The Patriot Threat (Cotton Malone series)

by Steve Berry

  A call to the National Gallery’s central office had directed her to one of the assistant curators, a young woman who was a supposed expert on Mellon. A few years ago the first definitive biography of the man had finally been published, and this curator had worked for the author as a research assistant. So while Cotton and Luke maneuvered things in Croatia, she decided to troll a little bait of her own.

  She’d driven past the National Gallery a thousand times, but had only ventured inside once or twice. Art was not something that had ever really interested her. The massive gallery occupied a northeast corner on the Mall, facing Constitution Avenue, in the shadow of the Capitol. Its exterior was a monument to classicism with lofty portals at each end, Ionic porticoes in the center, and a dome jutting skyward. Harmony and proportion dominated, all formed out of warm, rosy-tinted marble.

  Inside she was directed to the second floor where she found Carol Williams, a pleasant-looking woman with short black hair.

  “This is my first experience with an intelligence agency,” Carol said. “Curators rarely deal with things like that, but I’m told you want to know about Mr. Mellon?”

  She nodded. “A little insight could prove helpful.”

  “Could I ask why?”

  “You could, but I can’t answer. I hope you understand.”

  “Spy business?”

  She grinned. “Something like that.”

  Carol motioned at their surroundings. “You’ve definitely come to the right place to learn about Mr. Mellon. Here, in the rotunda, is a perfect example of his influence. He wanted a dome on the building as a focal point for the outside, to offset the mass of the long wings. He caught a lot of grief for that decision. People thought only the Capitol should be domed. Here, inside, you can see he was right. This space offers the perfect meeting point for the great halls. A true centerpiece.”

  Overhead rose a coffered dome with scalloped niches and a glass oculus at its center, strikingly similar to the Pantheon in Rome. A circular procession of thick, green marble columns held the roof aloft, matted from behind by cream-colored limestone walls. A tingling fountain sat in the center.

  “The bronze figure in the fountain is Mercury, cast sometime in the late 18th or early 19th century. Mr. Mellon acquired it as part of his collection.”

  “Why do you call him Mr., as if he’s still here?”

  “He is still here.”

  A strange reply.

  “This building is totally reflective of him. This was his monument to the country, and since he was paying the bills his wishes were generally honored.”

  She listened as Carol explained how Mellon chose the architect and approved every aspect of the design. He selected Tennessee marble for the outside and most of the interior décor. He wanted the exhibit rooms harmonious, but not elaborate, intended to convey both period and place. So plaster was used for early Italian, Flemish, and German works. Damask for later Italian. Oak paneling displayed Rubens, van Dyck, Rembrandt, and other Dutch masters. Painted paneling accommodated the French, English, and American canvases. No other adornments were allowed in the galleries, save for a few sofas. Never, Mellon insisted, should the building dominate its contents.

  “He had a good eye,” Carol said, “and a good sense of things. It would have been easy for him, with all his money, to build a palace. But he intentionally refused to do that. Instead he built a place where works of art could be appreciated.”

  “You admire him?”

  “For his art? Definitely. His taste? Oh, yes. But there were other aspects of him that were less than admirable. He was, after all, a clear product of his time. First, from the Gilded Age where fortunes were built upon greed and ruthless ambition. Then from the prosperous 1920s where those fortunes either expanded or collapsed. Mr. Mellon’s multiplied a hundredfold.”

  Her hostess motioned and they left the rotunda, entering one of the long sculpture halls that spread east and west. Overhead, a barrel-vaulted ceiling with skylights allowed in the late-morning sun. Statuary lined the center between pediment doorways that led to more exhibition rooms. Visitors paraded back and forth, admiring the sculptures. She noticed that the hall was another simple, elegant space that did not overpower.

  “Did history interest him?” she asked.

  Carol nodded. “His father, Thomas, once said that in the short voyage of a lifetime, we can see the eddies and ripples on the surface, but not the under-currents changing the main channel of the stream. Only history can determine the causes that bring that about. The son believed that, too. History was important to him. His book on taxation is still regarded as authoritative. Many of the things he wrote about then continue to apply today.”

  She recalled Danny reading portions to her in the car.

  “He was not a proponent of big government,” Carol said. “To him, less was more. He never felt government should be taking care of people. He believed people should take care of themselves. And that wasn’t a cruel attitude. He just cherished personal independence. The New Deal, to him, infringed on that freedom, with government mandating everything for you. Social Security, unemployment insurance, a minimum wage. Those he opposed. He was definitely a product of his circumstances. Prior to 1932, ideas of wealth redistribution and social welfare were not popular.”

  They stopped near the gallery’s end, before another of the rectangular doorways.

  “Did Mr. Mellon appreciate any historical figures? Like George Mason?”

  Carol’s face lit up. “How did you know? He admired Mason a great deal. It took courage to not sign the Constitution, but Mason stood his ground. That was the type of independence Mr. Mellon respected. He was a contributor to the renovation of Gunston Hall, Mason’s ancestral home in Virginia. It was restored in the 1930s and is now a lovely museum.”

