The Patriot Threat (40 page)

So she and Cotton had fashioned one.

Assuming the Chinese would be listening to her mobile calls, they’d intentionally utilized open cell phones to create the perfect turkey decoy. The call she’d made to Cotton from the eighth floor of the Mandarin Oriental had most likely been a safe one. No one was nearby to intercept. She’d used a landline in Joe Levy’s office to make the more critical calls to Cotton, where they’d worked out the details. She then arranged for a visit to the National Gallery, the idea being to use the locale as a means to funnel information to the other side. Chick-fil-A Man had been sent to confront her, their entire conversation staged, similar to what had happened in Atlanta only this time they were all on the same side. If it worked once before, she felt, why not again? They’d prolonged the confrontation as long as possible, and she had to admit that the thing with the $20 bill was fascinating. But the main idea had been to provide anyone who might be listening with Kim’s Croatian location. The NSA had zeroed in on the Hotel Korcula thanks to Kim’s use of his laptop, which they’d been monitoring for some time. If the Chinese had succeeded and killed Kim, then it would have been all over. Sure, the crumpled sheet of paper would be in Chinese hands, but since she was way ahead of them, there’d be nothing for them to find. No harm, no foul. If the attempt failed, then Kim would have simply been flushed farther into Cotton’s trap. Either way, the good guys win.

Before grabbing a bite to eat earlier, she’d retreated to Carol Williams’ office and, on a landline, learned from an asset the embassy had dispatched to the Zadar hotel of the attack, with one man dead, shot by Kim, who was accompanied by a young woman. The unknown was how many resources the Chinese had on the ground in Croatia and whether they could rebound and mount an attack on the train. But that was a risk Cotton had known he was taking.

Once the code had been solved, Cotton had called on her cell phone and announced that fact to the world, sending her an encrypted text with the correct solution. That she passed on to Joe Levy via another secured text while leading her nosy listeners to a desk in the Smithsonian Castle, one she’d long known existed.

If you don’t think your turkey decoy looks real, the bird won’t, either.

Thankfully the Smithsonian had the resources to accommodate her urgent requests. Its conservation lab was a master at restoring old books, but it also possessed the ability to reproduce antique documents. So while still at the Treasury Department she’d called Richard Stamm, and he’d readied the perfect decoy in less than two hours. An envelope stained and bleached to look eighty years old, along with a single sheet of paper with faded print from an old manual, ribbon typewriter, which the conservation lab had on hand. Cotton had suggested the wording, and she’d refined it.

Mr. President, I hope this quest has proven as enjoyable for you as it was for me to create. I wanted to see if you would actually do as I instructed and it’s good to know that you did. Unfortunately, there is nothing to find. No danger exists to this country, except the ones you will inflict upon it. Surely, by now, I am dead. But if for some reason you have found this message before I pass, please be sure to let me know your thoughts. I will give them the same courtesy and consideration that you have always shown to mine.

She’d seen the writing cabinet at the Smithsonian before and knew of its many secret compartments. So the envelope with the fake message was delivered to Stamm, who hid it inside. When she called Joe Levy from the Mall on her cell phone the Chinese again were listening. And like that pressured turkey, they ran straight for an irresistible decoy. All she and Levy had to do was play their parts to perfection.

Now the Chinese had their prize, only it was no prize at all. They would conclude that the entire affair was just a way for a rich man to torment a president, part of a vendetta from long ago that had no relevance today. Cotton’s actual deciphering of the code had been delivered to Carol Williams by Chick-fil-A Man, face-to-face, just after the earlier encounter in the garden court.

Edward Savage    Eleanor  Custis

Martha Washington 16

Hopefully, while she and Joe Levy finished their performance on the Mall, Carol had solved the riddle. Like Danny had said a few hours ago outside the White House, as he exited her car,
Remember, the second mouse to the trap is the one who always gets the cheese.

