The Patriot Threat (31 page)

He
was
a Kim.

She finished her shower and shut off the water, her body scrubbed clean and immaculate. Steam engulfed her, the wet marble walls warm to the touch. She stood naked, water dripping from her skin. One thing was certain.

She was no Kim.

Names fascinated her, perhaps because for the first nine years of her life they’d meant little to nothing. She’d taken the time to study her father’s and learned that Yong referred to bravery and Jin a jewel.

He was neither.

Her own name was different.

Hana Sung.

First victory.

Which pointed the way.

FORTY-FIVE

Kim finished his lunch, delivered by room service half an hour ago. He’d made a good choice with the hotel, an upscale establishment that faced the bay and offered a level of personal service he’d come to expect.

After abandoning the lifeboat he and Hana had made their way into a small suburb north of Zadar where they found a taxi. The driver had suggested the hotel and delivered them to the front door. He’d kept a close hold on the black satchel and Hana had brought along the travel bag from the ferry. All in all, their escape had worked perfectly. He was now free of the American, with the documents, ready to move forward.

Hana was showering and he needed to do the same. He wore a soft robe from the bedroom closet, as their clothes were being laundered. They’d need to buy some more, which he could do later or tomorrow. Their suite was the hotel’s largest, with two bedrooms, two baths, and a spacious living room. French doors opened out to a terrace that overlooked open water. The day had turned chilly, the wind finally eased, the fog lifted to a thin gray film. Waves continued to march in the bay, the pulse of the sea strong, constant, and relentless.

The documents from the satchel were spread out on the table, a cache straight from the private records of the U.S. Treasury Department. He knew the sole original was the most important. It had been unfortunate that he hadn’t been able to speak with Howell further. He’d intended on forcing more information on threat of harm to his lover. Unfortunately, that lever was now gone, as was Howell. So he’d have to figure out the rest on his own.

He’d brought along his laptop in the travel bag, which was now connected to the hotel’s wireless network. A quick check of the day’s news revealed a disturbing story from North Korea. Six high-level government administrators had been arrested, tried, and convicted of “attempting to overthrow the state by all sorts of intrigues and despicable methods with a wild ambition to grab the supreme power of our party and state.” The conspirators had been labeled “traitors to the nation for all ages.”

All six had been immediately executed.

He studied the list of names and noted four were sources he’d regularly used within the government. One had been his informant about the money transfer in Venice.

That was no coincidence.

His half brother was on to him.

He’d expected repercussions from the $20 million, but not quite so fast. How had Pyongyang traced the debacle in Venice? He’d heard nothing more from the men hired to steal the $20 million, but their fate was immaterial. Unless they’d been taken prisoner and interrogated, little existed connecting him to them. No one had followed him onto the ferry. How could they? Everything happened so spontaneously. Telling the world about those six executions was a way for his half brother to send a message. Decades of inertia had long anchored North Korea in cement. What had his father said?
We must envelop our environment in a dense fog to prevent our enemies from learning anything about us.
So when that fog was intentionally lifted, that meant something.

The laptop dinged, signaling an incoming email.

He glanced at the listing and noticed the sender.
PATRIOT.
That was the tag Anan Wayne Howell had always utilized. He had many emails stored away that bore the label.

He slid the machine closer and opened the message.

You left me on the ferry. I’m assuming that was you in one of those lifeboats and some American agent named Malone in the other. He confronted me after you left, then took off when the fire alarm sounded. Which was fine by me. He came to bring me back to the United States. I’m assuming you started the fire. Jelena was nowhere on the ferry, so I’m also assuming she’s with you. I can tell you now, there’s no way you’re going to make any progress with those documents without me. There are things you don’t know. I want Jelena back, unharmed. I also want my freedom. You have what I need to prove my innocence. Let’s deal. Interested?

Yes, he was.

