by Steve Berry
He neither stopped nor turned back, saying only, “Not to worry. You won’t.”
EIGHTEEN
ISABELLA WATCHED MALONE AS HE LEFT LARKS’ SUITE, THE DOOR snapping shut with a metallic finality. Luckily, she’d planned to be up and going by 4:00 A.M. When she’d checked Larks’ room, she’d noticed the cocked-open door. Malone was right, nothing but an invitation. Inside she’d found Larks and Malone, who’d clearly been drugged. She’d told him the truth. A small puncture wound was visible on his left leg, the culprit behind it all easy to ascertain. Kim Yong Jin. Who else could it be? Both Kim and Malone had been on board the entire cruise, both keeping close to Larks. Malone personally. Kim through his stoic daughter.
What a mess.
Kim obviously knew about Malone. So she hadn’t lied. The ex-agent had screwed up a lot of hard work. She’d carefully kept her distance the entire cruise, wearing wigs and other accessories to alter her appearance. She still had no idea why Malone was here. She’d reported his presence ten days ago, but Treasury had told her nothing since, just that she should keep Larks under surveillance, watch out for Kim, and monitor Malone. Most disturbing was the fact that she hadn’t found the black leather satchel in Larks’ room. The older man had last cradled the satchel at dinner. She assumed that today, at debarkation, something would happen. Her employer had already checked. Larks was not booked on a flight home until the day after tomorrow.
She did not like surprises and especially those that interfered with careful planning. Preparation was the key to any successful operation. And she’d fully readied herself. This was her operation and hers alone. The Treasury secretary himself had personally recruited her. Not even her immediate supervisor knew where and what she was doing. She’d been required, for the first time, to sign a top-secret nondisclosure agreement, which compelled her silence about anything learned on threat of imprisonment.
Obviously, the stakes were at their highest.
Hopefully Cotton Malone would go home. She had enough to worry about with Larks dead and Kim Yong Jin still breathing. Larks and Kim were connected. That they knew from covert wiretaps and email monitoring. Kim had actually paid for Larks’ airfare and cruise, the idea being to set up a face-to-face encounter with Anan Wayne Howell. Her orders were to observe, then retrieve the copied documents. Now Kim might actually have them. And all thanks to Malone.
She shook her head.
She’d been waiting her whole life for this opportunity.
Was it gone?
STEPHANIE GLANCED UP FROM THE MANUSCRIPT AS THE DOOR TO the conference room opened and Joe Levy entered alone.
“Okay,” Harriett said. “We’ve read what you marked.”
He sat at the table. “About two months ago the NSA monitored some chatter out of North Korea that was all about Kim Yong Jin. Stephanie, you were right. This guy is supposedly an idiot. All he seems to do is drink and gamble. But then, all at once, he becomes real important and Pyongyang starts to focus on him. They’re talking crazy stuff, specifically mentioning Howell’s book. It seems Kim is real interested in that, too.”
“I never saw a thing on this,” Stephanie said. “And I get NSA tickle sheets every day.”
“I put a lid on. To be provided only to Treasury.”
She knew that any arm of American intelligence could claim a priority, keeping information solely within that department or agency. That could be risky business, though. If no one else knew what you knew, and everyone should have known, guess who shouldered the blame if things turned sour. Still, it was done every day, sometimes if only to shield sensitive investigations from being broadcast across the grid.
“Let me guess,” Harriett said. “You pigeonholed it because in that chatter the name Paul Larks was also mentioned.”
He nodded. “It had to stay here.”
“What’s Kim’s interest in Howell and Larks?” Stephanie asked.
“It apparently started with Kim and Howell. Then Howell connected Kim to Larks. We got in late and missed out on a lot of the prior conversations, but we know that Kim is trying to prove an odd theory that concerns Andrew Mellon. Howell wrote about it there, in the book.”
“About what?” Harriett asked.
“An old debt this nation owes.”
They both waited for the Treasury secretary to explain.
“This is all … complicated. More so than I need to get into right now. Let’s just say that your searching for Howell has interfered with my trying to minimize the damage Larks did by copying those documents, then communicating about them with Howell and Kim.”
“What kind of damage?” Harriett asked.
“I can’t go into that. And it’s not important to what I need from you at the moment. Suffice it to say that we’ve been before this court here several times and obtained surveillance warrants on Kim, Larks, and Howell. They like to email.”
“Larks and Howell are U.S. citizens,” Harriett said. “This court’s jurisdiction applies only to foreign nationals.”
Probably another reason why the secretary had avoided the Justice Department for his warrant applications.
“They’re both working with a foreign national, and together they’re compromising the security of this nation. That makes them this court’s business.”
“Kim and Larks have been openly and knowingly communicating?” Harriett asked, with a lawyer’s tone.
Levy nodded. “Many times, though Paul Larks is unaware that it’s Kim he’s speaking to. He thinks it’s a South Korean businessman, living in Europe, whose companies are being wrongfully taxed by the United States. He has no idea of Kim’s true identity, or at least that’s what we believe.”
