The Patriot Threat (7 page)

He followed her back outside.

Below, he caught sight of a motor launch rounding in from the channel, making its way down a narrow man-made waterway that led to a concrete pier. Water taxis abounded, depositing passengers who were making their way back toward the ship’s gangway.

The new boat slowed.

They stood a hundred feet above it, concealed by the night, and he could see two men, one he recognized.

The annoying American.

Hana had spent the past ten days keeping close to Larks, their task complicated by a man who seemed to be doing the same. She’d managed to snap a photo, and sources in Pyongyang had informed them that his name was Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone. Tall, trim, broad-shouldered, with sandy-colored hair. A former navy commander who’d worked twelve years for an intelligence unit called the Magellan Billet, part of the U.S. Justice Department. Malone had retired three years ago and now owned an old-book shop in Denmark.

So what was he doing here?

Malone had followed each time Larks had left the ship, wandering through Dubrovnik in Croatia, Valletta on Malta, and Kotor in Montenegro.

“Seems Mr. Malone has returned,” he said.

They knew he’d left the ship a few hours ago, Malone’s absence making their visit to Larks possible. The missing leather satchel still weighed on his mind. There may indeed be a way to find it, but the nosy American below could be a problem.

“He’ll check Larks’ room before heading to his own,” he said. “He’s done that every night.” He handed her a keycard. “I took it earlier when we left. I thought it might come in handy.”

She accepted the offering with the same pointed silence he’d come to expect.

“It’s time to deal with this problem.”

And he told her what he wanted done.

She nodded and left the balcony.

EIGHT

A
TLANTA

6:20
P.M.

Stephanie turned onto the graveled driveway of her house. She lived forty miles north of Atlanta on the shores of Lake Lanier, in a stone cottage surrounded by tall pines that overlooked the placid water.

She stepped from the car and retrieved a newspaper at the end of the drive. She’d left so early this morning that it had not yet arrived. The cool evening air was typical November, and as she walked around to the backyard she listened to birds serenading one another while they searched for dinner. The attorney general of the United States sat on a terrace lined with autumn flowers.

Her boss was sipping on a mug of something steamy and smiled when she spotted Stephanie. “I see you made it out in one piece.”

Stephanie slid back one of the metal chairs and settled into its thick cushion. “It was interesting, to say the least.”

Harriett Engle was a recent appointee, previously Kentucky’s senior senator. When she’d announced that her fourth term would be her last, President Danny Daniels had asked her to resign early and serve as his third attorney general. He hadn’t fared well with two previous AG choices. One had proven a turncoat, the other inept. Harriett seemed the exception. Smart, savvy, competent. Initially, Stephanie and Engle had not hit it off—too much testosterone between them—but they’d eventually come to an understanding.

“You have a lovely home,” Harriett said. “You were smart when you bought this place.”

That she was. She’d left the key where Harriett could find it.

“After I was sworn in, I read your file,” her boss said. “You’ve been a single woman a long time. Do you think you’ll ever stop missing him?”

Her husband, Lars, had taken his own life years ago. Thankfully, with Cotton Malone’s help, she’d settled all her disputes with the past. “We lived apart for a long time before he died. Still, his death hit me hard.”

Harriett smiled. “My husband passed a few years ago.”

She already knew that. Engle was approaching seventy, her age belied by the presence of high cheekbones, a ruddy tone, and bright-green eyes. Her blondish-gray hair, raked flat against her scalp and twisted in a knot, lay as smooth as marble. Some might say a surgeon had restored some of her youth, but the allegation would be a lie. That was simply not this woman’s style. Stephanie had come to know that Harriett’s sly smile offered no clue to her mood, and usually contradicted her true emotions. Also, a disarming, grandmother-like voice masked an intellect first nurtured in law school, then refined at the Harvard Kennedy School of Government.

“Tell me what happened,” Harriett said.

And she reported the events from the mall ending with, “Chick-fil-A Man seemed to like his job. But I’d never have such half-assed, pathetic fools working for me.”

