by Steve Berry
He’d said nothing then.
No challenge at all.
This version of history was much better, and since his father was long dead no one of importance existed to contradict him. One day, when the people read of his exploits—and they would—history would note that greatness had been his destiny from the start.
The door opened and Hana entered.
He’d instructed her on how to lure Malone into Larks’ room, then hide beneath the bed and wait for him to draw close. The American would do as he predicted, of that he was certain. Understanding human nature was another of his passions.
“He’s down,” she said. “But first he searched for the satchel.”
Searching told him something. He had no idea who the American was working for or why he was interested in Larks. But on the off chance that he might be here for the U.S. government, he’d opted not to kill him. That would only bring more attention, which was the last thing he wanted. The better way was to slow Malone down, complicate his life, and being found with a dead man would accomplish both.
“His clothes were damp and smelled,” she said.
“Any idea why?”
She shook her head.
“Mr. Malone will be unconscious a few hours,” he said. “Time for us to get some rest and prepare ourselves.” He motioned to the laptop. “First, though, I have something for you to read. Some details between myself and your grandfather. It’s important you know exactly what happened between us. I think you will find it enlightening.”
TWELVE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
Plaintiff-Appellee
v.
ANAN WAYNE HOWELL,
Defendant-Appellant.
No. 12-2367
United States Court of Appeals
Eleventh Circuit.
Anan Wayne Howell has not filed a tax return in nearly two decades. An indictment charged him with four counts of willfully failing to file tax returns in violation of 26 U.S.C. §7203. Howell was present at the start of the trial, but voluntarily absented himself from the rest of the proceedings, eventually fleeing the trial court’s jurisdiction. A jury in the United States District Court, Middle District of Alabama, convicted him, in absentia, and he was sentenced to three years in prison and a fine of $12,000.
Howell is a tax protester. His main argument (presented through his court-appointed counsel) is that he did not need to file tax returns because the 16th Amendment is not part of the Constitution. Howell insists that the amendment was not properly ratified and that his prosecution under the Internal Revenue Code of 1954, 26 U.S.C. Sec. 1 et seq., was void ab initio. Howell only provided the trial court the briefest of explanations, which did not explain why the 16th Amendment is void beyond stating a wild conclusion that the required number of state legislatures never ratified the amendment and that the Secretary of State in 1913, Philander C. Knox, falsified the certification record.
Howell sets forth the following contentions: (1) The text Congress transmitted to the states for ratification provided that, “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several States, and without regard to any census or enumeration”; (2) On February 25, 1913, Secretary Knox certified the 16th Amendment was duly ratified, at least 36 states having tendered ratifying resolutions to the State Department; (3) Knox knew that a number of states had not properly adopted the amendment as submitted; (4) Knox knew he was under a duty to instruct those states that they must ratify a conforming version of the amendment; and (5) no conforming ratification ever occurred. Howell asserts that the ratification of the 16th Amendment did not comply with Article V of the Constitution and that therefore the 16th Amendment is non-existent.
At the outset, we note that the 16th Amendment has been in existence for 100 years and has been applied by the Supreme Court in countless cases. While this alone is not sufficient to bar judicial inquiry, it is persuasive on the question of validity. Thus, for Howell to prevail, we would require, at this late hour, an exceptionally strong showing of unconstitutional ratification. Howell (through his appointed counsel) has made no such showing, only boldly concluding that the amendment was improperly ratified. No evidence has been presented to prove this assertion, nor has Howell cited any factual or legal authority binding on this court (or for that matter on Secretary of State Knox in 1913) for his contention that the 16th Amendment was improperly ratified. In short, Howell has not carried the burden of showing that this 100-year-old amendment was unconstitutionally ratified.
For all of the foregoing reasons, the conviction of Anan Wayne Howell on all counts is AFFIRMED.
KIM STOPPED READING FROM THE LAPTOP’S SCREEN.
After Hana had gone off to bed, he’d again found the opinion dealing with Howell online and studied its wording. While on the run as a fugitive, Howell had published The Patriot Threat as an electronic book. No way had ever existed to physically locate Howell. Larks had been his best bet, and the old man had promised that an introduction would happen.
But that had not occurred.
We don’t need foreigners involved.
He hadn’t expected a rebuke. But Americans could be like that. They exuded an arrogance, a superiority that proclaimed they, above all others, knew what was best. Yet Korean society had existed for many millennia before anyone had ever heard of the United States. Koreans were descended from Siberians who migrated south tens of thousands of years ago. Their culture was ancient and sophisticated, though the political and physical division of the country since 1945 had definitely created differences between north and south. He recognized those, even appreciated them. His father, grandfather, and half brother ignored them. Typical North Koreans knew little to nothing about the outside world. How could they? All communications were controlled both in and out. He’d been fortunate, never having lived long inside that bubble. Unfortunately, twenty million North Koreans could not say the same. His father was so proud of his ability to lead. But who couldn’t when you exercised total control over what people saw, read, thought, and believed.