  Which might explain why Mellon chose to utilize that name in the start of his quest. The fact that, upon the Great Seal, a six-pointed star and five letters combined to form the word Mason was surely just a coincidence. Albeit a fortuitous one for Mellon, which he used to aggravate the 32nd president of the United States. And no matter how much FDR protested, he’d clearly been intrigued. Enough to assign a Secret Service agent and the secretary of Treasury to investigate. Unfortunately, Roosevelt did not live long enough to see any of that through.

  They left the hall and entered a spacious garden court.

  “This is more of Mr. Mellon’s influence,” Carol said. “He wanted people to feel refreshed and uplifted, not worn out or tired. So he had these green spots added where visitors could rest among plants and flowing water.”

  More sunlight poured in from skylights in another barrel-vaulted ceiling and added to the obvious feeling of being outdoors. Stalks of varied greenery stretched up twenty feet. Roses, begonias, and chrysanthemums added a blaze of color. Everything was meticulously tended. They sat on one of the stone benches abutting the walls and she listened as the curator told her more about Andrew Mellon.

  “His father, Thomas, required that all of his sons memorize every word of ‘Epistle to a Young Friend.’ It’s by Robert Burns. Have you ever read the poem?”

  She shook her head.

  “Burns wrote it in 1786 to someone who was about to head out into the world. It’s a poem of advice that deals with practical wisdom and self-sufficiency. One verse was Mr. Mellon’s favorite. To catch dame fortune’s golden smile, assiduous wait upon her. And gather gear by every wile that’s justified by honor. Not for to hide it in a hedge, nor for a train attendant. But for the glorious privilege of being independent.”

  She smiled at the verse’s cleverness.

  “As a boy of ten, Mr. Mellon would recite the poem then, together, he and his father would repeat out loud that seventh verse. Burns wrote the poem to a young man named Andrew. Of course, that was Mr. Mellon’s first name, too, a coincidence he loved.”

  What she’d heard on the tape with FDR flashed through her mind. Roosevelt told Mark Tipton that Mellon had quoted from Lord Byron.
A strange coincidence, to use a phrase, by which such things are settled nowadays.

  Strange, indeed.

  “That verse from Burns defined Mr. Mellon,” Carol said. “He literally lived his life by it.”

  “What Roosevelt did,” she said, “going after him, at the end of his life for tax evasion. That had to be devastating.”

  Carol nodded. “For someone of his stature, being portrayed as a cheat and a crook was awful. He attended court proceedings every day, which dragged on for months. He personally fought every charge and won. Unfortunately, he died before the decision was announced.”

  “Any idea why Roosevelt targeted him?”

  “Politics. There’s no other way to view it. Who was going to stand up and defend one of the richest men in the country against the president of the United States? Particularly when half the population was out of work. Roosevelt saw in Mr. Mellon an easy target, a way to bolster his own political image. A free shot, with little to no repercussion.”

  Except that Roosevelt lost and Mellon went on the offensive. But this woman would know none of that. She thought about quizzing her on some of the particulars Mellon had discussed with Roosevelt, but knew better. The connection with George Mason had been worth the trip over. But she did recall something else from the tape recording in the Oval Office, when Roosevelt and Mark Tipton were speaking. He said he’d be waiting for me. Can you imagine the arrogance? He told the president of the United States that he’d be waiting.

  That was New Year’s Eve 1936.

  “What did Mellon do in the final months of his life?” she asked.

  A group of schoolchildren entered the court, for the most part quiet, but still excited. Two adults kept them in check as they made their way toward the fountain and the sunken garden at the center.

  “By 1937 he was, essentially, retired. He’d turned over control of his businesses to others, withdrawn from public life, and the tax trial was finally over. He did a lot of art collecting during that time, most of which is on display here. But he also knew he was dying. So his main focus was on the plans for the National Gallery.”

  “I’m curious, why didn’t he name this after himself?”

  “On that he was smart. He wanted the gallery to grow, to acquire many works of art from varied sources. He thought collectors would be more willing to donate to something recognized as the nation’s as a whole, rather than a single individual’s. And he was right. We’ve acquired an enormous number of objects thanks to the fact that this is the national gallery.”

  She asked, “What happened when he died?”

  “He was at his daughter’s home on Long Island. The cancer had taken a toll, but he remained focused on getting this building started. Construction had begun in June, but he died August 26, 1937. A few days later, there was a massive funeral in Pittsburgh.”

  She could see that Carol Williams was a true fan, and she had to admit, “He left quite a legacy. This is an amazing place. Those children, there, seem to find it fascinating.”

  “Tens of thousands come every year.”

  “When did Mellon learn he was dying?”

  Carol thought about the question for a moment, then said, “November 1936. He was immediately given radium and X-ray treatments, which drained him.”

  Which meant that when Mellon met with FDR on New Year’s Eve, he knew he was terminal.

  He said he’d be waiting for me.

  “Have you ever visited his grave site in Pittsburgh?” she asked.

  “That’s not where’s he’s buried.”