Contrary to what was said during the show staged in the department store, Terra Lucent had promptly reported the first contact made by Treasury and the blackmail attempt. That information had been passed up the line to Harriett, and they’d allowed the incursion into the Magellan Billet to find out what was going on. The encounter at the mall had been arranged by Stephanie to flush out the problem, knowing that Terra was most likely being watched. Audio surveillance of their meeting seemed a given, which was why the mall had been chosen for the locale. Once Chick-fil-A Man knew Terra had confessed, it seemed reasonable that Treasury would make a move.

And it had.

“They’re definitely focused on Paul Larks,” she said. “And they don’t want Cotton around.”

All of which seemed puzzling. Cotton’s task had been simple. The U.S. attorney for the Middle District of Alabama had requested the Billet’s assistance. Standard procedure called for the names of all federal fugitives to be provided to the National Security Agency. The label Anan Wayne Howell was an unusual combination, easily flagged, and had been detected during NSA’s routine international telephone surveillance. From that the FBI had learned that Larks would be traveling to Venice to board a cruise boat and meet with Howell. Three years Howell had been on the run, and the U.S. attorney thought this might be a good opportunity to snag him. So Stephanie had hired Cotton to shadow Larks and see what developed. A typical in-and-out scenario that should have been without drama.

“I’m told Mr. Malone can be a handful,” Harriett said.

“That’s true. But he gets the job done.” She paused. “The secretary of Treasury has apparently decided that these missing copies are so important, he’s willing to threaten and coerce members of another intelligence unit. Interestingly, the secretary doesn’t feel he can simply ask us for the information. On both incursions into my files, they’ve only gone after the reports Cotton has made from that cruise.”

“They want to know how close he’s getting.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know, but it’s time to find out.”

Harriett located her phone and punched in a number. The unit was on speaker, and her boss laid it on the table as the line rang and a female voice answered, “Office of the Secretary of Treasury.”

“It’s the attorney general of the United States. I need to speak to the secretary.”

“I’m sorry but he—”

“Please tell the secretary that either we speak now, or he can speak to the president later, after I report everything I know on Paul Larks.”

A full two minutes passed before a male voice said through the speaker, “All right, you have my attention.”

Everything that had happened was reported, then Harriett said, “Joe, we set your man up to see how far you were willing to take this.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. This is not my forte.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just like my agent said, we believe Larks copied some sensitive documents from Treasury archives. The breach was only recently discovered, and we want them back.”

“What kind of documents?”

“The classified kind.”

“I need more than that, Joe.”

“Not on this phone.”

Stephanie realized that
classified
did not necessarily mean “top secret.” Still, you didn’t discuss either on an open line.

“We’re after a fugitive,” Harriett said. “That’s all. He was indicted in federal court for tax evasion, tried and convicted in absentia. He fled the country just after his trial started, and really pissed off the local U.S. attorney. His name is Anan Wayne Howell. For us, this isn’t a big deal.”

A few moments of silence passed.

“Unfortunately for me, Harriett, it is a big deal. There’s more here than you realize.”

Stephanie heard the strain in the secretary’s voice.

“I gather that,” her boss said. “But you’ve gone about this all wrong.”

“Perhaps. But it had to be done.”

“How does Kim Yong Jin figure into the equation?”

That was a new name. Twelve hours ago Harriett had specifically directed her to send Malone inland to observe a North Korean cash transfer. Some background intel on an insurance fraud scheme had been provided, which she’d passed on to Cotton. But there’d been no mention of Kim.

Harriett said, “You told me about that money transfer and that Kim Yong Jin was in the neighborhood. You asked if I had an asset near Venice, knowing, of course, that I did. Then you asked me to send that asset over to witness the transfer.”

More news to Stephanie.

“What I wanted was to get Malone off that ship.”

It seemed the man on the other end of the line definitely knew more than they did.

“Can you be at the DC federal courthouse at 11:00
P.M.
?” the secretary asked. “Sixth floor. I’ll leave word with security to admit you.”

“I’m bringing Stephanie with me.”

“I’d prefer you not.”

“That’s non-negotiable. She’s my eyes and ears.”

