by Steve Berry
“So why hide it away?” Harriett asked.
“It really wasn’t hidden. The recordings were found at the FDR Library by accident in 1978. They keep them in their restricted archives, not available for public inspection. This one is fairly meaningless, unless you know what we know.”
Stephanie had listened in fascination. FDR’s tone was rich and resonant, his enunciation perfect. Little about the private voice differed from the public one. What she heard was a casual, unbuttoned exchange with a close staff member. But there was a definite conspiratorial air.
Her mind tried to assess everything.
“This started out,” Danny said, “as me tryin’ to reverse a wrong. The whole Salomon thing fascinates me. Paul Larks was assigned to do some basic research. He was career civil servant, no reason not to trust him. But he went over the edge. Claimed some elaborate cover-up and how Salomon had been cheated. Then he said the taxpayers had been cheated. He became so insubordinate, Joe finally asked him to retire. Next thing we know he’s talking with Kim Yong Jin and Pyongyang is going nuts. Then you two enter the picture going after Howell, who also has a connection to Larks. It’s a friggin’ three-ring circus.”
“Which has commanded the attention of the president of the United States.” Stephanie said.
“That it has. But we’re not entirely in the dark. Piecing together this tape with what Howell wrote, we know that Mellon left FDR a dollar bill and a crumpled piece of paper on New Year’s Eve 1936. We also know that shortly after that Treasury investigated the whole 1935 dollar-bill redesign. Prior to that time the Great Seal of the United States was not on the dollar bill. That was added in ’35 by Roosevelt himself. Apparently, though, Mellon took advantage of that presidential decision. It’s a fact that the lines drawn on the bill form the word Mason.”
There was something else. Stephanie could hear it in his voice. Her gaze caught his and, with his eyes, which she’d learned to read, he said, Not now.
Not here.
So she kept silent.
But he said, “I’m anxious to know how things play out in Venice. In the meantime, though, we’ve caught a minor break. On the recording you just heard, the man FDR was talking to, Mark Tipton, he’s long dead. But his son is alive. He’s seventy-four years old and yesterday we found him. His name is Edward, and that’s where you and I are going. To talk to him.”
Stephanie had to ask, “Where?”
“At his home.”
“Why would you agree to that?”
“Because it’s the only way we can find out what he has to say.”
TWENTY-THREE
VENICE
Malone stood beside Luke as they powered across the lagoon, following the boat Howell had taken. He’d called Luke earlier from his room and reported Larks’ death, Isabella Schaefer’s presence, and what he had in mind to possibly find the satchel.
“They planned this escape good,” Luke said. “Took Treasury out solid.”
“Did you find out anything about Schaefer?”
“You and her have somethin’ in common. You both have a bit of a reputation. Seems Isabella is a by-the-book girl. Never breaks a rule. Everything for her is right or wrong. Not much gray in her black-and-white life. One of those all-American-Mom’s-apple-pie kind of agents that really get on your nerves. We had some in the Rangers. Pain in the ass. They’ll end up gettin’ you killed.”
“And Schaefer?”
“I was told not many want to partner with her. She has a bit of a personality problem.”
“It was Howell who shoved her in the water,” he said.
“I caught a glimpse as he ran away, too. Bold little sucker. Apparently he knew all about Wonder Woman.”
“You’re quick with the nicknames, aren’t you?”
“That one’s not mine. That’s what they call her back in DC. Behind her back, of course.”
“You realize Howell knew more than we knew.”
“Yeah, I get that. But the cool thing is, he seems to not know about us.”
“Let’s keep it that way. Don’t get too close.”
They were a couple of hundred yards back among a cluster of boats rounding Venice’s southern flank heading toward the Grand Canal and Piazza di San Marco. A rocky channel separated Venice from Giudecca, a banana-shaped strip only a few hundred yards south of the main island. Traffic was heavy. Boats and slow-moving vaporetti cruised everywhere, his ears flooded by the sounds of engines and hulls slapping water. Ten days ago the cruise ship had passed this way, headed south, offering passengers breathtaking views. Then, eight days later, it had returned the same way. To his left, the bulging baroque hulk of the Santa Maria della Salute dominated the entrance to the Grand Canal. But Howell’s boat did not make the sharp turn that way. Instead its course stayed due east, paralleling Venice’s impressive array of towers and spires. He squinted in the bright glare and saw the Doge’s Palace, along with the two iconic red-and-gray granite columns. One was topped by the winged lion of St. Mark, the city’s current patron, the other by St. Theodore, its predecessor. Piazza di San Marco, just beyond, throbbed with visitors. More people milled back and forth along the waterfront in a steady parade. Another busy day at tourist central.