Something bothered Stephanie. “You knew that there’d be a robbery in Venice, didn’t you? It was Kim. He went after that $20 million. Yet you told us none of that, and put my man at grave risk.”
He nodded. “We knew Kim was going to make a move on the money.”
Now she was pissed. “We don’t send people into something like that blind. Not ever.”
The secretary said nothing.
“Whatever this is,” she said, “it better be really important.”
“You have no idea.”
“What is it you want from us?” Harriett asked.
“To back off. Let me handle this.”
Harriett shook her head. “We’re done playing games, Joe.” Stephanie had heard that tone before. “You’re way out of your league.”
“And you’re not?”
“That’s why I have the Magellan Billet. This is its league. You’re taking crazy risks, talking riddles, dodging questions. I’ve got no choice. I have to go to the White House.”
Stephanie checked her watch and knew what was happening in Venice. “That cruise ship is emptying its passengers right about now.”
“Call your people,” Harriet said. “Advise them of the situation.”
The door to the conference room burst open.
A man entered.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with thick graying hair, dressed in a shirt, no tie, wearing a distinctive blue nylon jacket. Embroidered above the left breast was the seal for the president of the United States.
“Evening,” Danny Daniels said.
NINETEEN
VENICE
MALONE FELT BETTER. A SHOWER, SHAVE, AND CHANGE OF CLOTHES had made all the difference. His time unconscious had actually helped with fatigue. He was rested, ready to go. He’d packed light for the cruise, bringing only one shoulder bag, and had not deposited it outside his door last night, as required. So he’d carry it off himself.
But first he intended to play a hunch.
He left his cabin and headed toward the ship’s center, staying one deck above the main foyer where passengers would be leaving. The atrium was several floors high, three stylish, glass-enclosed elevators available to shuttle people up and down. A few of the ship’s many lounges could be seen along the foyer’s perimeter and all of the administrative desks were th
ere, convenient and accessible. On their first day aboard he’d watched as Larks switched dollars for euros at one of them.
He wondered what Cassiopeia was doing. He missed seeing her. She was one of the few people he’d ever actually become comfortable with. He had friends and associates, but few close ones. Part of that was his former job, part his personality. He just always stuck to himself. Some of that could have been the result of being an only child. Who knew? His ex-wife had hated his constant withdrawing. Cassiopeia had been different. She, too, cherished alone-time. They were actually far more alike than either of them had ever admitted. It was a shame the relationship was over. He had no intention of making further contact. He’d tried, and she’d made her position clear. Any move from this point on would be hers. Stubborn? Maybe. Prideful? Sure. But he’d never begged anyone for attention and wasn’t about to start now. He’d done nothing wrong. The problem was hers. But he still missed her.
He checked his watch. 7:45 A.M.
Sunshine rained down outside, softened by the ship’s bronze-tinted windows. People were debarking through the main gangway into an enclosed walk that led into the cruise terminal, where luggage and Italian customs awaited. Past that were land buses, taxis, and a concrete wharf where boats would shuttle guests into town or to the airport. Most would leave by water. The cruise terminal sat at Venice’s extreme west end, just before the only causeway that led across the lagoon to the mainland. In and around the terminal was the only place vehicles were allowed on the island. If this hunch played out, he’d have to be ready to move in an instant to who-knew-where.
Announcements called for passengers in predesignated categories to make their way off. He found an observation spot one deck above, near a semicircular stairway that led down to all the activity. People streamed off the ship, mostly folks in their sixties and seventies. The time of year and price of the trip cut down on families and children. Mainly professionals populated the cabins—people who cruised several times a year all over the world, enjoying their retirement. He doubted he would ever retire. What would he do? As much as he hated to admit it, he missed being a field agent. Three years ago, the idea of quitting the Magellan Billet, resigning his naval commission, and moving to Denmark had seemed like a good one. Leave the past behind and head forward. But things had not worked out that way. He’d stayed in trouble, with one crisis after another. Some he had no choice but to be a part of, others were optional. Now he was again being paid for his time.
Like the old days.
He was betting on several factors here. One, that someone had taken the black Tumi satchel from Larks’ room. Two, that the someone would keep the contents inside the bag. Three, that whoever it might be was still aboard. Four, that they had no knowledge anyone else was interested. And five, that they would be confident enough to walk off the ship with the satchel in hand.
A long shot? No question. But it was his only shot, so he stood behind an ornate column and kept watch below. Whatever was going to happen would happen here. His perch provided a wide view and he caught sight of Isabella Schaefer below, near one of the service desks, watching, too.
And there it was.
The black leather Tumi satchel, same distinctive silver buckles and white monogram—EL—on one side. It was draped across the shoulder of a young woman with long dark hair who hustled toward the gangway in quick steps. He saw that Treasury Agent Schaefer noticed her, too, and immediately followed.
Good enough for him.
He shouldered his bag and headed down the stairway.
KIM WAS SITTING IN ONE OF THE LOUNGES, NEAR THE GANGWAY exit, watching passengers leave. Hana was off to one side, observing, too. They’d made a point the entire cruise not to be seen together. The original idea had been for him and Larks to first talk privately, then to connect with Howell. For the first few days of the cruise, he’d called Larks’ room on a ship’s phone, but none of the calls had been answered. So Hana became his eyes and ears, watching the old man, waiting for their chance. When Larks told him the bag had been given away, his first thought was that maybe it might reappear here, at debarkation.
