The Patriot Threat (Cotton Malone series)

by Steve Berry

  The secretary left the room.

  “He’s a businessman,” the president muttered, once the door closed. “Knows nothing about intelligence work.”

  “But you do,” Stephanie said. “And you’re in charge.”

  Only she could get away with pressing him that far. A while back, during another critical operation, they’d both discovered feelings for the other. One of those unexpected revelations that they’d wisely kept to themselves. The Daniels’ marriage was over, and had been for some time, existing only as a public illusion. No anger or bitterness lingered on anyone’s part, just a realization that once his second term ended, Danny Daniels would be single. Then things might change between them.

  But not until.

  “It is my fault,” he said. “But Cotton’s okay, right?”

  She nodded. “Can’t say the same for the $20 million and the nine other men who died.”

  “I’ve only been told in the last couple of hours that we knew Kim was going to make a move on that money. Joe decided to keep that tidbit to himself. You should have been advised as to all the risks.”

  “Why weren’t we?” Harriett asked.

  “Now, that’s the rub. I think Stephanie was right. It may actually have been deliberate on Joe’s part.”

  The admission surprised her.

  “What’s Kim after?” Stephanie asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s what Joe kept repeating,” Harriett said.

  Stephanie pointed to the printed pages on the table. “Have you read The Patriot Threat?”

  “Every word, and the author is no idiot.”

  “He’s a convicted tax evader,” Harriett said.

  “That he is. But some of what he says makes sense.”

  The president reached inside his jacket and produced a dollar bill, which he laid on the table. “Look on the back.”

  Stephanie flipped the bill over.

  Lines appeared on the obverse of the Great Seal.

  “I drew those,” the president said.

  She studied the six-pointed star. “What’s the significance?”

  “Check out the letters where the triangles form.”

  She did.

  A S O N M.

  “It’s an anagram,” the president noted. “For the word Mason.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking Freemasons are involved here,” Harriett said. “How many times have we heard that they’re secretly controlling this country. That’s utter nonsense.”

  “I agree. But the word Mason is formed from the joining of those letters. That’s a fact. Which, coincidentally, also forms a six-pointed-star.”

  “Or a Star of David,” Stephanie muttered.

  “Heck of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How would you have known to do this?” Stephanie asked.

  “Those classified papers Paul Larks copied. They mention another dollar bill with lines on it. Larks talked of a bill like that to Kim and Howell.”

  “And how do you know that?” she asked.

  “Yesterday I read those classified papers Treasury is holding, the ones Larks copied. The NSA also provided me transcripts of conversations between Kim and Howell. Contrary to what Joe Levy thinks, I’m neither in the dark nor an idiot.”

  But she was still puzzled. “What’s this about?”

  “A few months ago I received a letter from a prominent Jewish organization. It dealt with a man named Haym Salomon. Do either of you know the name?”

  Neither she nor Harriett did.

  So he told them.

  Salomon was born in Poland, but immigrated to New York in 1772. He was Jewish, highly educated in finance, fluent in several languages, and became a private banker, securities dealer, and member of a commodities exchange. By 1776 there were 3000 Jews living in the American colonies. Salomon was active in that community and fought for political equality. He became a patriot early on, supporting the Revolution, and was even arrested in 1778 as a spy by the British and sentenced to death. But he escaped New York to the rebel stronghold of Philadelphia, where he resumed his financial career.

  The American Revolution was financed with no definable base. No regular taxation or public loans existed. No fiscal system had been created for collecting revenue, and the treasury, a mere pretense, stayed empty. Money was constantly needed for supplies, ammunition, food, clothing, medicine, and pay for soldiers. States were supposed to care for the troops they sent to fight, but that rarely happened. Members of the Continental Congress were short on money, too, their horses routinely turned away because livery stable keepers had gone unpaid. Continental currency was barely accepted anywhere, generally regarded as worthless. The lack of money was England’s best ally, many Loyalists arguing that the Revolution would fizzle once the colonists could no longer feed their army.

  In 1781 Haym Salomon came to the attention of Robert Morris, the superintendent of finance for the fledging confederation of thirteen colonies. He was enlisted by Morris to broker bills of exchange for the upstart American government. That he did, but he also personally extended interest-free loans to many of the Founding Fathers and to army officers. He became the banker and paymaster for France, an essential American ally, and converted French bills of exchange into American currency, which financed French soldiers fighting in the Revolution. He likewise performed those same services for Holland and Spain, keeping the Spanish ambassador afloat after funds from Spain were thwarted by the British blockade. From 1781 to 1784 his name appeared nearly a hundred times in Robert Morris’ diary. Many entries simply read, I sent for Haym Salomon.

  In total, Salomon loaned the new American government $800,000, without which the Revolution would have been lost. He never wore a uniform or brandished a sword, but he performed an enormous service. He died penniless, age 45, in 1785. His entire fortune had been spent in service to his adopted country. A wife and four children survived him. All of the documentation relative to his loans was turned over by his widow to the Pennsylvania treasurer. But those securities and certificates were subsequently lost. No repayment of those debts was ever made. His son repeatedly pressed the case from 1840 to 1860. Congress in 1813, 1849, 1851, and 1863 favored some type of repayment. In 1925 the House actually moved to have Salomon’s heirs compensated.

