by Steve Berry
“I gave them to Jelena. She said the right password.”
The name was unfamiliar. A new participant. But he wanted to know. “Tell me what the password is.”
“Mellon.”
“Like a fruit?”
“No. Andrew Mellon.”
He caught the irony, but still asked why that label had been chosen.
“He was the custodian of truth.”
Only someone who’d read Howell’s book would understand that observation.
“When did you give Jelena the documents?”
“A few hours ago.”
This was a problem, for sure, as retrieving these papers was partly why he was here. Weeks ago he’d tried from long distance to coax them from Larks with no luck. Then he’d conceived the idea of a meeting overseas. A rendezvous that might not only provide the written evidence he sought, but lead him to the instigator of it all. Anan Wayne Howell. Author of The Patriot Threat.
“Does Jelena know Howell?” Kim asked.
“She does.”
“And how will she deliver the documents?”
“She’ll meet Howell tomorrow, after leaving the ship.”
Clearly, things had not gone as planned. But he’d expected bumps along this treacherous road. Dealing with odd personalities and desperate people came with risk.
“Who are you?” Larks asked suddenly.
He glanced down to the bed.
The drug had worn off faster than anticipated, but he’d kept the dose light so the old man could communicate readily.
“I’m your benefactor,” he said. “The Korean.” He did not mask his contempt at the label.
Larks tried to rise, but Hana restrained him. It took little effort to keep the older man down.
“You’ve disappointed me,” Kim said.
“I have nothing to say to you. This is an American problem. We don’t need people like you involved.”
“Yet you accepted my money. Came on this trip, and I heard no complaints.”
He twisted the valve, allowing more of the drug to flow downward. A fog quickly reappeared in Larks’ brown eyes.
“Why did you turn on the Korean?” he asked.
“Howell thought it best. He was suspicious.”
“Of what? Was not the Korean your friend?”
“These wrongs do not involve foreigners.”
“What wrongs?”
“Those done to Salomon, to Mellon, to Howell, to all the people. They’re ours to solve. Sadly, it’s all true.”
Kim increased the flow, which would allow Larks’ mind to completely surrender free will.
“What is all true?” he asked.
“The patriot threat.”
He knew the term from the book, but the question had always been—was it real, or just the fantasy of some fringe author bent on wild conspiracies? He was literally betting his life that it existed.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He handed the IV bag across the bed to Hana and found the unit.
“The helicopter exploded over the lagoon,” a man reported. “We were too far away to know anything, but we did see a man jump onto the chopper as it lifted off. We’re headed by boat now to where it exploded.”
“Twenty million dollars gone?” Kim asked.
“It seems so.”
“This is not good.”
“Like we have to be told. Our payment just went up in flames.”
The men had been hired on a 50 percent commission.
“Find out what happened,” he said.
“We’re en route.”
More problems. Not what he wanted to hear. He ended the call and stared down at the bed, thinking about the courier Larks mentioned.
“There may be a way to find the woman,” he said to Hana. “This Jelem.”
She handed the IV bag back to him.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered. “When Howell appears.”
Which meant Paul Larks was of no further use.
So he opened the valve all the way.
THREE
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
5:20 P.M.
Stephanie Nelle entered the department store and marched straight toward women’s apparel. The mall was on the north side of town, not far from Magellan Billet headquarters. She’d never been much of a shopper, but occasionally she enjoyed an evening or a Saturday afternoon browsing, something to take her mind off her job. She’d led the Magellan Billet for sixteen years. The intelligence unit had been her creation, twelve agents, employed by the Justice Department, who handled only the most sensitive investigations.
All good people.
But something was wrong.
And it was time to find out what and why.
She caught sight of Terra Lucent across the store and navigated the aisles toward her. Terra was a petite woman with copper-colored hair, one of four administrative assistants the Billet employed.
“You want to tell me why I’m here,” Stephanie said as she drew close to her employee. “And shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I appreciate you meeting me. I really do. I know it’s unusual.”
“To say the least.”
She’d found a note on her desk that asked her to come to Dillard’s at 5:30 and tell no one. Terra had worked for her a number of years, assigned the graveyard shift because of her levelheadedness and dependability.
“Ma’am, this is important.”
She registered concern on the younger woman’s face. Terra had recently divorced, for the fourth time. A bit unlucky in love, but she was good at her job.
“I have to report something. It’s not right what’s happening. Not right at all.”
She caught the dart of the other woman’s eyes as her gaze raked the store. Only a few employees and a couple of shoppers milled about.
“Are you expecting someone?”
Terra faced her and licked her lips. “I just want to make sure we’re alone. That’s why I asked you to come here.”
“Why the note? Could you not have called? Or just talked to me at the office? Why all this secrecy?”
“I couldn’t do any of those.”
The words were riddled with apprehension.
“Terra, what’s going on?”