Carol Williams entered the Founders Room. Visitors wandered in and out too, the building’s coat check located just beyond. They drifted near the fireplace, among a cluster of comfortable upholstered chairs, beneath Mellon’s portrait. Chick-fil-A Man stood at the doorway to keep watch, but little danger existed anymore. The turkeys were long gone.

“It was easy,” Carol said. “I didn’t even need the Internet. This one I know.”

Stephanie’s phone vibrated, the caller unknown.

She decided to answer.

“Ms. Nelle, this call is a courtesy, ordered by my superiors,” said the male voice, which she recognized.

The Chinese ambassador.

“Our friends to the south were not happy with what I secured from you. It was not as … substantial as they’d hoped. Whether it be true or false matters not to us. Regardless of what you think, we are simply trying to keep two allies happy. But being in the middle of this fight has proven most unpleasant. We are done. It is over, as far as we are concerned. But I cannot say the same for our friends to the south. They are the ones currently handling the operation overseas and they have decided to eliminate all remnants of the problem. I pass the message on as a show of good faith that we are not your enemy.”

She sucked a deep breath.

“They have trained personnel on the ground in Croatia,” the ambassador said. “They made a move on Kim, which failed. They now have sent their assets to finish the task. They have orders to kill Kim, his daughter, Howell, and anyone else who may be on that train, which includes any American assets. As I said, they are angry.”

This man was clearly informed.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Not at all. It is, after all, what friends do for one another.”

She ended the call.

It’s a two-front war,
Cotton had told her.

And he was right.

She quickly sent one more text.

SIXTY-ONE

C
ROATIA

Malone heard the train approaching, maybe a mile down the tracks. He’d checked the schedule board and saw that this was the last one due here for the night. Only a handful of people were around, the station nearly empty. Inside the station was a cavernous hall with a lofty ceiling supported by iron beams. The remaining Korean stood on the loading platform, off to the side, near one of the iron supports that held up an overhang. Both of the man’s hands rested inside his coat pockets, one of them probably holding a weapon. Malone’s gun was just beneath his leather jacket. What was their plan? Were there assets on the train to secure Kim and then these two would be waiting to take him away? Or were these two the only ones involved, here to claim Kim as he disembarked? He’d done his part to make things difficult here. But what were Luke and Isabella facing?

His phone vibrated.

He’d been waiting for the text.

Under control here. All done. Worked perfectly. No Chinese on your end. It’s NK. They are greenlighted to move on all of you.

He knew what that meant. There was no way Kim Yong Jin would be allowed to just walk away. For good measure, they’d also take out anyone else who happened to be nearby.

And he’d provided them the perfect venue.

This Croatian isolation worked both ways.

Which meant things were about to get messy.

*   *   *

Isabella kept moving forward, advancing to the connecting space between the cars. There were still passengers in some of the seats ahead of her, the bodies and commotion now behind them. Farther on, in the next car, began the first-class compartments.

The train was slowing.

Luke stood to her left, she to the right of the door into the next car, both of them with guns drawn. She ventured a quick look and saw Kim moving down the center aisle, still holding the black satchel, which surely contained a gun.

“We need to stop him,” Luke said.

She nodded her understanding.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

*   *   *

Kim was looking for his adversary, intent on killing the final obstacle to his success. The man had fled toward where Hana and Howell waited among the first-class compartments. One more car and he’d be there. His left arm held the satchel while his right hand was inside, wrapped around the gun. None of the passengers here seemed concerned, as they surely had no idea what had happened behind them. The clank of wheels to rails seemed more than enough noise to mask the suppressed shots. He glanced out the exterior windows and saw lights. That and the ever-slowing speed indicated they’d arrived in Solaris.

“Kim Yong Jin.”

He stopped and turned.

A man and woman stood at the far end of the car, guns pointed toward him.

*   *   *

Hana sensed that something had gone wrong. She lowered her gun, grabbed the clipped stacked of papers, and stood from her seat.

“Where are you going?” Howell asked.