  But that recommendation never passed.

  “His family tried for over a hundred years to have those debts honored,” the president said. “They never were. They remain unpaid to this day. The official excuse was always that there was no adequate documentation to say they existed.”

  “Seems like a good one,” Harriett noted.

  “Except that’s bullshit. Congress, in 1925, wanted to pay the heirs what was owed. A recommendation made it out of committee, but never came to a floor vote. Why? The then secretary of Treasury nixed the idea. His name was Andrew Mellon.”

  Stephanie began to connect the dots.

  “If you multiply the percentage increase in the consumer price index from 1781 to 1925, that $800,000 loaned by Salomon becomes $1.3 billion,” Danny said. “But that’s too simple a measure. It leaves out a lot of value. If you use the labor method, which is what a worker would have to use in 1925 to buy that same $800,000 worth of commodities bought in 1781, you get $8.5 billion. The entire federal budget for fiscal year 1925 was only $10 billion, and that’s with a $400 million deficit. So you can see why Mellon killed the idea. Full payback would have literally bankrupted the country.”

  “What does all this matter anymore?” she asked. “The U.S. has trillions in assets, and surely the amount is negotiable.”

  “That debt today is worth $17 billion with the simple CPI method, but $330 billion using the labor value method.”

  “Again, that’s negotiable, not insurmountable, and certainly not worth all of this.”

  “Howell, there, in his book, thinks that Andrew Mellon either found or was given the documentation that was supposedly lost by the Pennsylvania treasurer. He hid i
t away and used it as leverage on three presidents of the United States. That’s how he held on to his job for so long.”

  “It certainly sounds plausible,” she said. “But we’ll never know if that’s true or not.”

  “Actually, we might be able to learn the truth. The letter I received asked that I investigate the Salomon debt. The group felt the heirs deserved something. And I agree, they do. So I had Treasury look into it. The job was given to Paul Larks. Then all hell broke loose.”

  “Did Larks find proof of the debt?” she asked.

  “I think he did, and I also think he stumbled into something even bigger.”

  “Then why not just find out? All these people work for you.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “I need you two on board. God knows Treasury can’t handle things. I want my A-team on this.”

  “Coming in off the bench?” she said. “With the score not in our favor?”

  “You’ve done your best work starting halfway through the game.”

  “Flattery never works,” she said, adding a smile.

  “But it can’t hurt.” He stared into her eyes. “Stephanie, this one’s different. A lot has been happening the past forty-eight hours. I got a bad feeling. Me and Joe Levy are about to have a come-to-Jesus talk. He won’t be a problem anymore. But we need Cotton to find us some answers.”

  She knew the correct reply. “We’ll get it done.”

  He pointed her way. “That’s what I came to hear. First, though, I want you both to listen to somethin’. Then, Stephanie, I need you to take me somewhere. Harriett, this is where you get off.”

  “That’s not a problem. I have plenty else to do. And that’s why we have the Billet.”

  “I appreciate your heads-up, though,” he said. “Good job flushing Treasury out into the open.”

  But Stephanie still wanted to know, “Why am I taking you somewhere?”

  “’Cause the Secret Service isn’t going to let just anybody drive me around.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  VENICE

  KIM CARRIED HIMSELF WITH EASE AND INTENTIONALLY STAYED back, following the American Malone through the enclosed gangway and into the luggage control area. Hana was ahead of him, closer to where the woman with the Tumi satchel was walking, both of them now out in a blue-gold morning on a busy concrete dock that accommodated water taxis. People seemed in motion everywhere, hopping aboard boats, luggage being handed down, orders barked then obeyed. Before leaving the cruise ship, he’d hesitated long enough to spot Malone bound down one of the two circular staircases and disembark, too. He was surprised to see him. Apparently the ploy in delaying him with Larks had not worked. Was he after the woman with the satchel too? Hard to say. But he had to know. So Kim had fallen in with the crowd and kept pace with the American.

  He watched as Malone loitered, clearly following the young woman with the satchel. Hana remained off to his left, on the wharf that stretched twenty meters ahead, then right-angled and ran another thirty meters toward the lagoon. The entire dock sat at the end of a man-made inlet that also accommodated the cruise ship, which floated at anchor to his right. He knew Hana would follow on whatever boat the woman chose, gaining access one way or the other. No railing guarded the dock’s outer edge, the boats nestling close and transferring passengers at any available spot along its exposed length.

  A woman tumbled over the side and splashed into the water.

  Amid the confusion he hadn’t seen how it happened. People reacted, but there was little anyone could do as the wharf rose two meters above the waterline. The woman surfaced among the boats, one of the drivers coming to her assistance. That moment of distraction caused him to lose sight of the satchel.

  He searched the crowd.

  Then the woman carrying it reappeared.

  She almost ran into him as she fled past, headed back toward the cruise terminal.

