The Patriot Threat (37 page)

What should she do?

They were trapped, and he knew it.

For years she’d been thinking about her life, and over the past few days its future course had become clear. The Americans. The men at the hotel. The one here on the train. She resented all of their interference. What would happen here would be
her
choice and
hers
alone. So she decided to take the offensive. One man would be easy to contain.

The train stopped in another lit station.

People came and went, just like last time. Through the glass, into the next car, she saw three more Koreans enter and join the first man.

Four?

That could be a problem.

But the gun nestled at her spine reassured her.

*   *   *

Isabella sat as Luke Daniels headed forward through the cars, surveying who was coming and going on the final stop. She took a moment and checked her phone, discovering there was no service. Unlike trains at home this one did not come with any WiFi.

They were, literally, on their own.

Treasury agents were not schooled for this type of operation. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t handle herself. Daniels’ concern for her safety seemed genuine. For the first time his cocky façade had dropped and the man beneath had peeked through. She told herself to cut both him and Malone more slack. They were trusting her with their lives, each of them now dependent on the other. Three against whatever was thrown their way, and she was determined to do her part.

The bell rang, signaling another station gone.

She glanced around the seat and saw Luke returning.

The train began to move.

He sat beside her.

“We’ve got four problems three cars ahead. Hana Sung is a car behind them. She has to know they’re there. This is about to get ugly.”

“You got any ideas?”

“Pappy taught me the direct approach is most times the best. So I think we need to take these guys out.”

She was ready to play with the team.

“I’m listening.”

*   *   *

Malone watched through the windshield as the car approached Solaris, the road passing through a rough defile between sharp, precipitous rocks. Dalmatia itself formed the southern part of Croatia, the coastal region a narrow strip about three hundred miles long. Shakespeare called it Illyria. Its fjords and islands had once been the haunts of pirates. Greece, Rome, Byzantium, the Turks, Venice, Russia, Napoleon, and the Hapsburgs had all left their mark. So had the 1990s civil war when thousands died. Many thousands more were slaughtered in ethnic cleansing, when Yugoslavia disintegrated into a snake pit of rivalries. Here, at the country’s extreme eastern boundary, had been ground zero.

Solaris sat on a hilltop amid a dense forest, its narrow paved streets crawling upward toward a brightly lit, twin-towered cathedral. A milky fog had formed and shrouded everything in a spooky mist. They’d driven in through one of the old city gates, a remnant from when thick walls had offered safety, a Venetian lion standing guard. Inside, he noticed lots of gray stone buildings, most in various stages of decay or renovation, signaling that Solaris just another workaday provincial town. Few people were in sight. Every shop was closed. They seemed to have chosen the right stage.

“The train station is about half a kilometer ahead,” the envoy said.

“Then let me out here.”

The car came to a stop.

He opened the door and cold, wet air invaded the cabin’s warmth. “Once you’re away from here, send that message I gave you.”

“It shall be done. Not to worry.”

“And hold on to these papers. Back at the embassy, scan and then send them electronically to the Magellan Billet. Keep the originals locked away.”

The envoy nodded his understanding.

He stepped out to the street and nestled the gun between his belt and spine, beneath a leather jacket.

“You take care, Mr. Malone,” the envoy said.

He shut the door and watched as the car eased away. He was left among the closed shops and empty streets, the cool misty air disturbed only by a solitary church bell signaling half past nine. The cobblestones beneath his shoes were slippery with moisture. Solaris was clearly not a night place. Howell had told him there were a few cafés, but they were located farther up the hill, near the cathedral. It was doubtful any were open this late. The train station sat close to the city walls, where the tracks pierced a break and skirted the highlands on their way east to the border and Bosnia, about fifty miles away.

Here he was again.

In the line of fire.

FIFTY-FIVE

Kim checked his watch and realized they were getting close to the train’s third stop at Solaris. So he asked, “Why are we going to this town?”

“All of my work is there. You’ll need to see it. This is more complicated than you realize.”