Thankfully, Howell seemed in the dark about what had happened on the water. But that was understandable given the storm and the fog. Visibility had been next to nothing. Malone was who-knew-where, and Howell had apparently fled, now contacting the only person who might be able to help. Unfortunately, Howell was right. There were things Kim did not know, and he did not have the time to discover them on his own. Those six executions alone were reason enough to speed up the process. Discovering the legal and historical particulars of this puzzle were one thing. What he did with that information, once known, was an entirely different matter. That would involve careful maneuvering among lawyers and publicists, the press and the courts. Bringing the United States to its knees would not be easy, but it also no longer seemed impossible.

His fingers worked the keyboard, formulating his reply.

*   *   *

Malone was betting that Kim Yong Jin would react as a gambler. From the little he’d read, and from what he’d observed, Kim surely fancied himself as someone smarter than everyone else. And that kind of arrogance usually led to mistakes. So he’d drafted an email for Howell to send, taking advantage of what he perceived to be Kim’s main weakness.

Ambition.

He now understood the stakes.

Kim wanted to destroy the United States, and if some of that misery spilled over to China then so much the better. To his credit Kim had stumbled onto something that might just work. He’d meant what he’d said earlier. They had to contain Kim here, and hope no one on the other side of the Atlantic was waiting for instructions. Stephanie had told him earlier that the NSA, thanks to a court order, was listening specifically to Kim’s cell phone. As usual, though, all international calls in and out of the United States were also being monitored. Millions of them, the NSA recognition software on the lookout for words like
income taxes, 16th Amendment, Andrew Mellon, Roosevelt,
among others.

“Do you think he saw the email?” Isabella asked.

“And if he did,” Luke said, “will he take the bait?”

He was certain. “It’s his only play. There are things he just doesn’t know.”

They were still inside the American Corner, that entire section of the library temporarily closed off. His clothes were damp and crusty from the seawater.

The desktop rang.

All of their gazes locked on Kim’s reply.

I am prepared to deal.

*   *   *

Kim was taking a big chance, but he thought it a calculated one. Howell, as an American fugitive, after three years of running, would have no love for any agent like Malone. He wouldn’t necessarily care much for Kim, either, but in Howell’s mind Kim had Jelena, and that he did care about. All he had to do was play out the bluff.

A new message appeared from Howell.

We need to meet and I want Jelena there, to make sure she’s okay. Once that happens, I’ll tell you things that will open your eyes. I don’t know what you have in mind, nor do I care. But if you expose all of this as the fraud that it is, that only helps me. I don’t want to go to jail. I’ve spent years studying this, and I didn’t write everything I know in the book. In fact, you have the most important piece to the puzzle. That original sheet of numbers. But for that to do you any good, we have to chat.

*   *   *

Isabella had to admit, what Malone was doing seemed clever. He was working a con, using the con man’s own fears and expectations against him. Not unlike when she worked a tax cheat, making him or her think she was there to help, easing her way closer and closer to the truth. She’d investigated so many, her conviction rate an impressive 93%. It helped that she was selective, walking away from the questionable ones, zeroing in on the real criminals. Unfortunately, no such luxury existed here. You played the hand dealt. Luke Daniels had been right. Malone was tough, and smart.

But so was she.

Another reply came from Kim.

How do you suggest we accomplish all this?

“The fish is on the hook,” Luke said, with a smile.

Malone nodded at Howell.

“Reel him in.”

FORTY-SIX

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

11:00
A
.
M
.

Stephanie made two more overseas calls on a landline to Cotton, then left the Treasury building through its main entrance. She and Joe Levy had agreed to keep what they knew to themselves, at least for a little while longer. Levy was right. Official deniability could become important, so for now the less the White House knew, the better. Everything screamed caution.
Tread lightly, walk slowly.
A lot was happening. She knew some, but had to know more.

