by Steve Berry
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
VENICE, ITALY
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 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 y
ou.
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.
The rifle clattered away.
His right hand clamped onto the man’s throat.
But his opponent was strong.
And nimble.
They rolled, twice, colliding with a desk.
He told himself to keep his grip. But the Asian pivoted off the floor and catapulted him feetfirst into the air. His body hinged across his opponent’s head. He was thrust aside and the Asian sprang to his feet. He readied himself for a fight, but the “guard” fled the room.
He found his gun and approached the door, heart pounding, lungs heaving. Remnants of the liquid still smoldered on the floor. The hall was clear and wet footprints led away. He followed them. At a corner, he stopped and glanced around, seeing no one. He advanced toward the elevators and studied the transom, noticing that the position-indicator displays for both cars were lit 8—this floor. He pressed the up button and jumped back ready to fire.
The doors opened.
The right car was empty. The left held a bloodied corpse, dressed only in his underwear. The real guard, he assumed. He stared at the contorted face, obscured by two gaping wounds. Surely part of the plan was not only to eliminate all of the participants, but to leave no witnesses behind. He glanced inside the car and spotted a destroyed control panel. He checked the other car and found that it had also been disabled. The only way out now was the stairs.
He entered the stairwell and listened. Someone was climbing the risers toward the roof. He vaulted up as fast as caution advised, keeping an eye ahead for trouble.
A door opened, then closed.
At the top he found an exit and heard the distinct churn of a helicopter turbine starting from the other side.
He cracked open the door.
A chopper faced away, tail boom and fin close, its cabin pointing out to the night. The rotors began to wind fast and the Asian quickly loaded on the two large sacks of cash, then jumped inside.
Blades spun faster and the skids lifted from the roof.
He pushed open the door.
A chilly wind buffeted him.
Should he fire? No. Let it fly away? He’d been sent only to observe, but things had gone wrong, so now he needed to earn his keep. He stuffed the pistol into his back pocket, buttoned it shut, and ran. One leap and he grabbed hold of the rising skid.
The chopper powered out into the dark sky.
What a strange sensation, flying unprotected through the night. He clung tightly to the metal skid with both hands, the chopper’s airspeed making it increasingly difficult to hang on.
He stared down.
They were headed east, away from the mainland, toward the water and the islands. The location where the murders had occurred was on the Italian shore, a few hundred yards inland, a nondescript office building near Marco Polo International Airport. The lagoon itself was enclosed by thin strips of lighted coast joined in a wide arc to the mainland, Venice lying at the center.
The chopper banked right and increased speed.
He wrapped his right arm around the skid for a better hold.
Ahead he spied Venice, its towers and spires lit to the night. Beyond on all sides was blackness, signaling open water. Farther east was Lido, which fronted the Adriatic. His mind ticked off what lay below. To the north, ground lights betrayed the presence of Murano, then Burano and, farther on, Torcello. The islands lay embedded in the lagoon like sparkling trinkets. He curled himself around the skid and for the first time stared up into the cabin.
The “guard” eyed him.
The chopper veered left, apparently to see if the unwanted passenger could be dislodged. His body flew out, then whipped back, but he held tight and stared up once more into icy eyes. He saw the Asian slide open the hatch with his left hand, the rifle in his right. In the instant before rounds rained down at the skids, he swung across the undercarriage toward the other skid and jerked himself over.
Bullets smacked the left skid, disappearing down through the dark. He was now safe on the right side, but his hands ached from gravity’s pull. The chopper again rocked back and forth, tapping his last bits of strength. He hooked his left leg onto the skid, hugging the metal. The brisk air dried his throat, making breathing difficult. He worked hard to build up saliva and relieve the parching.
He needed to do something and fast.
He studied the whirling rotors, blades beating the air, the staccato of the turbine deafening. On the roof he’d hesitated, but now there appeared to be no choice. He held on tight with his legs and left arm, then reached back and unbuttoned his pant pocket. He stuffed in his right hand and removed the Beretta.
Only one way left to force the chopper down.
He fired three shots into the screaming turbine just below the rotor’s hub.
The engine sputtered.
Flames poured out of the air intake and exhaust pipe. Airspeed diminished. The nose went up in an effort to stay airborne.
He glanced down.
They were still a thousand feet up but rapidly losing altitude in something of a controlled descent.
He could see an island ahead of them. Scattered glows defined its rectangular shape just north of Venice. He knew the place. Isola di San Michele. Nothing there but a couple of churches and a huge cemetery where the dead had been buried since the time of Napoleon.
More sputtering.
A sudden backfire.
Thick smoke billowed from the exhaust, the scent of sulfur and burning oil sickening. The pilot was apparently trying to stabilize the descent, the craft jerking up and down, its control planes working hard.
They overtook the island flying close to the dome of its main church. At twenty feet off the ground success seemed at hand. The chopper leveled, then hovered. Its turbine smoothed. Below was a dark spot, but he wondered how many stone markers might be waiting. Hard to see anything in the darkness. The chopper’s occupants surely knew they still had company. So why land? Just head back up and ditch their passenger from the air.
He should have shot the turbine a few times more.
Now he had no choice.
So he let go of the skid.
He seemed to fall for the longest time, though if memory served him right a free-falling object fell at the rate of thirty-two feet per second, per second. Twenty feet equaled less than one second. He hoped that the ground was soft and he avoided stone.
He pounded legs-first, his knees collapsing to absorb the shock, then rebounding, sending him rolling. His left thigh instantly ached. Somehow he managed to hold on to the gun. He came to a stop and looked back up. The pilot had regained full control. The helicopter pitched up and maneuvered closer. A swing to the right and his attacker now had a clear view below. He could probably limp off, but he saw no good ground cover. He was in the open, amid the graves. The Asian saw his predicament, hovering less than a hundred feet away, the downwash from the blades stirring up loose topsoil. The helicopter’s hatch slid open and his attacker one-handedly took aim
with the automatic rifle.
Malone propped himself up and aimed the pistol using both hands. There couldn’t be more than four rounds left in the magazine.
Make ’em count.
So he aimed at the engine.
The Asian gestured to the pilot for a retreat.
But not before Malone fired. One, two, three, four shots.
Hard to tell which bullet actually did the trick, but the turbine exploded, a brilliant fireball lighting the sky, flaming chunks cascading to the ground in a searing shower fifty yards away. In the sudden light he spotted hundreds of grave markers in tightly packed rows. He hugged the earth and shielded his head as the explosions continued, a heaping mass of twisted metal, flesh, and burning fuel erupting before him.
He stared at the carnage.
A crackle of flames consumed the helicopter, its occupants, and $20 million U.S. in cash.
Somebody was going to be pissed.
TWO
PORT OF VENICE
11:15 P.M.
KIM YONG JIN STOOD ON ONE SIDE OF THE BED, HOLDING THE intravenous bag. His daughter Hana watched him from the other side.
“I imagine this is something you have seen before,” he quietly asked her in Korean.
By this he meant the strong asserting themselves over the utterly weak. And yes, he knew she’d borne witness to that too many times to count.
“No comment?” he said.
She stared at him.
“No, I suppose not. The fish would never get into trouble if he but kept his mouth shut. Right?”
She nodded.
He smiled at her intuition, then returned his attention to the bed and asked, “Are you comfortable?”
But the older man lying before them did not reply. How could he? The drug had paralyzed every muscle, numbing nerves, freeing the mind. A tube from the IV bag Kim held snaked a path down into a vein. A valve allowed him to control the flow. No danger existed of anyone ever knowing that it had been administered since their captive was a diabetic, one more needle mark hardly noticeable.
