The Patriot Threat

by Steve Berry

  “I don’t know. So let’s get our butts to Washington and find out exactly what we’ve managed to get ourselves into.”

  NINE

  VENICE

  Hana Sung stared at the closed door for Paul Larks’ suite. Her father had once again thought ahead and prepared them for any contingency. He was smart, of that she was sure.

  But why would he not be?

  He was a Kim.

  She had faithfully learned the family history. The first Kim, her great-grandfather, had been born near Pyongyang. Legend said he was the son of a poor farmer, but actually his father was a teacher with an above-average income. He fought the Japanese in the 1930s when they occupied Korea, and was there in 1945 when the Soviets liberated the country. His greatest mistake was not insisting that his allies claim the entire peninsula. Instead Stalin respected an agreement made with Roosevelt, dividing the country in half, creating the more populated, agricultural south and the industrialized north.

  That first Kim became the north’s Great Leader and ultimately convinced Stalin that he could retake the south. In 1950 he led the Fatherland Liberation War, but American intervention had prevented reunification. Eventually, as she now knew, a cease-fire had been arranged, the country remaining divided, the war never over. Interestingly, if anyone in North Korea were asked about the outcome of that great conflict, they would unhesitatingly declare that the south invaded first and Kim had won. Ignorance seemed to be a national trait. But who could blame the people? Everything they saw and heard was controlled.

  The second Kim easily assumed power and bestowed the name Eternal President on his father, taking Great Leader for himself. The cult of personality that had started with the first Kim only intensified with the second. A philosophy of self-reliance labeled juche became a national obsession. The country gradually withdrew into itself, looking increasingly only to Kims for salvation. A mistake, but one few within North Korea would ever realize.

  She’d been taught that the first Kim was a mighty general who rode a white horse and carried an enormous sword that could fell a tree as if slicing bean curd. He turned pinecones into bullets and grains of sand into rice, crossing rivers upon paths of fallen leaves. Both Kims showered the people with fatherly love. They portrayed themselves as noble and caring, even immortal. And in a sense, they were. Both rested in the magnificent Palace of the Sun, inside glass sarcophagi, their heads upon pillows, a workers’ flag draping their bodies. She’d visited there twice. A surprisingly emotional experience, made even more so by the fact that their blood flowed through her veins. The spiritual pillar and lighthouse of hope. Prominent thinker-theoreticians. Peerlessly illustrious commanders. A solid foundation for the prosperity of the country. That was how the Eternal President, Great Leader, and Dear Leader all described themselves.

  And she wondered.

  Would that praise include her, too?

  She doubted it.

  Her father had sired nine children, with only three being legitimate. She fell into the illegitimate category. At twenty-three, she was the youngest. The others were all married, with children of their own, still living within North Korea. They’d abandoned their father once he fell from grace. She alone had stayed with him. Her mother had been his mistress, one of many he’d maintained back when he was still in line to rule.

  So no offspring of their’s would become a Kim.

  Instead, she was Hana Sung.

  Hana referencing the number one, singular, important. Sung meaning “victory.” Her father had eventually wanted her to change it, but she’d politely refused. And he hadn’t insisted. A flaw in him, for sure, since he never could insist on much of anything. Yet he could kill a helpless old man without a thought, and order another, who’d interfered with the money theft, eliminated. Was that a contradiction? The world thought him stupid and lazy, a drunk and a gambler. She’d come to know those were but carefully crafted illusions.

  Her father was a Kim.

  And this third generation, which included his half brother, was just like the first two.

  But what about the fourth?

  Her own life had taken a difficult path. She had no real identity except what others had imposed. She’d been alive, but not really a person. More a piece of property, used by others for their needs, never her own.

  And of late, that fact had begun to bother her.

  She studied the corridor.

  Given the hour few people were around, only a handful coming and going from the staterooms that lined the outer side.

  She’d noticed the American, Malone, early during the cruise. He’d stuck close to Larks, but had made no attempt to locate her father. Which made her wonder. Did Malone know about him? Or about her? She’d concluded that he did not. Which made his presence even more puzzling. A few minutes ago her father had told her exactly what he wanted done, and she would do it. Following his orders, at least for a little while longer, seemed the prudent course.

  She approached Larks’ suite and used the keycard for entrance.

  The door opened and she quickly stepped into the darkened space.

  Hopefully, Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone would be along shortly.

  TEN

  Malone hopped from the boat. Luke Daniels worked the throttle and kept the hull close to the concrete dock.

  “I’ll need you back here by 7:00 A.M.,” he said.

  Luke threw him a salute. “I’ve missed taking orders from you, Pappy.”

  He smiled. “Like you ever did.”

  He’d never cared for the nickname, one Luke had used from the first day they met. Of course, he called the younger agent Frat Boy, a label Luke had not particularly liked either. And while Malone was on contract, here for a limited engagement, Luke worked for Stephanie Nelle and the Magellan Billet full-time. He was a Southerner, ex-military, the nephew of President Danny Daniels, which seemed not to mean much of anything to either Daniels. He and Luke had first met in Denmark a month ago and finished up their mission in Utah. When they parted ways in Salt Lake he’d told Luke that he looked forward to their next encounter. He just hadn’t known then that it would be so soon.

