The Patriot Threat (2 page)

He plucked a cigarette from the box on the side table and slid it into an ivory holder. The sight of its soft tip between his clenched teeth, held at a jaunty forty-five-degree angle, had become a sign of presidential confidence and optimism. God knows the country needed both. He lit the end and savored a deep drag, the smoke heavy, each inhalation producing a comforting ache in his chest.

“You do understand that there will be no change in our position relative to the matter presently pending in the Board of Tax Appeals. Your gift will have no affect on that litigation.”

“Actually, it will.”

Now he was curious.

“The National Gallery of Art will be built,” Mellon said. “You cannot, and will not, refuse to do this. My gift is too much to ignore. Once opened, the gallery will become the premier place for art in this nation. Your petty tax trial will be long done. No one will ever give it another thought. But the gallery—that will stand forever and never be forgotten.”

“You truly are the mastermind among the malefactors of great wealth.”

“I recall that quote of yours, describing me as such. I actually took your words as a compliment. But coming from a professional politician, interested only in votes, it matters not to me what you think.”

He said, “I am saving this country from the likes of you.”

“All you’ve done is create a blizzard of new boards and agencies, most overlapping already existing departments. They do nothing, other than bloat the budget and increase taxes. The end result will be disastrous. More is never better, especially when it comes to government. God help this country when you’re done with it. Thankfully, I won’t be here to see those wretched consequences.”

Roosevelt savored more tobacco before noting, “You’re right, to refuse this gift would be political suicide. Your friends in the Republican Congress would not take kindly to that. And, I’m told, since the gift
is
yours you may set its terms. So your grand national gallery will be built.”

“You weren’t the first, you know.”

He wondered what the old man meant.

“I did it long before you ever thought of it.”

Then it hit him.

James Couzens, who’d died two months back, after fourteen years in the U.S. Senate. Thirteen years ago Senator Couzens launched a congressional probe of tax rebates provided to companies owned by then Treasury secretary Mellon. The investigation revealed Mellon had not divested himself of control over those companies, as he’d pledged to do prior to entering government service. There’d been calls for Mellon’s resignation, but he’d weathered the storm and Coolidge reappointed him in 1924. That’s when Mellon turned the Bureau of Internal Revenue on Couzens, whose audit revealed $11 million in back taxes. But the Board of Tax Appeals reversed the decision and concluded that, actually, Couzens was entitled to a refund.

“Was that not your greatest humiliation,” he told Mellon. “The appeals board sided completely against you. Your vendetta against Couzens was exposed for all that it was.”

Mellon stood. “Precisely, Mr. President.”

His guest stared down at him with eyes black as coal. He prided himself on dominating a room, able to take command of any situation, but this statue of flesh and blood made him feel nothing but uncomfortable.

“I’m dying,” Mellon said.

That he had not known.

“Cancer will kill me before the next year is done. But I have never been a man to whine or cry. When I held power, I used it. So you have, after all, done to me, your apparent enemy, nothing different from what I did to mine. Thankfully, I still possess the money and means to hold my own. I do want to say this, though. I destroyed my enemies because they tried to destroy me. Mine were all defensive strikes. Your attack against me was clearly offensive. You chose to hurt me simply because you could. I have done nothing either to or toward you. That makes our fight … different.”

He allowed the nicotine flooding his lungs to calm his nerves and told himself to show not a speck of concern or fear.

“I’ve left my country a donation of art. That will be my public legacy. For you, Mr. President, I have a separate, more private gift.”

Mellon removed a tri-folded sheet of paper from his inner coat pocket and handed it over.

He accepted the note and read what was typed on it. “This is gibberish.”

A cunning grin snuck onto Mellon’s face. Nearly a smile. What a strange sight. He could not recall ever seeing this man project anything other than a scowl.

“Quite the contrary,” Mellon said. “It’s a quest. One I personally created just for you.”

“For what?”

“Something that can end both you and your New Deal.”

He gestured with the paper. “Is this some sort of threat? Perhaps you’ve forgotten who you are addressing.”

His error of two years ago had already become abundantly clear. What was the maxim?
If you try to kill the king, make sure you do.
But he’d failed. Attorney General Cummings had already advised him that the Board of Tax Appeals would rule against the government, and for Mellon, on all counts. No back taxes were owed. No wrongdoing had occurred.

A total loss.

He’d ordered his Treasury secretary to make sure that any announcement of that decision be delayed for as long as possible. He didn’t care how it was done, just that it was. Yet he wondered. Did his visitor already know?

“A man always has two reasons for the things he does,” Mellon said. “A good one and a real one. I came here today, at your invitation, to be frank and honest. Eventually all the people now in power, yourself included, will be dead. I will be dead. But the National Gallery will always be there, and that is something this country needs. That was my
good
reason for doing what I have done. The real reason is that, unlike you, I am a patriot.”

He chuckled at the insult. “Yet you readily admit that what I’m holding is a threat to your commander in chief.”

“I assure you, there are things you do not know about this government. Things that could prove … devastating. In your hand,
Mr. President,
you hold two of those.”

“Then why not simply tell me and have your pleasure now?”

“Why would I do that? You’ve allowed me to twist in the wind these past three years. I’ve been publicly tried, humiliated, labeled a crook and a cheat. All while you abused your office and misused power. I thought it only right to return the favor. But I made my gift a challenge. I want you to work for it, just like you’ve made me do.”

Roosevelt balled up the paper and tossed it across the room.