“Late one night, about ten days ago, I’d gone to get myself a drink from the cafeteria. We were shorthanded, so I took the cell phone with me in case anyone called. I always smoke downstairs, outside. But when I’m there alone—I know we’re not supposed to smoke on the floor—I can’t leave for long when no one else is there. I leave the door open so I can hear the incoming bell ding, and go down the hall to smoke.”
Billet rules required that someone always monitor the office. Agents were issued specially programmed laptops and iPhones since encrypted emails and text messages were one of the quickest and most secure forms of communication.
“Why don’t you just smoke in the office?”
She shook her head. “You’d smell it. No way.”
Her affinity toward anything with tobacco was no secret, and federal law forbid smoking in the building anyway. “Forget about the cigarettes and get to the point.”
“Ten days ago, like I said, I was in the alcove at the end of the hall. I cracked the window to let the smoke out. I finished and headed back to the office. That’s when I saw him. He flashed a badge and made threats. He said he was from Treasury.”
“How did this man get in the building?”
“I checked the electronic registries the following day and there was no record of anyone entering at that hour.”
Every door was protected with a swipe lock that required a keycard for entrance. Which meant whoever he was had friends in the right places.
“What was he doing there?”
“He wanted computer access.”
“And you gave it to him?”
Terra nodded.
“How long was he in the office?”
“Half an hour. He used a terminal in the conference room. After he
left, I looked, but its directory was wiped clear.”
“And you’ve waited till now to tell me this?”
“I know, ma’am. But I thought it was some emergency he was handling.”
“I can’t believe you’ve done this.”
Disappointment clouded her employee’s face. “I know. But … he made me keep quiet.”
She didn’t like the sound of that.
“I wrote a bad check, ma’am. It was when I was divorced the last time. The store took a warrant. I made good on it, but I was still arrested. This guy knew about all that. He told me he’d keep quiet and everything would be okay. I wanted to keep my job. I knew the arrest would be the end of my security clearance. The check was over $500. A felony. The charges were eventually dismissed, but I wasn’t going to take the chance. My children have to eat. So I did what I had to, but then he went too far.”
She was listening.
“He came back a few days later and wanted more computer access—this time on my ID.” Terra paused. “I gave it to him. None of this is right. And he wants access again, tonight.”
She considered the information, then asked, “Is that all?”
Terra nodded. “I’m so sorry. I really am. I’ve tried hard to do right by my job. I know you trust me—”
“You’ve broken every rule.”
Terra’s eyes reddened.
At the moment she needed this woman to be her ally, so she made clear, “We’ll let it pass—for now—provided you do three things.”
“Anything, ma’am.”
“Tell no one what you just told me. Give him access tonight. And tell me everything he says and does from this point on.”
Terra’s face brightened. “Of course. I can do that.”
“Now go on. Get out of here and get some sleep. Your shift starts in a few hours.”
Terra thanked her again and left.
That was a first. Never had Billet security been breached. Her unit had always been a tight one, without incident, the list of its successes far outdistancing any failures. That winning percentage had also bred jealousy among her colleagues. But Treasury? What did they want among Billet files badly enough to blackmail one of her employees?
Whatever it was, she had to know.
She slowly made her way out of the department store. Terra strolled thirty yards ahead of her. They entered the mall’s towering glass-topped atrium, which directed shoppers in four directions toward retail stores on two levels.
Stephanie caught sight of a man on the second floor.
Slim, thin hair, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, standing propped against the railing. He immediately fled his position and started walking, one floor above, paralleling her direction. Terra hustled down the sparsely populated mall toward another atrium that housed the food court. Doors there led out to the rear parking lots. Stephanie’s gaze darted upward and she caught glimpses of the man still following. When they reached the atrium, Terra turned left for the exit doors, and the man bounded downward on a semicircular staircase. As he rounded the risers and approached the ground floor, Stephanie slipped her cell phone from her pocket.
The man came to the last step.
She pointed the phone, centered the image, and snapped a picture, quickly lowering the unit. The man found the terrazzo and turned for the mall’s rear exit. No question. He was after Terra. She caught sight of a security guard sitting at a table drinking from a coffee cup.
Something hard nudged her ribs.
“Not a sound, or your employee there might not make it to work tonight.”
She froze.
Terra left through the mall exit.
The man ahead of her stopped and turned back. A smile filled his face. The phone was still in her grasp, down at her side. The first man stepped toward her in a slow stride and reached for the unit.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing that.”
FOUR
VENICE, ITALY
Malone sprang from the grass, his lungs raw from panting the dry night air. Luckily he had avoided the stone markers that stood at attention all around him when he fell. The helicopter debris continued to burn, not much left but charred bits and pieces. A fading glow from the blaze illuminated the way through the graves to the church. There should be a boat dock near there, perhaps even a night watchman somewhere on the island. But where was he or she? That crash should have attracted some immediate attention. Surely it had been noticed across the lagoon in Venice. Police would soon be on their way, if they weren’t already. Waiting for them didn’t seem like a good idea. He needed to leave. His task had been to simply observe and report. But wow—had that gone wrong.
