about like stuffed dolls.
Land was not in sight. The captain said maybe three more hours, but by then they did not believe a word he said.
Their cargo was out of sight but not completely out of mind. The American remained on the deck, in his leaky box, hypothermic but unconscious, and, thus, oblivious. They were hoping he was not dead but were really too sick to worry about him.
The box was secured by thick ropes that held firm, but the sheer jolts of the breaking waves knocked him from side to side, banging his head and rattling his teeth.
—
The team at Langley had been monitoring the phone and internet activities of the newlyweds since before they left for Paris.
Now that they had vanished, the monitoring was on red alert.
Their families were calling their cell phones.
The voice and text messages were increasingly anxious.
Friends were checking in online and asking what was going on.
Late Friday, Trevor Keefe gave the orders.
In Akron, two FBI agents went to the home of Jenn Russo and said they needed to talk.
In the den, they broke the terrible news that Rae Claire had been abducted in Paris, along with Stuart.
Details were scarce, but they believed the two were safe.
It was probably a kidnapping plot of some sort.
Jenn was too stunned to ask many questions.
The agents stressed the importance of confidentiality.
They left her on the front porch, in tears and thoroughly overwhelmed.
At the same time, two agents went to the office of Mr. Harold Nash and broke the same news. He managed to fire off more questions than Jenn, but got the same non-answers. They promised to call him immediately when they knew more.