55

THE WHITE HOUSE

It was just after nine o’clock on Friday evening when the parents arrived.

Each couple had been picked up at home by a team of FBI agents—the Brightons from Shreveport, Louisiana; the Minettis from Montgomery, Alabama; and the Weisses from Tyler, Texas—and flown across the country on government planes to Joint Base Andrews. There they had been met by more FBI agents and brought to the White House. It had not been possible to keep any of this from the press. After all, each family had become the focus of global attention. Their houses and entire neighborhoods had been veritable media camps, teeming with dozens of local, national, and international reporters—print, TV, radio, and digital alike—along with camera crews, producers, floodlights, and satellite trucks.

Meg Whitney met the couples in the Cabinet Room, where they had some light refreshments and spent some time making awkward small talk. The secretary of state had already spoken to each of the couples by phone several times throughout the day, even during the flights, doing her best to get to know them, to comfort them, and to explain why the acting president had asked them to come to Washington. She already knew their faces from the last nine hours of nonstop television coverage. Still, it was different to meet them in person and to see the grief and fear in their eyes.

At 9:23 p.m., a Secret Service agent signaled the secretary. She nodded, rose, and asked the group of six to follow her into the Oval Office.

The first person they met upon entering the hallowed chamber was Defense Secretary Foster. Next in line was General James Meyers, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, wearing his Marine dress uniform. Then came National Security Advisor McDermott, CIA director Stephens, the White House chief of staff, and the press secretary. It was too many, really, Whitney thought. She had advocated for a much smaller group, but Hernandez wanted a show of force. He wanted these folks to know they were getting the full attention of the most senior members of the American government. Whitney wasn’t sure that was the message being received.

They all shook hands and then Whitney asked the couples to sit on the couches in the center of the room, Larry and Laura Brighton along with Tom and Kathy Weiss on the far couch, Bob and Tracey Minetti on the nearer couch, together with Secretary Foster and Whitney herself. The others sat in antique wooden chairs set up beside the couches. After they had all been seated and served hot tea and coffee by a steward, they stood again when Hernandez entered from a side door. The acting president greeted each of the parents one by one and asked everyone to take a seat.

For the first time since assuming his new role, Whitney realized, Hernandez did not sit in the vice president’s armchair, positioned to the right of the couches, in front of the fireplace, but in the president’s chair next to that. He didn’t seem comfortable, she noted to herself, but then none of them did. The tension in the room was palpable. No one wanted to be there. All of them feared this story did not have a happy ending.

Hernandez thanked them all for coming on such short notice. He apologized for assigning FBI agents to protect each of them, their homes, and their families. He understood the imposition the agents represented in their lives but said that under the circumstances—the hostage situation, ransom demand, and now a full-blown media circus—he felt he owed that to them. The families expressed their gratitude and said they were not annoyed but hoped it would all be over soon.

“That’s our hope as well,” Hernandez said, nodding to the cabinet and staff members around the room. “I want you to know that we are doing everything we can both to locate your daughters and to get them back to you safely and quickly.”

“And what is that exactly?” Larry Brighton asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Whitney noticed Laura Brighton move her hand to her husband’s knee. It struck her not as an act of tenderness but a discreet signal that it might be best if he restrained himself and let the meeting play out. Larry stiffened at the gesture; restraint might not be his chosen course of action, Whitney thought.

“Mr. Brighton, I have directed all seventeen U.S. intelligence agencies to find your daughters and those who are holding them,” Hernandez replied. “We are working with numerous foreign intelligence agencies as well, and I have ordered the Pentagon to deploy a dozen special forces units to the region, ready to respond the moment we determine where the girls are.”

At this, Bob Minetti spoke up. “You’re planning a rescue operation?”

“Absolutely,” Hernandez responded.

“But there’s only thirty-eight and a half hours before the deadline,” Kathy Weiss said. “Is that enough time?”

“No, it’s not,” Larry Brighton said, leaning forward and moving his wife’s hand off his knee. “And it’s too dangerous. What about the ransom?”

“Exactly,” Tom Weiss said. “The ransom is the only way to make sure my Hannah and the others come back safely.”

“I hear you,” Hernandez said. “I do. And I haven’t ruled out paying the ransom. Believe me, we’ve been discussing it nonstop. But there are enormous risks in going down that route, as you can imagine. First, it could create an open season, making Americans all over the world vulnerable to other kidnappers who want to cash in.”

“I don’t care about that,” Tracey Minetti said, her eyes filled with tears. “Our government has the money. These thugs have our daughters. And you’re the only one who can make this deal. So make it, Mr. President, please. I don’t know how I could survive losing a daughter. I don’t know if any of us could.”

“Which is why I am actively considering paying the ransom—we all are,” Hernandez assured her, though Whitney knew that wasn’t completely true. “But it’s not just the risks to others. It’s the risk to your girls.”

“What do you mean?” Larry Brighton asked.

“Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean?” Bob Minetti asked.

“Please understand—Abu Nakba is the most ruthless terrorist on the planet,” Hernandez explained. “There is a real concern in this room, and among my other top advisors, that even if I pay the ransom, Abu Nakba won’t honor the deal.”

Tracey Minetti gasped, her hands shooting to her mouth.

Larry nearly came off the couch, his face beet red. “You think that bastard will kill my little girl even if you pay?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Whitney noticed two Secret Service agents move almost imperceptibly, one closer to Hernandez, the other closer to the Brightons.

“That’s my fear, Larry,” Hernandez conceded. “And that’s why my people are tearing apart heaven and earth to find your girls in the next twenty-four hours and launch a lightning-fast raid employing the best and the brightest special operators this country has ever deployed.”