From her reading of
The Patriot Threat
she recalled numerous references to the National Gallery of Art. Howell had noted that Mellon died in 1937, just as construction on the gallery began. The museum did not officially open until 1941. According to Howell, even from the grave Mellon had directed a great many things about the project. The museum’s first director, David Finley, remained loyal to his old boss and did exactly as Mellon requested. Cotton had suggested some further exploration. Mellon had created the code with a purpose, so the more they knew about the man the better.

A call to the National Gallery’s central office had directed her to one of the assistant curators, a young woman who was a supposed expert on Mellon. A few years ago the first definitive biography of the man had finally been published, and this curator had worked for the author as a research assistant. So while Cotton and Luke maneuvered things in Croatia, she decided to troll a little bait of her own.

She’d driven past the National Gallery a thousand times, but had only ventured inside once or twice. Art was not something that had ever really interested her. The massive gallery occupied a northeast corner on the Mall, facing Constitution Avenue, in the shadow of the Capitol. Its exterior was a monument to classicism with lofty portals at each end, Ionic porticoes in the center, and a dome jutting skyward. Harmony and proportion dominated, all formed out of warm, rosy-tinted marble.

Inside she was directed to the second floor where she found Carol Williams, a pleasant-looking woman with short black hair.

“This is my first experience with an intelligence agency,” Carol said. “Curators rarely deal with things like that, but I’m told you want to know about Mr. Mellon?”

She nodded. “A little insight could prove helpful.”

“Could I ask why?”

“You could, but I can’t answer. I hope you understand.”

“Spy business?”

She grinned. “Something like that.”

Carol motioned at their surroundings. “You’ve definitely come to the right place to learn about Mr. Mellon. Here, in the rotunda, is a perfect example of his influence. He wanted a dome on the building as a focal point for the outside, to offset the mass of the long wings. He caught a lot of grief for that decision. People thought only the Capitol should be domed. Here, inside, you can see he was right. This space offers the perfect meeting point for the great halls. A true centerpiece.”

Overhead rose a coffered dome with scalloped niches and a glass oculus at its center, strikingly similar to the Pantheon in Rome. A circular procession of thick, green marble columns held the roof aloft, matted from behind by cream-colored limestone walls. A tingling fountain sat in the center.

“The bronze figure in the fountain is Mercury, cast sometime in the late 18th or early 19th century. Mr. Mellon acquired it as part of his collection.”

“Why do you call him
Mr.,
as if he’s still here?”

“He is still here.”

A strange reply.

“This building is totally reflective of him. This was his monument to the country, and since he was paying the bills his wishes were generally honored.”

She listened as Carol explained how Mellon chose the architect and approved every aspect of the design. He selected Tennessee marble for the outside and most of the interior décor. He wanted the exhibit rooms harmonious, but not elaborate, intended to convey both period and place. So plaster was used for early Italian, Flemish, and German works. Damask for later Italian. Oak paneling displayed Rubens, van Dyck, Rembrandt, and other Dutch masters. Painted paneling accommodated the French, English, and American canvases. No other adornments were allowed in the galleries, save for a few sofas. Never, Mellon insisted, should the building dominate its contents.

“He had a good eye,” Carol said, “and a good sense of things. It would have been easy for him, with all his money, to build a palace. But he intentionally refused to do that. Instead he built a place where works of art could be appreciated.”

“You admire him?”

“For his art? Definitely. His taste? Oh, yes. But there were other aspects of him that were less than admirable. He was, after all, a clear product of his time. First, from the Gilded Age where fortunes were built upon greed and ruthless ambition. Then from the prosperous 1920s where those fortunes either expanded or collapsed. Mr. Mellon’s multiplied a hundredfold.”

Her hostess motioned and they left the rotunda, entering one of the long sculpture halls that spread east and west. Overhead, a barrel-vaulted ceiling with skylights allowed in the late-morning sun. Statuary lined the center between pediment doorways that led to more exhibition rooms. Visitors paraded back and forth, admiring the sculptures. She noticed that the hall was another simple, elegant space that did not overpower.