Once a year, on the birthday of their Dear Leader, North Korean insurance managers sent a gift of $20 million in cash, all generated by fraud. Things like transportation accidents, factory fires, floods, and other catastrophes within North Korea, most of which either never happened or were manufactured. Every insurance policy within North Korea was issued by the state-owned KNIC. To spread its liability KNIC sought out reinsurers around the world willing to accept a portion of its risk in exchange for hefty premiums, and those companies were found in Europe, India, and Egypt. Of course, each of those entities assumed that KNIC would have evaluated its risk and written its policies accordingly, wanting to minimize exposure. After all, that was the whole idea of the insurance business—to pay out as few claims as possible. But that was not the case here. Instead, KNIC made sure there were expensive claims the reinsurers would have to honor. In fact, the more disasters the better. To avoid drawing undue attention, claims were systematically generated against differing reinsurers. One year the focus was on Lloyd’s, the next Munich Re, then Swiss Re. Every claim was carefully documented, then sped through puppet courts in Pyongyang where the outcome was never in doubt. It helped that North Korean law made it impossible for reinsurers to send their own investigators to check anything.
All in all, it was the perfect scam, one that generated annual revenues topping $50 million, some of which was used by KNIC to keep the scheme going, the rest paid into Dear Leader’s pockets.
Twenty million dollars, annually, for the past four years.
Bags of cash had arrived in Pyongyang from Singapore, Switzerland, France, Austria, and, this year, Italy. Sent to an entity called Bureau 39 of the Korean Workers’ Party Central Committee, created to collect hard currency and provide Dear Leader with funds independent of a virtually nonexistent national economy. Intelligence reports indicated that the money financed things like luxury goods for the country’s elite, missile components, even the production of nuclear weapons. Everything an enterprising young dictator might need.
Stephanie wanted this year’s money transfer witnessed, as that had never been possible before. American intelligence had learned its location—Venice—so she told him to leave the cruise ship and head inland.
He’d wondered about the coincidence.
How did that money transfer just happen to occur while he was already in Venice?
The answer to that question had not become overly important until the shooting started. Now the cash was ashes and all of the participants to the payoff dead. So he’d like to know.
His mind searched for everything he knew about his current location.
Isola di San Michele was once two islands, but a canal between them had been filled long ago. Napoleon created the cemetery in 1807, when he ordered Venetians to stop burying their dead within the town. A Renaissance church and a former monastery remained from that time. A high brick wall guarded its shores, the dark outline of tall cypresses rising above it. He recalled one other anomaly. The burials were squeezed tight, the dead guaranteed only a few years’ rest. After a decade the remains were exhumed and stored in ossuaries, making room for more bodies. One of the notice boards that listed the timetable for exhumations stood to his right.
He popped the magazine from his Beretta and replaced it with a spare from his pocket. Then he started walkin
g toward the church, making no pretense of silence. A series of gardens studded with cypress trees and more monuments lined the stone-paved walkways. Some of the graves were gaudy with domes and sculptures and wrought iron. Some were stacked in terraces like filing cabinets. Amazing how audacious people could be with death.
The kink in his leg began to work itself out. He was too damn old to be dropping from helicopters. He was supposed to be retired—after a career in the navy, law school, then a dozen years at the Justice Department working for Stephanie Nelle’s Magellan Billet. He quit three years ago and now owned an old-book shop in Copenhagen. But that hadn’t stopped trouble from finding him. This time, though, he’d found it, as he’d willingly accepted Stephanie’s offer to freelance. The past few weeks had been anything but pleasant. He’d heard not a word from Cassiopeia Vitt. They’d dated for the past year, but parted ways a month ago when trouble had once again found them both in Utah. He’d thought maybe after she cooled down they could work it through. He’d even called her once, but she did not answer. He did receive an email, though. Short and sweet.
Leave me alone.
Obviously, her bitterness still retained fire.
So he did as she asked, and a chance to roam the Adriatic and Mediterranean for ten days on the U.S. government’s dime had seemed like a good respite. All he had to do was keep an eye on a former Treasury official, Paul Larks, who might lead him to a man named Anan Wayne Howell, an American fugitive. The Justice Department wanted Howell. So he’d stayed close. Larks was pushing seventy, walked with a slight stoop that reminded him of his old friend Henrik Thorvaldsen, and had kept to himself during the cruise, which had made him think that whatever was supposed to happen would happen in Venice. Then the dispatch from Stephanie, sending him to the Italian mainland, arrived.
And disaster followed.
He approached the lighted church, its white marble façade overlooking the lagoon. Everything was closed up tight. He rounded one side and spotted a boathouse. A dim light burned inside, illuminating one of the sleek, low-riding runabouts that had made Venice famous.
“Stop right there,” a male voice said in Italian.