He sipped a coffee and allowed the many faces to pass across his gaze. He appeared like everyone else, there waiting his turn to depart. Luckily there were two Korean groups on board, one on the far side of the main foyer, all anxious to be on their way. He was just another tourist. He wondered what had happened with the American Malone. There hadn’t been any commotion on the ship about someone dying. As far as he knew, Larks was still dead in his bed, undiscovered.
He saw it first, then noticed Hana saw it, too.
The Tumi bag.
Being carried by a young woman. What was her name? Jelena. He caught his daughter’s gaze and nodded.
She followed.
ISABELLA WAS THRILLED.
Good things happen to good people and she believed this was living proof. Where before she was dead in the water, now her hunch had played out. The documents she sought were just ahead, inside the same black satchel Larks had toted for days, hanging from the shoulder of a woman in her mid-twenties.
Time to do what should have been done days ago. Malone was right. She could have moved on Larks at any time. But part of her mission had been to ascertain the extent of the problem, so she’d given the former Treasury official a wide leash. Too wide, actually. But that mistake was about to be remedied. All would be right once again. The only hitch was Malone, who was proof that somebody else back home had acquired an interest in all this. But to what extent and how far? Luckily, that wasn’t her problem. Others would handle that.
She followed the young woman off the gangway and into a warehouse-like space where luggage was arranged in color-coded groups. Her target had apparently brought no belongings since she bypassed the confusion, stopping only a moment at customs to display a passport, then left the building.
Isabella kept pace, using the crowd for protection, and exited as well. They turned right, away from buses and land taxis, and headed for the concrete wharf where water taxis and shuttle boats waited. Maybe a dozen or more craft bobbed, ready to accept passengers. A babble of commands, mainly in Italian, quick movements, and willing hands offered many distractions. The morning was bright and sunny, the air cool and refreshing. The woman glanced out at the boats, clearly searching for someone. A variety of craft wove atop the choppy surface, each vying for space at the long wharf.
Isabella could not allow the woman to leave. So she made her move, elbowing her way through the crowd, zeroing in. Just as she reached out to corral her target, a man appeared from her left, wearing a red ball cap yanked down over his face. He was short, dressed in jeans, a purple sweater, and running shoes.
She saw him only an instant before he delivered a body check, propelling her over the edge and into the water.
TWENTY
WASHINGTON, DC
2:05 A.M.
STEPHANIE WAS NOT SURPRISED DANNY DANIELS HAD APPEARED. Everything about the man fit into the category of unexpected. He’d always been bold and unabashed, a gregarious soul who loved being in charge. She wondered what he would do when his second term as president ended, his career in the limelight over. For a man like Danny, that would not be a good thing.
He sat at the table. “Great thing about the middle of the night is that a person can come and go as they please. Nothin’ to slippin’ out of the White House.”
“And hello to you, too,” she said.
He threw her a smile. “I’m surprised you’re so cordial. I figured you’d be pissed right now.”
“So you authorized the illegal entry into the Billet files?”
“That wasn’t me. Joe, here, decided to go that route all on his own.”
She saw that the Treasury secretary wasn’t pleased to see his boss, so she decided to press the advantage. “You realize Treasury risked Cotton’s life. They might even have wanted him caught in the crossfire, to slow us down.”
“Oh, yeah. I get it. Friggin’ stupid.
Which is why I’m here. The secretary and I are going to have a chat on that.” He tossed a glare across the table. “Just you and me. And then we’re going to talk about what the hell you’ve been doing in Europe these past ten days.”
Joe Levy said nothing. That was another thing about being at the top of the pyramid. Only heaven could argue with you.
“Luke and Cotton need to know what’s going on,” she said. “I was just about to make a call.”
She’d replaced her damaged cell phone with one of two backups she always kept on hand, this one stashed at her house.
“In a minute. First, we have to talk. That’s why I’m here instead of sleepin’.” Daniels faced the Treasury secretary and pointed a finger. “I asked you for a simple thing. Some information on a relatively obscure subject. Next thing I know you’re running an international investigation, outside the grid, risking assets who don’t even work for you. I’m going to want to know why. Are you going to have answers?”
“Of course, whatever you want.”
“Really? Whatever I want? The first question is going to be why you didn’t tell me the truth to start with.”
Levy said nothing.
“Mr. President,” Harriett said. “I thought Congress was dysfunctional, but this is right up there with their antics.”
“Now, that could be construed as downright insulting,” Danny said. “But I understand. This is your first foray into the intelligence business … from the executive branch’s side of the table. It’s a mite different here. We don’t have the luxury, as congressional committees do, of Monday-morning quarterbacking. We’re on the field, in play, as it happens, and we have to make this stuff up as we go.”
“A game plan is always preferred,” Stephanie added.
The president said, “Joe, go get your warrants. I have to talk to these two ladies alone.” He paused. “Then you and I’ll have that chat.”