Howell still had not told him what he wanted to know, so he pointed again to the crumpled sheet. “What does this code say?”

“When I see Jelena, then you’ll know. Not until. I assure you, there’s no way you’ll ever figure it out alone.”

Unfortunately, that statement seemed accurate. And he assumed without the solution his quest would end so he decided to humor this American until they made it to Solaris.

“Where is Jelena?” Howell asked.

“I had her transported by car. She’ll be there. My employees are waiting for a call—after you produce what I want.”

“Do you have any idea the chaos you’re about to cause?” Howell asked. “Isolated or not, North Korea will feel the impact of an American collapse.”

But he truly did not care. While that was happening he would be securing his birthright. Those generals who called him
unreliable
and
reckless
would flock his way, all eager to pledge their loyalty. His half brother would finally look the fool, unable to say or do anything to undo his ineffectiveness. His own return to Pyongyang would be triumphant. Finally, a leader who had made good and destroyed the great American evil.

He’d already considered his new title.

His grandfather was labeled Eternal, his father Great, his half brother Dear Leader.

He would be Revered.

A line from an Italian cantata was his favorite.
Di lui men grande e men chiaro il sole.
Less great and brilliant than he is the sun. It was a reference to Napoleon, but he’d adapt it to Korean and its intent would set him apart.

All he had to do was play Howell a little while longer.

*   *   *

Hana decided this was the moment. She was tired of trying to rid her mind of the camp, and she’d long ago given up any semblance of happiness. For her, crying or laughing or tears never came. Life presented no joy. Only the nightmares were constant. She hated to be touched, resented criticism, and lived in virtual silence. It was no matter that fourteen years had passed—she still thought of herself as an Insider, the camp her entire world. Accountability, anger, and revenge had all been learned on the outside, and those three now pointed her toward a singular path.

Time to empty the heart, shed its secrets, and expose her fears.

And though she did not regard herself as a Kim, that did not mean she could not act like one.

*   *   *

Kim faced Howell and said, “The destruction of the United States is the only way to prove my point. I actually think most of the world will enjoy watching America fall. You preach to us all about your openness and democracy, yet none of that seems to matter when it comes to your own people. You keep secrets, just like we all do. There’s deceit and corruption, just like everyone else experiences. This fraud is the perfect example of American hypocrisy. If your system is so precious, so special, so right, it will survive what I am about to unfold.”

“You’re insane.”

He laughed. “I think of myself as an innovator. That’s what you are, too. You just lacked the means. Luckily, I don’t have that problem.”

“You’re a murderer.”

The tone had changed. Howell’s eyes flashed white-hot and he suddenly realized that this man had been lying to him.

“You killed Larks. Then you threw Jelena out to drown. You murdered her for no reason.”

“So you were on the boat with Malone.”

Howell nodded. “And you won’t be getting off this train.”

He was curious about the bravado. Did that mean the Americans were here? The black satchel lay in his lap, his right hand inside the whole time he and Howell had been talking holding the pistol obtained back at the hotel. He withdrew the weapon and aimed it straight at Howell.

“Just know that when you shoot me, your little scheme is over because you’re not going to learn a thing without me. Fire away. You still won’t get off this train, and your grand plans will be over.”

A quandary, for sure, but not insurmountable.

The compartment door opened.

Hana had returned.

She entered, closed the panel, and said, “Four Koreans are here.”

Howell sat smug. “It’s easy to kill a defenseless woman and an old man. Let’s see what you do with them.”

He kept the gun aimed. “Mr. Howell knows that we’re running a ruse here, and he seems to think his life has value to me. Fortunately for him, it actually does.” His mind was racing. “Where are these four men?”

“Two cars back.”

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll see what can be done.”

He slipped the gun back into the black satchel, but left the thick sheaf of clipped pages on his seat.

Hana found her own gun, which Howell now saw.

“Don’t tempt her,” he said. “She is less patient than I am.”

Then he left the compartment.