And the penalty for nonconformity?
Death. Or even worse. The labor camps.
Once there, prisoners stayed for life, as did their children and their children. They were taught that they were enemies of the state who had to be eradicated, like weeds, down to the roots. They were worked to death and killed at will, regarded as not even human. That was the legacy of how his family had ruled, and his half brother carried on the same oppressive polices. Two hundred thousand people remained prisoners inside the camps.
He would rule with the people’s true consent, after earning their respect.
Dreamer? Hardly.
But he had to show everyone that he was capable of great things. Where his relatives only boasted of glory, he must achieve it.
He stared again at the screen and United States v. Howell.
An exceptionally strong showing of unconstitutional ratification. That’s what the American judicial system wanted? A new resolve infused him.
Okay.
He’d provide it.
THIRTEEN
Hana tried to sleep, but being alone in a soft bed, underneath clean sheets, remained a strange feeling.
For the first nine years of her life she’d slept on nasty concrete beneath a stinking blanket. When she was a small child her mother had left her alone every day, just after the sun rose. Electricity only ran for two hours, once from 4:00 to 5:00 A.M., then again at 10:00 to 11:00 P.M. The first hour was to allow the preparation of breakfast, which had not been much. Mainly bits of corn, some cabbage, and soup. The second hour was to allow an end to the day with a few chores, a few bites to eat, then sleep. Food evolved into a constant want. There was never enough. Anything could be a meal. Rats, frogs, snakes, insects. Starvation was a means the guards used to maintain control. Nearly every prisoner was stunted by malnutrition—a loss of teeth, black gums, weak bones, and hunched spines inevi
table.
She was born an irredeemable slave inside Labor Camp 14, her blood tainted by the crimes of her mother. Its fenced boundaries stretched fifty kilometers north to south, half that east to west, the electrified barbed wire dotted with guard towers and patrolled around the clock. No one went anywhere near the fences. The punishment was instant death, either from the electricity or from bullets. She learned later that there were many camps scattered in the North Korean mountains. Hers, in South Pyongan province, confined over 15,000 people. More than ten times that many filled the rest.
Camp rules were taught from birth. Never escape. No more than two prisoners may meet together. Do not steal. Guards should be obeyed. Anything suspicious must be reported. Prisoners shall work every day. The sexes remain apart. All errors are to be repented. And violators of any rule will be instantly shot.
For nearly half of her life she wore stinking rags, stiff as a board from dirt and grime. No soap, socks, gloves, or undergarments were ever available. She and her mother worked fifteen hours a day at forced labor, and would until the day they died. Malnutrition was the main cause of death, but execution ran a close second. The law had been proclaimed in the 1950s by the first Kim. Enemies of class, whoever they are, their seed must be eliminated through three generations. The world outside the fences knew nothing of what went on inside. No one cared. Prisoners were forgotten.
But what had her mother done?
Finally, at age eight, she’d asked.
“My sin was falling in love.”
A strange reply, one her mother never elaborated upon.
Together they occupied one room with only a table and two chairs, sharing a kitchen with dozens of others. There was no running water, no bath, and only a communal privy. The windows were gray vinyl that allowed in little light and plenty of weather. Insects swarmed in the summer and the air continually stank of excrement and rot. An allocation of coal, mined by prisoners, provided some winter heat since it was deemed counterproductive to kill too many prisoners at once.
“I’m here,” she said to her mother, “because you fell in love?”
There had to be more.
But her mother still offered nothing.
The guards taught them that the sins of their parents could only be erased with hard work, obedience, and informing on others. Redemption came from snitching. Tell on rule breakers and you received a few grains of rice. Report a violation and you’d be allowed time to soak in the river.
She came to resent her mother.
Then to hate her. With an all-consuming rage.
She flushed those troubling thoughts from her brain.
Sleep seemed to be finally arriving. The hour was late and she needed rest. Tomorrow could prove decisive. She’d long hoped that her father was different from the other Kims. He liked to say that was the case. The first two had ruled with great cruelty. He should have been next, but he squandered his opportunity. He’d been right in what he said beside Larks’ bed. She had witnessed the strong dominate the weak. Every day, until age nine, she worked clearing snow, chopping trees, or shoveling coal. She’d particularly hated cleaning privies—chipping out frozen feces and carrying the clumps with her bare hands to the fields. Early in life she learned to stand straight and bow to the guards, never looking them in the eye. She spent her days finding fault in herself. How many times had she watched newborns clubbed to death with iron rods? The spectacle had been periodically arranged to discourage prisoners from multiplying. After all, the whole idea was to cleanse three generations of incorrect thinkers, not allow another to be born.