  That caught her attention. “I just assumed that since the funeral was there—”

  “The entire family lies together. Mr. Mellon, his son, daughter, and their mother, Nora, his ex-wife. All four of them in one place. A bit ironic since none of them were particularly close in life. Mr. Mellon and his ex-wife divorced thirty years before he died, and not in an amicable way. Paul and his father barely got along. Brother and sister weren’t much better. But in death, there they are, side by side, forever.”

  She smiled at the irony. “And where is this family reunion?”

  “Upperville, Virginia. At the Trinity Episcopal Church. It’s a small grassy graveyard surrounded by a stone wall.”

  The schoolchildren continued to enjoy the fountain. She had several more questions, but they became unimportant as a man entered the garden court. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie.

  The same outfit from Atlanta, if she was not mistaken.

  He walked straight toward her.

  Chick-fil-A Man.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  CROATIA

  6:10 P.M.

  ISABELLA WAS AMBIVALENT TOWARD COTTON MALONE. HE SEEMED the same arrogant, self-absorbed alpha male that she dealt with day in and day out. To him she was surely unimportant—first, because she was a woman, and second, because she worked for Treasury, as opposed to the CIA, NSA, or some other agency with jurisdiction outside the United States. But she’d been on this trail long before anyone from the Magellan Billet had ever heard of the problem, and she knew more about it than anyone else.

  She’d left the American Corner and retreated to the library’s café, now nursing a cup of green tea. Coffee had never interested her, nor had drugs or cigarettes. A glass of wine? Now, that was something she could enjoy, and she did, alone, in her apartment, most nights after coming home from work. She never drank with her superiors or colleagues, preferring to always maintain her wits in their presence. Some of her fellow female agents thought differently, not realizing that no matter how much they tried they’d never be “one of the boys.”

  Few people occupied the tables, the library quiet on this rainy afternoon. She sat with her fingers clasped behind her head, lost in her hair, one leg drawn up, knee in the air. Her gaze was locked out beyond the glass walls.

  From down one of the corridors Malone appeared.

  He entered the café, walked straight to her, and asked, “May I sit down?”

  She nodded and appreciated him asking.

  “I get it,” he said. “This is your baby. You’ve been on this from the start. And then we come in and take over.”

  “The secretary of Treasury himself assigned me. I’ve searched the classified archives. I’ve been to state capitols researching records. You have no idea.”

  “Actually, I do. I think I’ve figured this out. That crumpled sheet of paper is going to lead us to proof that the 16th Amendment may have been void from the start. Even worse, it’s fraud since the government knew the amendment may have been improperly ratified, but went ahead with it anyway. Kim is going to use that to bring us and the Chinese down in one shot.”

  He actually did understand. And since he knew it all, she felt free to say, “I’ll tell you now, there are problems associated with ratification. It’s serious. I’ve seen those problems firsthand in state records. But I get the program. You guys are the big boys, and I’m just from Treasury—”

  “Bullshit. You’re a trained agent. A damn good one I’m told.”

  “Who was body-blocked into the water by a federal fugitive.”

  He chuckled. “If you only knew some of the crap that’s happened to me. And besides, I’m the one who really screwed up here. I let Kim get his hands on those documents.”

  That he had, but she appreciated his admission.

  “Did the president really order me here?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Absolutely. I told him I wanted you to stay with this. We need your help.”

  “Luke thinks I’m a pain in the ass.”

  “You should hear what he says about me.”

  “I have. He actually respects the hell out of you. He won’t say it, but it’s clear.”

  “I was told charm was not your specialty.”

  “But it apparently is yours.”

  And she meant it.

  “I didn’t come here to play you,” he said. “I came to ask for your help. That was good thinking in there about the Beale cipher. Yo
u may be on target.”

  She wondered about all this mea culpa. “How did you figure this out?”

  “I’ve talked to Stephanie Nelle. Things are happening in DC. Your boss and mine are now working together. This is a joint operation that’s about to get complicated. The Chinese and North Koreans are both involved. They want what Kim is after, then they want Kim dead. Like I said, I need your help.”

  She gestured with her tea. “Want me to keep your coffee cup full? Make sure there are snacks for everyone?”

  “Is it that bad?” he asked. “Do you get that much lack of respect? ’Cause I have to tell you, I worked twelve years for the Magellan Billet and the women there were just as good, just as tough, just as smart as any man. Most times, they were better. Never once have I ever treated a female agent different from a male. I’d never even consider doing that.”

  She was beginning to think that she may have misjudged this man.

  “What I need,” he said, “is for you to play with the team. This isn’t a job for the Lone Ranger anymore. It’s going to take a combined effort and you have a luxury that I don’t enjoy. Kim doesn’t know you exist. Luke, either. That means you both are going to have to take point. Can you handle that?”

  Now she knew exactly why he’d come. To judge for himself if she was up to the job. She wanted in, of that she was sure, so much that she was willing to give this man the benefit of the doubt. “I can do it.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. And besides, I owe you one.”

  She was curious.

  “You kept watch over me in Larks’ room while I was out cold. You wanted me to think you hung around just to chew me out, but you were also making sure no one came back for a second look.”