She ignored him and slid open the compartment door, stealing a quick look into the car behind her. Through the glass in the doors she saw her father, facing away, a man and woman at the car’s rear with guns aimed at him.

Then another man.

The first Korean who’d boarded the train.

He was standing in the space between her exit door and the entrance for the next car. He held a gun and was carefully peering around the window’s edge toward her father, his back to her.

She aimed at the door two meters away and fired.

*   *   *

Kim heard glass break behind him.

He whirled and dropped down at the same time, expecting to see the last Korean bearing down on him. Instead he caught sight of Hana through the now obliterated half of the door to the next car.

Then the Korean appeared, coming to his feet.

The squeal of brakes to wheels, then wheels to rails signaled the train was stopping. He saw the man dart left and disappear. The two problems behind him had also sought cover. He decided to give them more reason to stay down. He tossed the satchel aside and fired three shots in their direction, then rushed the door and slipped out.

The Korean was gone.

Hana emerged from the car ahead.

“Get Howell.”

The train was fully stopped.

They had to leave.

Now.

*   *   *

Malone timed his move to coincide with the torrent of noise that accompanied the train’s arrival, assuming that would be the moment of maximum distraction. Hopefully, his target would not expect an attack from the platform, the focus on the train and what may have happened there. So far he’d stayed back, out of sight, using another of the iron supports for cover. The platform itself was dimly lit, which helped. Several workers busied themselves in preparing for the arrival, the train easing to a full stop.

A man leaped from one of the lead cars while the wheels were still moving. Asian. Holding a gun. The man on the platform yelled something not in English, the first whirling around and realizing that he now had an ally. He pointed up to the train and signaled for them to retreat.

Three more people emerged to the station.

Kim and his daughter, both toting guns, and Howell.

What the hell happened?

*   *   *

Isabella knew instantly what they had to do, as apparently did Luke. Kim had fled ahead so they needed to exit the train from the doors just behind them. The few passengers in the car slowly rose from the floor, where they’d all plunged when Kim starting shooting.

Everyone appeared okay.

They slid open the door and hopped down to the station.

She immediately spotted Kim, Hana Sung, and Howell.

And the shooting started.

SIXTY-TWO

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

Stephanie and Joe Levy followed Carol Williams out of the Founders Room then into the rotunda with the fountain that she’d visited earlier. They turned right and walked down the same long sculpture hall that led to the garden court—except this time they veered into a series of exhibition rooms. The first displayed French canvases, the next British artists. A few visitors loitered here and there, admiring the works. It was approaching 4:00
P.M.
, closing time a little more than an hour away. In a gallery labeled
62
she noticed that the two open doorways were blocked.
NO ADMITTANCE
signs were posted at each.

“The American rooms are being renovated,” Carol said. “They’ve been closed for a month, but follow me.”

They bypassed the barricades and entered a set of galleries where the canvases were gone, the bare walls and hardwood floors being repaired. on. Workers milled about with paint and stain and the air smelled of varnish.

“We took down most of the canvases,” Carol said.

They entered a rectangular room with pale-blue walls and cream-colored trim. Its ceiling was backlit glass panels dotted with floodlights angled down at canvases that remained hung, but covered in white cloth. The floor was the same hardwood planks, which had yet to be refurbished.

“They’re working their way here,” Carol said. “But what I think you’re after is right there. I had the sheet removed.”

The exposed image was substantial, around ten feet long and eight feet high, framed in heavy gilded wood the color of burnished gold.

Carol stepped toward the painting and pointed to its left side.

“The little boy is George Washington Parke Custis. He was Martha’s grandson by her first husband, but after his parents died he came to live with Martha and George. Of course, that’s George Washington sitting beside his namesake. Martha is across from her husband. Her granddaughter, Eleanor Parke Custis, stands beside her. She and George adopted both children as their own, so this is the actual First Family. The man in the background, behind the two women, is probably one of Washington’s slaves, but no one knows for sure.”