In the camp there’d been two classes. Those born there, Insiders, and those sentenced there, Outsiders. The main difference was that Outsiders knew what lay beyond the fences and Insiders had no idea. That knowledge made Outsiders weak. Their will to live disappeared quickly. To Insiders, not knowing about the world actually became an advantage. For them, licking spilled soup from the floor seemed okay. Begging was simply a way of life, betraying a friend just part of surviving. Their own guilt, shame, and failure was what dominated their thinking. Unfortunately for Outsiders, they remained paralyzed with shock, revulsion, and despair.
And while her life had unfolded behind those fences, hidden from the world, she now knew that Kims had lived as princes, wanting for nothing. Her father proclaimed himself on a mission of redemption. But she wondered what would happen when he achieved that goal. What would he do when power was finally in his hands?
She’d read what her father had written about the day his father disowned him. Whether any of it was true, she did not know. Deceit seemed a Kim family trait. In the camp she’d been taught little about the country’s leaders. Only after her release had she learned more, most of it troubling. In the camp the guards had been her sole authority. They taught her what and how to think, when and what to say. So silence became her friend.
Along with truth.
And where before, as a prisoner, she was nothing, now the choices in life were hers.
Which brought her comfort.
And sleep.
FOURTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
10:58 P.M.
Stephanie was familiar with this United States courthouse. It sat in Judiciary Square, facing south toward Constitution Avenue and the Mall. Nothing about its exterior was noteworthy, the style bland and institutionalized, common to the 1950s when it was built.
She and Harriett Engle had flown from Georgia on the same Department of Justice jet that had brought the attorney general south. It had been waiting for them at an airfield north of Atlanta, not far from Stephanie’s house. Originally, the plan had been to flush out Treasury, then deal with things tomorrow after Cotton reported back about both the money transfer and Larks. But all of that changed with the call to the secretary of Treasury. Things became further complicated after Luke Daniels’ report, which came during the flight. The twenty million dollars was destroyed and all participants to the transaction were dead.
The mention of Kim Yong Jin’s name had also added a new dimension.
Kim had been groomed from birth to assume hereditary control of North Korea. He married young and fathered several children. Gambling was most likely an addiction, as was alcohol. After an incident in Japan with forged passports, his father had publicly proclaimed that his eldest son possessed less-than-reliable judgment. That insult had not only branded Kim a failure, but by implication meant that his two half brothers were the dependable ones. Eventually the military had thrown its support to one of Kim’s siblings and the succession was assured. Kim left North Korea and now lived in Macao, a regular at the casinos, the rest of his time spent in and around China. Reports noted him as gifted in the arts and uninterested in politics. He had a passion for film and wrote scripts and short stories, a familiar figure at Japanese movie houses. He was regarded as knowledgeable of the world, appreciative of technology, maybe even open-minded, but no danger. Little to nothing had been heard from him in a long time.
But something had changed.
Enough that Kim Yong Jin had appeared on Treasury’s radar screen.
They entered the courthouse and passed through security, the guard directing them to one of the upper floors. She knew what awaited there. The Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court, tasked with overseeing all surveillance warrant requests against suspected spies working inside the United States. Most of those applications came from the NSA or the FBI, but Stephanie had appeared before the court on several occasions for the Magellan Billet.
“Treasury seems to have been busy,” Harriett said as they stepped into the elevator.
“Did you know they were appearing before the court?”
The Justice Department normally prepared all warrant applications and its lawyers argued them. But sometimes the agencies employed their own counsel.
“This is all news to me,” Harriett said.
The court had been created thirty-five years ago, its eleven judges appointed by the chief justice of
the United States. One judge was always on call, the proceedings conducted in secret, at all hours of the day and night, behind closed doors. Records were kept, but stayed classified. A few years ago an order from this court was leaked to the press by a man named Edward Snowden. In it a subsidiary of Verizon had been compelled to provide a daily feed to the NSA of all telephone records, including domestic calls. The backlash from that revelation had been loud, so much that cries for reform had gained momentum. Eventually, though, the rancor died and the court returned to business. She knew this to be a place friendly to intelligence agencies and the statistics were overwhelming. Since 1978, 34,000 requests for surveillance had been submitted. Only eleven had ever been denied, less than 500 of those modified. No surprise, really, considering the bias of the judges, the level of secrecy, and the lack of any adversarial relationships. This was a place where government got what it wanted, when it wanted it.
The secretary of Treasury was waiting for them when they stepped from the elevator. The white marble corridor was dimly lit, no one else in sight.
Joseph Levy had the good fortune both to have been born in Tennessee and to have become friends with then-governor Danny Daniels. He earned a PhD in economics from the University of Tennessee and a juris doctorate from Georgetown. He taught for a decade at the graduate level and was in line to become head of the World Bank, but he chose instead to serve in Daniels’ cabinet. He was the only one of the original group from the first term still around. Most of the others had moved on to the private sector, cashing in on their good fortune.
“Are you making your own warrant applications now?” Harriett asked.
