The Patriot Threat (24 page)

Klaxon horns dinned out an alarm.

A low murmur of concern swept through the room.

The harsh shout of a technical voice echoed through the ship.

“Fuoco. Fuoco.”

Fire.

*   *   *

Kim led the way, Hana behind him helping along the dazed woman, who could barely walk. They’d decided to leave their luggage to the flames. Personal belongings were the least of his concerns. Getting off this ferry before it docked—that was what mattered—and with the black satchel, which he cradled in his arms along with another carry bag for his laptop and a few essentials.

Hana had reconnoitered the decks in Venice after they’d boarded, preparing in case a hasty retreat became necessary. Before leaving the cabin, they’d set fire to the bedsheets, towels, furniture, and their extra clothing. The blaze had quickly gathered strength. He admired her ingenuity. What a perfect distraction.

They’d made their way up two decks to where the ship’s lifeboats hung from davits. Compact and modular, each vessel was about five meters long, totally enclosed, painted a bright orange and white. Winches controlled their release, the controls at deck level, easily accessible.

Fire alarms sounded throughout the ship.

He stared out toward shore. A storm was brewing. Thick clouds had begun to leak rain and an easterly breeze, cold and cutting like a scythe, kicked up whitecaps. They were several kilometers west from Zadar, just past a series of archipelagoes that shielded the harbor from open sea. He approached one of the control panels where lights flashed, the switches surely activated by the alarm. They were labeled in Italian and English. People rushed past him on the deck, no one giving him any pause. He flicked one of the toggles labeled
LOADING
. The davit pivoted out, then its winches lowered the boat to deck level. Hana led the woman inside the enclosed cabin. He followed. He assumed there were controls inside for deployment—and there were, a set nearly identical to the outside control panel.

The ferry had slowed to a near stop.

He activated
DROP
and the lifeboat lowered quickly.

The moment the keel struck the turbulent water he flicked
RELEASE
, and they were free of the ferry.

Hana laid the woman on one of the shiny, high-backed benches. The interior was roomy, able to hold maybe twenty or more people. He watched as Hana pressed a button and the engines fired. She then threw open the throttle and spun the wheel.

And they were away.

*   *   *

Malone sprang to his feet and motioned for Howell to come, too. No way that a fire alarm had just happened to go off. The entire ferry shuddered as the screws changed tempo and reversed. Raised voices came from some of the crew who ordered everyone to stay calm. He made his way outside. One of the deckhands rushed by and he asked in Italian, “What’s happening?”

“Fire below.”

“Jelena,” Howell muttered.

He agreed. This most likely involved her. Then he noticed something aft. One of the lifeboats was dropping on its winch lines to the water. No command to abandon the ship had been given. He raced that way and arrived just as the boat freed itself and motored away. Its side hatch lay open and a face appeared, just for an instant, before an arm reached out and closed the portal.

Kim Yong Jin.

“I thought you told me there was nowhere for him to go,” Howell said.

“I was wrong.”

His eyes studied the remaining lifeboats. Why not? Worked once.

Howell seemed to read his mind. “Not without Jelena. I’m not leaving her.”

He was not in the mood. “You can either come the easy way or come the hard way.”

And he meant it. He’d beat this man unconscious and throw him on the boat if he had to. Howell seemed to sense there was no choice and nodded.

He pushed the younger man ahead of him and they rushed to a panel that controlled another of the lifeboats. Smoke had begun to bellow from the bow of the ship. People rushed back and forth, panicked at the threatening sight. A uniformed crew member appeared and yelled in Italian for him to get away from the controls. He ignored the command and lowered the boat to deck level, motioning for Howell to hop inside. The crew member pushed his way through the crowd and wrapped an arm around Malone’s neck, yanking him back.

He had no time for this, and jabbed an elbow into his attacker’s ribs.

Once. Twice.

The neck hold released.

He spun and slammed his right fist into the crewman’s jaw, sending the man to the deck. A few of the passengers bent down to help. He used that moment to hop into the lifeboat and slam the hatch shut, locking it from the inside. He found the interior controls and hit the
DROP
button.