Mellon seemed unfazed. “That would not be wise.”

He pointed the cigarette holder like a weapon. “On the campaign trail, back in ’32, many times I saw a placard in business windows. You know what it said?”

Mellon kept silent.

“
Hoover blew the whistle. Mellon rang the bell. Wall Street gave the signal, and the country went to hell. Hooray for Roosevelt.
That’s what the country thinks of me.”

“I prefer what Senator Harry Truman noted of you.
‘The trouble with the president is he lies.’
”

A moment of strained silence passed between them.

Finally, Roosevelt said, “There’s nothing I love as much as a good fight.”

“Then this will make you a happy man.”

Mellon reached into his pocket and removed a crisp dollar bill. “It’s one of the new ones. I’m told you personally approved the design.”

“I thought the old money needed retiring. A bit of bad luck associated with it.”

So the Treasury Department, in 1935, had redesigned the $1 bill, adding the Great Seal of the United States along with other stylistic changes. The new bills had been in circulation for just over a year. Mellon removed a pen from another pocket and stepped to one of the tables. Roosevelt watched as lines were drawn on the face of the bill.

Mellon handed over the dollar. “This is for you.”

He saw that Mellon had drawn two triangles atop the Great Seal’s reverse face. “A pentagram?”

“It’s six pointed.”

He corrected himself. “A Star of David. Is this intended to mean something?”

“It’s a clue from our history. There were men in our past who knew that a man like you—a tyrannical aristocrat—would one day come along. So I thought it fitting that history”—Mellon pointed to the bill—“and that anomaly begin your quest. As you can see, the formation of the two triangles joins five letters. O S A M N. It’s an anagram.”

Roosevelt studied bill. “Mason. They form the word
Mason
.”

“That they do.”

Against his better judgment he had to ask, “What does it mean?”

“The end of you.”

Mellon held a military bearing, standing tall, head still cocked down, as if openly mocking his commander in chief’s inability to stand. A hissing log from the fire burst from the flames and spat at them.

“A strange coincidence, to use a phrase, by which such things are settled nowadays.”
Mellon paused. “Lord Byron. I thought it apt here, also.”

His guest moved toward the door.

“I’m not through speaking with you,” Roosevelt called out.

Mellon stopped and turned back. “I’ll be waiting for you—
Mr.
President.”

And he left.

THE

PRESENT

ONE

V
ENICE,
I
TALY

M
ONDAY,
N
OVEMBER
10

10:40
P.M.

Cotton Malone dove to the floor as bullets peppered the glass wall. Thankfully the transparent panel, which separated one space from another floor-to-ceiling, did not shatter. He risked a look into the expansive secretarial area and spotted flashes of light through the semi-darkness, each burst emitted from the end of a short-barreled weapon. The glass between him and the assailant was obviously extra-resistant, and he silently thanked someone’s foresight.

His options were limited.

He knew little about the geography of the building’s eighth floor—after all, this was his first visit. He’d come expecting to covertly observe a massive financial transaction—$20 million U.S. being stuffed into two large sacks destined for North Korea. Instead the exchange had turned into a bloodbath, four men dead in an office not far away, their killer—an Asian man with short, dark hair and dressed as a security guard—now homing in on him.

He needed to take cover.

At least he was armed, toting his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta and two spare magazines. The ability to travel with a gun was one advantage that came with again carrying a badge for the United States Justice Department. He’d agreed to the temporary assignment as a way to take his mind off things in Copenhagen, and to earn some money since nowadays spy work paid well.

Think.

He was outgunned, but not outsmarted.

Control what’s around you and you control the outcome.

He darted left down the corridor, across gritty terrazzo, just as another volley finally obliterated the glass wall. He passed a nook with a restroom door on either side and kept going. Farther on a maid’s cart sat unattended. He caught sight of a propped-open door to a nearby office and spied a uniformed woman cowering in the dark interior.

He whispered in Italian, “Crawl under the desk and stay quiet.”

She did as he commanded.

This civilian could be a problem.
Collateral damage
was the term used for them in Magellan Billet reports. He hated the description. More accurately they were somebody’s father, mother, brother, sister. Innocents, caught in the crossfire.

It would be only a few moments before the Asian appeared.

He noticed another office door and rushed inside the dark space. The usual furniture lay scattered. A second doorway led to an adjacent room, light spilling in through its half-open door. A quick glance inside that other space confirmed that the second room opened back to the hall.

That would work.

His nostrils detected the odor of cleaning solution, an open metal canister holding several gallons resting a few feet away. He also spotted a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the maid’s cart.

Control what’s around you.

He grabbed both, then tipped over the metal container.

Clear fluid gurgled onto the hall floor, spreading across the tile in a river that flowed in the direction from which the Asian would come.

He waited.

Five seconds later his attacker, leading with the automatic rifle, peered around a corner, surely wondering where his prey might be.

Malone lingered another few seconds so as to be seen.

The rifle appeared.

He darted into the office. Bullets peppered the maid’s cart in deafening bursts. He flicked the lighter and ignited the cigarette pack. Paper, cellophane, and tobacco began to burn. One. Two. He tossed the burning bundle out the door and into the clear film that sheathed the hall floor.

A swoosh and the cleaning liquid caught fire.

Movement in the second room confirmed what he’d thought would happen. The Asian had taken refuge there from the burning floor. Before his enemy could fully appreciate his dilemma Malone plunged through the doorway, tackling the man to the ground.