  MALONE WAS FOCUSED ON BOTH THE YOUNG WOMAN AND ISABELLA Schaefer. A man in a ball cap and purple sweater had intentionally clipped Schaefer, sending her over the side. The move had happened in an instant, but was enough to take Treasury out of the game and alert him to the attacker’s identity. Anan Wayne Howell. No question. He had the man’s face frozen in his brain. And though the ball cap was there to hide features, he’d caught enough to confirm it.

  Schaefer surfaced and seemed all right.

  The woman with the Tumi bag never missed a beat, reversing course and heading back toward the terminal. Follow her? Or go after Howell? His orders were to find Howell. The woman had just seemed the best way to achieve that goal. His eyes searched the crowd and he spotted Howell, hustling across the dock among the passengers, the ball cap gone, a thin brush of black hair now visible.

  Malone excused himself and elbowed his way past people concentrating on the water taxis. He was momentarily delayed by a stack of luggage being handed down to one of the boats. Howell was now a good two hundred feet away, on the far side, heading down the long edge toward the lagoon. A boat eased close and Howell hopped down into it. The craft jerked left and turned back for open water.

  He heard a whistle.

  Then another.

  “Pappy.”

  He turned.

  Luke Daniels was on the water, at the helm of the same boat from last night. Two other boats blocked Luke’s access to the dock. Malone leaped onto the bow of the first one, then scooted across the low wooden roof that protected passengers from sun and spray. He jumped to the next boat and repeated the process. Luke was waiting at the stern of the second craft, and he hurdled to the deck beside him.

  “Good timing,” he said. “You know what to do.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Luke reversed throttle, maneuvered away from the congestion, then turned hard right and powered up the engines.

  ISABELLA WAS BOTH ANGRY AND EMBARRASSED. SHE’D BEEN deliberately shoved. Worse, the woman with the satchel would now be long gone. One of the water taxi operators helped her up onto his boat. She sat on his deck, dripping water, then grabbed hold of herself and hopped back up to the wharf.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  A rookie mistake.

  Her anxiousness had gotten the better of her. So much that she’d stopped thinking like a seasoned government agent.

  And worse.

  The documents could now be gone.

  KIM ALLOWED THE WOMAN WITH THE SATCHEL TO PASS, NEVER giving her a look of interest. He kept walking ahead and watched as the woman who’d fallen into the water climbed aboard one of the boats. He stopped and glanced back, seeing Hana pursuing their target.

  He retreated deeper into the crowd and made his way from the busy dock, back toward the bus and land taxi station, where Hana and the woman were headed. He hadn’t seen what happened with the person who’d fallen into the water, but it would have been easy to do. No railing protected the outer edge and there were far too many people around than there should be. Beyond the cruise terminal, their target with the satchel ignored any form of land transportation and kept walking, leaving the premises. The sidewalk was sparse, so following her could be a problem.

  He found Hana, who was standing near a group of people.

  “Where is she going?” he whispered in Korean, keeping his eyes on the woman as she walked away.

  There were a few options. Certainly heading into town was one. The beginnings of the pedestrian-only portion of the island, which was 99 percent of the real estate, started just past the cruise terminal. The causeway leading to the mainland also began a few hundred meters away, so a car that way was possible. Then there was the train station, maybe half a kilometer to the north.

  The woman crossed the street and turned left.

  Now he knew. The ocean ferries. The terminal was in sight, a hundred meters away.

  “We have no choice,” he quietly said. “Stay with her.”

  Hana’s brown eyes stared back. He often wondered what that troubled mind really thought, her words so sparse and carefully
chosen there was no way ever to know exactly what she was thinking. Did she hate him? Love him? Fear him? He never raised his voice or was sharp to her, assuming postures and expressions that indicated only heartfelt feelings. All she ever did was please him, never failing, always eager.

  Like a good daughter.

  He nodded.

  And she left.

  TWENTY-TWO

  WASHINGTON, DC

  STEPHANIE WAS AMAZED AT THE PRESIDENT’S COMPUTER EFFICIENCY. Danny Daniels was not noted for being tech-savvy.

  “Have you been taking lessons?” she asked.

  He’d booted the laptop and worked the trackpad, opening the programs he wanted and enabling a flash drive that he’d found in his pocket and snapped into the machine.

  “I’m not helpless,” he said. “Soon I’m going to be an ex-president. And no one gives a hoot about one of those. I’ll need to take care of myself.”

  “What about all those Secret Service agents you get for life,” Harriett asked. “I’m sure they’ll be able to help.”

  Harriett had stood to leave, but Danny had asked her to stay for a few minutes longer.

  “I won’t be taking those along with me,” he said. “I’m following Bush 41’s lead and refusin’ them. I’m lookin’ forward to some peace and quiet.”

  Stephanie doubted that. This man was not one to sit around. His entire life had been framed in the limelight. He’d started at the local level in rural Tennessee, then moved to the governor’s mansion, the U.S. Senate, and finally the White House. Decades of public service, one crisis after another. He was great under pressure—she’d seen that many times. And he also could make a decision. Right or wrong. Good or bad. He made the call.

  “Everybody knows about the Nixon White House tape recordings,” he said. “But by the time Nixon did it, the trick was old hat. It all started with FDR.”