They fell fast and settled in the pitching surf.

He released the winch lines and started the engines.

*   *   *

Isabella exited the taxi, while Luke Daniels paid the driver. They’d made the short trip along traffic-clogged streets in just under twenty minutes. Their travel bags, along with Malone’s, had been left in lockers at the airport. They’d worry about them later. Right now, that ferry was their primary concern.

Zadar seemed a study in contrast. The suburbs were more modern with industrial parks and commercial zones, the old town filled with churches, monuments, and Roman ruins. Its historical center, a matrix of red-tiled low-slung buildings surrounded by thick stone walls, occupied a rectangular-shaped peninsula about three miles long and a mile wide, which jutted into the bay. A causeway connected it to the mainland. On the landing approach to the airport she’d noticed that the harbor was sheltered from the open sea by a series of islands, arranged in rows parallel to the coastline. The crenulated outlines of deep coves and inlets marred their shores. They stood outside the old town walls, at the peninsula’s tip, where ships docked. That storm she’d feared had arrived, a cold, gray murk enveloping. The bare limbs of nearby trees shivered in a stiff breeze. Out in the bay, a mile or so away, she spotted the ferry and heard a siren.

“That’s an alarm,” Daniels said.

Smoke seeped from the ship’s forward section, quickly seized by the wind. Something was wrong. They spotted a lifeboat drop to the water and motor off.

“I’ll give you two-to-one odds who’s in that boat,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“My bet is that’s Kim’s escape. He had to get the hell off that thing before it docked.”

“How did he manage to steal a boat? That should not have been possible.”

“Are you that naïve? Or just stupid? It’s everybody for themselves out here. You do what you gotta do.”

“I don’t work that way. Never have. Never will.”

He shook his head in seeming disgust.

Another lifeboat dropped to the water.

“And I know who stole that one,” Daniels said.

He found his cell phone and dialed.

Wind swirled the misty rain across the bay like ghosts. Cold stung her face. They should find shelter, but Luke Daniels did not move, his attention locked on the two orange boats as they distanced themselves from the ferry, headed north, away from town. When the call was answered she could hear thanks to Daniels activating the speaker.

“Pappy, is that you in one of those boats?”

“It’s me. Kim’s ahead of us.”

“We’re on shore,” Daniels said. “At the dock. I got Wonder Woman here with me.”

She resented his condescending attitude and the insult she knew some of her co-workers at Treasury used for her.

“Kim’s got the documents,” Malone said. “We can’t let him get away. There’s an original in there we have to get back.”

She caught the significance of what Malone had managed to learn, which amplified her containment problem.

“I may not be able to catch up to him,” Malone said. “These tubs are not rigged for speed. Can you pace him from dry land?”

Daniels’ gaze drifted from the dancing waves to the shoreline on their right, which ran in a jagged course northward where buildings and pinewoods strung close. A sheltered marina was visible, maybe two miles away.

But she saw it, too.

A highway rimmed the coast for as far she could see, sandy beaches between it and the water.

“I got it, Pappy. We’ll be right with you.”

THIRTY-FIVE

V
IRGINIA

Stephanie drove the car away from Ed Tipton’s house. As requested, they’d shut off the house lights and locked the front door behind them. Danny had borrowed $20 from her and tucked it beneath Tipton’s phone to compensate for the overseas calls. She’d thought it strange, but typical. He didn’t like to owe anyone.

He sat in the rear seat with the wooden crate they’d retrieved from the hall closet. He’d switched on one of the rear ceiling lights and was rummaging through. The glare was blocking her ability to see out the rearview mirror, but she knew better than to ask him to cut it off. The car with the two Secret Service agents followed closely. Dawn was less than an hour away. Strangely, she wasn’t tired, though she should be. She’d passed the fatigue threshold several hours ago and found the point where the body began to run on autopilot, sleep be damned.

“It’s full of old books,” he said. “Most of ’em are on George Mason. And then there’s this.”