  On the boat ride to the cruise terminal Luke had explained more of what was happening. The $20 million had been slated for a charter jet out of Venice’s airport straight to North Korea. The United States and Europol had finally decided to build a case on insurance fraud, and some eyewitness testimony could be vital. Of course, no one had anticipated a theft.

  “How was it that cash transfer just happened to be here in Venice?” he’d asked Luke.

  “That I really don’t know. I was in Rome and Stephanie told me to get my butt over here. That’s when I called you. My orders were to help the old guy out, if he got into trouble.”

  “Is that how Stephanie put it?”

  “Close enough.”

  He bid Luke goodbye, found the gangway, and passed through a security point that included a metal detector. His gun had been left with Luke for tomorrow, no way to keep it without drawing unwanted attention. The staff tossed him a few odd looks, considering that his hair was damp and askew, his clothes mud-splattered and smelly from the splash in the lagoon.

  “Crazy water taxi,” he said, adding a smile.

  It was just after midnight, but plenty of folks were still coming and going, enjoying their last few hours aboard. He hadn’t experienced much of the ship’s nightlife, as both he and Larks had been early to bed. His room was on the same deck as Larks’, albeit at the other end.

  Once on board he grabbed an elevator to the ninth floor and exited to an empty hallway. He’d kept a careful watch the entire cruise, but doubted Larks had noticed. The older man had seemed oblivious to anything and everything, staying to himself, most times toting a black leather Tumi bag. He’d also memorized the facial image of Anan Wayne Howell that Stephanie had provided, but had caught no sight of the fugitive. There’d been a lot of distractions, though. The cruise ship held three thousand passengers, and every port h
ad been a madhouse. He’d thought that day in Split he was about to strike pay dirt, but Larks had left the Croatian café alone, after waiting two hours, connecting with no one. What was so important about Howell? He’d been told only that the man was a federal fugitive who’d ticked off a local U.S. attorney, fleeing after the start of his trial. But Malone knew the deal. Contract help was told only what they needed to know. And frankly, he was not interested in delving real deep here. For him, this was a mental diversion. The chance to make some quick, easy money. Nothing more.

  But things had definitely escalated.

  Nine men had already died.

  He decided to make a final check on Larks’ room. He’d left the ship right before the early-sitting dinner, heading for the mainland hours before the scheduled deal, reconnoitering the building and gaining access while its doors were still open for the day. Then he’d waited patiently until it was time to head for the eighth floor. He should call Stephanie and report what had happened, but Luke had assured him that he’d handle that. Next, he ought to head back to Copenhagen and his bookshop.

  But that came with a problem.

  He could not deny that he missed Cassiopeia Vitt. Loneliness, for him, was like a periodic disease. He’d just grown accustomed to having someone special back in his life, but now she was gone. He’d been divorced awhile. His ex-wife still lived in Georgia with their teenage son, Gary. Their marriage had not ended easy, and it had taken some effort for them both to find peace. Life was good between them now. Unfortunately, he could not say the same for himself and Cassiopeia. And being back at the bookshop would only provide him more time to think about that failure.

  He felt grimy from his dip in the lagoon. He’d rinsed off the mud from his trousers and shoes while on the boat ride, but he definitely could use a shower and some sleep. Tomorrow he’d be ready to follow when Paul Larks debarked. He’d see where the older man would lead him, and if that was to the airport and a flight home, then his temporary job would be over.

  He approached the door to Larks’ suite. Pricey accommodations for sure, and he’d wondered how a former civil servant could afford them. Everything was quiet and he was about to leave when he noticed the door was ajar. Each cabin came with an electronic lock and spring-loaded hinges that ensured the latch engaged. There was also a dead bolt for added security. Larks’ had been engaged, its steel extended, cocking the door open.

  Odd.

  He checked his watch. 12:48 A.M.

  Larks had been an early-to-bed guy for the past ten days.

  Nothing about this registered right.

  He stepped close and listened, hearing nothing. He gently knocked and waited for a response. None came. He rapped his knuckles again, this time loud and insistent. Still no reply. He pushed the door inward and stepped inside. The suite was dark, some ambient light spilling past the glass doors to the balcony and more from the hall outside.

  “Mr. Larks,” he said, his voice low.

  A short entranceway led into the main salon, an open doorway to his left into what was most likely the bedroom. He saw the outline of someone lying down. One arm was draped over the mattress edge, the hand angled askew.

  He checked for a pulse.

  None.

  Paul Larks was dead.

  He wondered about the Tumi satchel and stepped out into the salon, making a quick search and finding nothing. Back in the bedroom he scanned the bathroom and closet, switching the lights on, then off.

  No satchel.

  He left the bathroom light on and came back close to the bed. No evidence of violence was anywhere to be seen. He wondered if Larks had simply died of natural causes. But if so, how coincidental would that be? On the bedside table he spotted an insulin kit with syringes. He was about to reach for the phone and call for assistance when something pricked his right leg.

  Sharp.

  Stabbing.

  Like a needle.

  He recoiled.