Another pause.

“All right, Harriett, we’ll do this your way.”

The call ended.

“You never told me about Kim or that Treasury
wanted
Cotton at that money transfer.”

“I was told not to. Stupid me respected that request.”

“How did Treasury know Cotton was even on that ship in the first place?” she asked. “Their first contact with Terra came
after
the cruise left port.”

“I’m assuming they have someone there, watching Larks, too. Once they tagged Malone, they zeroed in on the Billet.”

Thankfully, she’d taken precautions and ordered Luke Daniels to provide backup in case Cotton ran into trouble. Still, she was baffled. “What’s going on? This is a lot of trouble for some copied documents. What’s so important?”

“I don’t know. So let’s get our butts to Washington and find out exactly what we’ve managed to get ourselves into.”

NINE

V
ENICE

Hana Sung stared at the closed door for Paul Larks’ suite. Her father had once again thought ahead and prepared them for any contingency. He was smart, of that she was sure.

But why would he not be?

He was a Kim.

She had faithfully learned the family history. The first Kim, her great-grandfather, had been born near Pyongyang. Legend said he was the son of a poor farmer, but actually his father was a teacher with an above-average income. He fought the Japanese in the 1930s when they occupied Korea, and was there in 1945 when the Soviets liberated the country. His greatest mistake was not insisting that his allies claim the entire peninsula. Instead Stalin respected an agreement made with Roosevelt, dividing the country in half, creating the more populated, agricultural south and the industrialized north.

That first Kim became the north’s Great Leader and ultimately convinced Stalin that he could retake the south. In 1950 he led the Fatherland Liberation War, but American intervention had prevented reunification. Eventually, as she now knew, a cease-fire had been arranged, the country remaining divided, the war never over. Interestingly, if anyone in North Korea were asked about the outcome of that great conflict, they would unhesitatingly declare that the south invaded first and Kim had won. Ignorance seemed to be a national trait. But who could blame the people? Everything they saw and heard was controlled.

The second Kim easily assumed power and bestowed the name
Eternal President
on his father, taking
Great Leader
for himself. The cult of personality that had started with the first Kim only intensified with the second. A philosophy of self-reliance labeled
juche
became a national obsession. The country gradually withdrew into itself, looking increasingly only to Kims for salvation. A mistake, but one few within North Korea would ever realize.

She’d been taught that the first Kim was a mighty general who rode a white horse and carried an enormous sword that could fell a tree as if slicing bean curd. He turned pinecones into bullets and grains of sand into rice, crossing rivers upon paths of fallen leaves. Both Kims showered the people with fatherly love. They portrayed themselves as noble and caring, even immortal. And in a sense, they were. Both rested in the magnificent Palace of the Sun, inside glass sarcophagi, their heads upon pillows, a workers’ flag draping their bodies. She’d visited there twice. A surprisingly emotional experience, made even more so by the fact that their blood flowed through her veins.
The spiritual pillar and lighthouse of hope. Prominent thinker-theoreticians. Peerlessly illustrious commanders. A solid foundation for the prosperity of the country.
That was how the Eternal President, Great Leader, and Dear Leader all described themselves.

And she wondered.

Would that praise include her, too?

She doubted it.

Her father had sired nine children, with only three being legitimate. She fell into the illegitimate category. At twenty-three, she was the youngest. The others were all married, with children of their own, still living within North Korea. They’d abandoned their father once he fell from grace. She alone had stayed with him. Her mother had been his mistress, one of many he’d maintained back when he was still in line to rule.

So no offspring of their’s would become a Kim.

Instead, she was Hana Sung.

Hana referencing the number one, singular, important. Sung meaning “victory.” Her father had eventually wanted her to change it, but she’d politely refused. And he hadn’t insisted. A flaw in him, for sure, since he never could insist on much of anything. Yet he could kill a helpless old man without a thought, and order another, who’d interfered with the money theft, eliminated. Was that a contradiction? The world thought him stupid and lazy, a drunk and a gambler. She’d come to know those were but carefully crafted illusions.