*   *   *

Malone walked the streets of Solaris, passing a jewelry store, rug dealer, and several closed food shops, the dark buildings all huddled close together. At an antiques store he hesitated before a picture window that displayed goblets, vases, tables, and drapes. He’d never been into antiques. He liked things to look old, but not necessarily be old.

He rounded a corner and spotted the train station at the end of a block. The building was one of the largest in town, a profusion of sculpted niches, doorways, arches, and iron grilles, its stone painted a pale pink and lit to the night. A few people came and went through its main doors. If Stephanie’s intel was correct there should be a foreign field team somewhere nearby. The note he’d read in the car from her had informed him that the Chinese or North Koreans had made a move on Kim, which meant they were here.

This was clearly a two-front war.

One was happening in DC with Stephanie, the other here. What they were doing seemed akin to trying to hold five balloons underwater at the same time. Difficult. But it could be done. Actually, it had to be done.

He clung to the shadows and used the mist for cover. Lights burned on the street before the station, their glow muted by the fog. Three cars were parked at the curb, and he watched as another vehicle appeared from a side street and cruised toward the station.

His watch read 9:40.

The train would arrive in ten minutes.

The car stopped and a man emerged from the passenger side.

An Asian.

No freelancers. But after all, this was a rush job, and they surely thought that the middle of nowhere would offer them a relatively safe haven. That might be true, except that they’d been lured. His main hope was that they’d yet to figure that part out.

Luke and Isabella were covering the train.

The station was his problem.

So as the one man entered the building through the double doors, he made his way toward the car.

FIFTY-SIX

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

Stephanie waited for the car to find the curb and Joe Levy to emerge. She’d called him from the Mall just after Cotton’s overseas report and informed him that the code on the crumpled sheet of paper had been broken and she now knew the location of what Andrew Mellon had left for Roosevelt to find. The secretary of Treasury seemed excited and wanted to be there when she made the discovery, so she’d told him to meet her in front of the Smithsonian Castle.

The turreted red sandstone building was reminiscent of something from the Tudor age, which she knew had been intentional as a way to align the building more with England than Greece or Rome. Its spires and towers were iconic, more like a church than a museum, and it had stood on the southwest corner of the Mall since the mid-19th century. Unlike the National Gallery, which she rarely frequented, the castle was a familiar haunt. She was good friends with its curator, which had made it easy for her to make contact and explain what she needed to examine.

“Okay,” Levy said, “I’m here. What have you found?”

“Mellon hid his prize in a clever place. Cotton deciphered the code and I now know where that is.”

“Thank God. I was afraid this would become uncontrollable.”

Traffic whizzed by in both directions on Independence Avenue, busy for a Tuesday afternoon.

“Shall we go and see?” she asked.

She led the way through the gardens and into the castle, her badge allowing them to bypass the metal detector and visitor security checks. Inside rose a majesty of arches and vaulted ceilings, the gray-green color scheme warm and inviting. Once the ground floor had all been exhibits, but now it housed offices, a café, and a gift shop, along with a handful of special displays. Waiting for them was a thin man with a happy face, patches of sparse gray hair dusting the sides of a smooth scalp. He stood inside the vestibule, beyond the checkpoint where visitors were having their bags examined.

She’d known him for years.

“Joe,” she said, “meet Richard Stamm, the longtime curator of the Castle’s collection.”

The two men shook hands.

“Your phone call was quite intriguing,” Stamm said. “The desk you mentioned has been here, at the castle, for a long time. It’s one of our special pieces.”

“Can we see it,” she said.

They were led through the ground floor, away from the café, past the gift shop, and into the building’s west wing. A short corridor opened to a single-story hall, it too painted in the gray-green theme. Arches lined each side. Display cases filled the gaps in between, holding what a placard announced were America souvenirs—relics, keepsakes, and curios. Beyond one of the arches, against an outer wall, stood an ornate cabinet. Visitors milled back and forth, admiring the other displays. Stamm pointed to the cabinet and told them that it had been built in the latter part of the 18th century by the great German master David Roentgen.