He stretched his arm forward and displayed between the two front seats a copy of a thin, hardbound volume.
Taxation: The People’s Business.
Written by Andrew W. Mellon.

“I didn’t know he was an author,” she said.

The book disappeared back to the rear seat. “This one I know all about. Edwin gave me a rundown on it yesterday.”

“You two have been busy. Don’t you have a country to run?”

He chuckled. “Actually, the thing runs itself. Especially when you’re a lame duck. Nobody gives a crap what I have to say.”

She knew better. “Unless you want them to give a crap.”

“The copyright page says it was published by the MacMillan Company in 1924. Edwin tells me that David Finley, Mellon’s close associate, actually wrote it for him, but everything in it was pure Mellon.”

She heard him flipping through the pages.

Then he started reading out loud.

The problem of the Government is to fix rates which will bring in a maximum amount of revenue to the Treasury and at the same time bear not too heavily on the taxpayer or on business enterprises. A sound tax policy must take into consideration three factors. It must produce sufficient revenue for the Government; it must lessen, so far as possible, the burden of taxation on those least able to bear it; and it must also remove those influences which might retard the continued steady development of business and industry on which, in the last analysis, so much of our prosperity depends. Furthermore, a permanent tax system should be designed not merely for one or two years nor for the effect it may have on any given class of taxpayers, but should be worked out with regard to conditions over a long period and with a view to its ultimate effect on the prosperity of the country as a whole.

These are the principles on which the Treasury’s tax policy is based, and any revision of taxes which ignores these fundamental principles will prove merely a make-shift and must eventually be replaced by a system based on economic, rather than political, considerations.

There is no reason why the question of taxation should not be approached from a non-partisan and business viewpoint. Tax revision should never be made the football either of partisan or class politics but should be worked out by those who have made a careful study of the subject in its larger aspects and are prepared to recommend the course which, in the end, will prove for the country’s best interest.

I have never viewed taxation as a means of rewarding one class of taxpayers or punishing another. If such a point of view ever controls our public policy, the traditions of freedom, justice and equality of opportunity, which are the distinguishing characteristics of our American civilization, will have disappeared and in their place we shall have class legislation with all its attendant evils. The man who seeks to perpetuate prejudice and class hatred is doing America an ill service. In attempting to promote or to defeat legislation by arraying one class of taxpayers against another, he shows a complete misconception of those principles of equality on which the country was founded.

“Easy to see how Mellon and Roosevelt fought,” Danny said. “Class warfare was Roosevelt’s ticket to four terms. He played that card every chance he got. But it was a smart move. There were a whole lot more ‘have nots’ than ‘haves,’ and numbers win elections.”

She could tell something was still bothering him.

It had been all night.

“Mellon was right,” he said. “Raising tax rates does not raise revenues. In fact, just the opposite happens. The rich just find a way to legally shelter their money and avoid the higher taxes. And who could blame them. But every time we’ve lowered tax rates, revenues rose. Harding. Coolidge. Hoover. Kennedy. Reagan. Bush. They all got that.”

“What’s the problem?” she finally asked him.

“My Treasury secretary lied to me. Edwin found out that Larks may have stolen an original along with all of those copies. Joe Levy never said a word about that. I’d bet my ass Morgenthau classified that crumpled sheet of paper he got from Mark Tipton, the one Mellon gave to Roosevelt, and Larks swiped it from Treasury.”

“And now it’s out there, loose on the world, and could fall into the hands of people who might figure out how to solve the code. Ask the secretary of Treasury if he lied. Joe works for you. If he holds back, fire him.”

He switched off the interior light. “That’s just it. I don’t think he’s doing anything to hurt me. I actually think he’s tryin’ to protect me.”

“From what?”

She approached a ramp for the interstate and entered the highway, increasing speed, the two headlights staying right behind her.

“That crumpled sheet of paper,” he said.

And she agreed.

“I’m not going to fire the guy for falling on his sword. You need to read Howell’s entire book.”