  The room spun. His mind fogged. Muscles throughout his body began to surrender their strength. His legs buckled. Stunned and dizzy he fought for balance. His knees found the carpet. The world blinked in and out and he saw a figure emerge from the other side of the bed. Someone had been beneath the mattress. That sight made him think of another night, from a few years ago, in southern France. Dark and windy, when someone had been shooting at him.

  Cassiopeia Vitt.

  Their first encounter.

  And then before he blacked out, like in France, this time he also thought he saw the outline of a woman.

  ELEVEN

  Kim switched on his laptop and settled down in the chair. His suite came with several rooms, including a dining area with a polished mahogany table. He’d ordered dinner—some gazpacho, braised pheasant, and an array of cheeses, complemented by a Loire wine and aged claret. Most of his meals had been enjoyed right here, which had allowed him to keep a low profile. His only ventures out had been to the spa for several delightful treatments. He’d hoped that a jovial European atmosphere aboard ship might open the lines of congeniality among himself, Howell, and Larks. But none of that had occurred, and the presence of a former American agent had changed things even further. Now Hana would deal with Malone. He was fortunate to have her. North Korea was indeed a man’s world, but that did not mean a woman could not be useful.

  The laptop announced that it was ready to work.

  He’d first written while in college, and quickly discovered that he liked the experience. An English professor told him that all writers had a little voice in their head, one that didn’t say write a bestseller or sell lots of books, it simply whispered for them to write every day. If listened to, the voice went silent. If ignored, the urge never relented. He’d long ago learned to listen to the voice. Writing freed his soul and allowed his imagination to wander. When his father had stripped him of his birthright, writing had been what saved him. And where reality had seemed always defined by others, his creative life could be shaped exactly as he wanted.

  His rereading of The Patriot Threat and his visit with Paul Larks had sent his thoughts reeling.

  He needed to soar.

  The envisioned scene became clear.

  The day his father disowned him.

  “You will not succeed me.”

  He’d expected a rebuke, maybe even some discipline, but never those words.

  “Your actions have caused me disgrace and embarrassment. My advisers have concluded that you must be replaced.”

  “I was unaware that you listened to advisers. You are our Great Leader. Only your word matters. Why do we care what others think?”

  “And that is why you cannot succeed me. You have no understanding of what it takes to rule this nation. My father led this country and tried hard to reunify it. He invaded the south and fought the great war and would have prevailed, if not for American intervention. His leadership is still remembered. Five hundred statues are erected in his honor. After every wedding newlyweds find the nearest likeness of him and lay flowers at his feet. His body rests in a glass coffin where hundreds of thousands come each year to pay their respects. You could never garner such feelings from the people.”

  He did not agree, but he stayed silent.

  “What were you thinking?” his father asked. “Going to Japan and an amusement park? What possessed you?”

  “The love of my children.”

  “You show love for your children by not dishonoring your parents. That way they see in you what you expect from them. You have shown your children nothing but disgrace.”

  He’d had enough of the insults. “I am a patriot.”

  His father laughed. “You are a fool.”

  “Who will take my place as Great Successor?”

  “One of your brothers will assume the role.”

  “You’re making a mistake. I’m not incompetent. Quite the contrary, I am my father’s son.”

  “If you were my son, your judgment would be far better.”

  “And what is
yours, Father? You continue to prod the south, threatening war, causing nothing but discontent. You spend all of our money on weapons and bombs, while the people starve. You constantly threaten the Americans with disaster, yet never do a thing to assert yourself. And why? Because you can never allow our soldiers to invade the south. Once there, they would see how well fed the people are. How good they live. They’ll realize immediately the lies you have told them. You forget, Father. I have seen the world. I know the truth. So what are you, but a paper tiger.”

  “I am the leader of this nation.”

  “Which means nothing outside this nation. I was educated far from here, at your insistence. I know what the world thinks of us. We are laughed at—thought of as idiots. We are regarded like naughty children who require discipline. You say I have brought disgrace to you. What disgrace have you brought to us all?”

  “I see that my decision is the right one. Your brothers would never speak to me like this. One of them will be worthy.”

  He felt empowered, not afraid to say, “They will be you. Another paper tiger, threatening everyone, doing nothing, being laughed at. That is your legacy, Father. It will not be mine.”

  “You are a dreamer. You have been all your life. You stay lost in your self-centered world. Your mother was the same. Neither of you will ever accomplish a thing.”

  “My mother taught me to actually do something. That is why she lives in Russia. She could no longer take your insults and indiscretions. Her marriage meant something to her. So she acted. Now one of your bastards will rule? Fitting. Some say you were a bastard child, too.”

  Anger flooded his father’s face. “You and I will never speak again. Do not come in my sight.”

  “That will be my pleasure. But I want you to remember something.”

  He stared hard into his father’s eyes.

  “I am no paper tiger.”

  He reread the scene and liked the approach, though it was not entirely accurate as to the real confrontation with his father after the Tokyo Disney incident. He’d actually been beaten, his father watching as underlings pummeled him. And as he lay on the floor with broken ribs and blood gushing from his nose, his father had coldly told him that he would be disinherited.