Howell’s boat veered left and slowed.
Luke matched the maneuver, keeping his distance.
“They’re headed into a canal,” he said.
One that opened just past the Doge’s Palace, beneath the Bridge of Sighs, forming a path north into the city bowels.
“Careful in there,” he said. “We can get spotted.”
The canal was only thirty feet wide, lined on both sides with tiers of old buildings, the stone mellowed by time. Once privileged palaces, they were now apartments, hotels, museums, and shops, some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. Venice was not thick with cranes, skyscrapers, overpasses, and tunnels. Time and history ruled here.
“I know you don’t like to talk about things,” Luke said as they slowly cruised the canal. “But I have to ask. What about Cassiopeia? Did she cool down?”
No, he didn’t like to talk about that. But Luke had been there in Utah, and knew it all, so he answered him with the truth. “She’s gone.”
“Sorry about that. I know it hurts.”
He appreciated the sentiment. About the only good thing that happened from the whole experience had been a realization that his emotions were not so dead. He’d felt attraction, intimacy, even love. And now? Regret and longing had settled over him.
“Why don’t we just take this guy?” Luke asked, pointing ahead. “And be done with it.”
“We will. But first I want to watch.”
“Is Pappy on to somethin’?”
“Larks was killed for a reason. That robbery last night happened for a reason. Something tells me they’re related.”
“And how did you make that leap in logic?”
“Years of dealing with this crap.”
“Our mission is only concerned with getting Howell.”
“Since when? You’re going to learn, Frat Boy, that in the field you can do whatever you want. Unlike Ms. Schaefer, I made a career out of breaking rules.”
Luke smiled. “I like the way you think.”
Howell’s boat veered left and disappeared around a bend. They were creeping along and Luke negotiated the same corner, now headed straight through the city, due west toward the end of the island with the cruise terminal.
Why was he not surprised.
* * *
Kim crossed the street and walked toward the ferry terminal. Boats leaving from there shuttled passengers to other parts of Italy, Croatia, and Greece. The ferries were oceangoing vessels, more like cruise ships, equipped with all the comforts including cabins.
The woman with the Tumi bag entered the ferry terminal and Hana hurried ahead. He kept walking, showing no anticipation. Just another passenger headed off for who-knew-where. A couple of times he checked behind him and saw no one coming in their direc
tion. His only real concern, Malone, had balanced himself across the tops of two boats with a travel bag on one shoulder before leaping into another boat and racing away. Good riddance. Now he could focus on the task at hand.
Their own luggage remained at the cruise terminal and would need to be retrieved. But their destination had yet to be determined. Luckily, there was nothing packed that could not be replaced. Personal effects were the least of his concerns. He was working on changing both his own life and the world. Doing the impossible, as Disney liked to say. To that end he would spend whatever time and money was needed, his father and grandfather be damned. One day there’d be more than five hundred statues erected in his honor. And he would not have to embalm his body and display it under glass like a sideshow. Centuries from now people would freely speak his name with their heads bowed. He would become North Korea’s greatest leader. His father, grandfather, and half brother would be forgotten. When he was done, retaking the south would be a simple matter. In fact, the south might actually ask for reunification, a request he would gladly grant. How satisfying it would be to eliminate the demilitarized zone and watch as the American army exited Korea forever. Which, if this played out as expected, it would have no choice but to do.
He entered the terminal and immediately spotted Hana at one of the counters. She finished her business and walked over, handing him two tickets.
He read the destination.
Zadar, Croatia.
The ferry departed at 9:30 A.M. His watch read 8:50.
“I will go back and retrieve our luggage,” he said. “You keep an eye on our prize.”
* * *
Malone grabbed his bearings.
Their path had been relatively straight through the northern part of Venice, then, after a slight bend in the waterway, he spotted the wide expanse of the Grand Canal ahead. Howell’s boat banked right. Luke followed. Their pace increased as they rounded another curve in the wide canal that snaked from south to north then back south again, the island’s train depot now on their right. A causeway jutted from one side of the building, extending to the mainland, accommodating both rail and cars. Howell’s boat motored around the terminal and exited into the lagoon. But it traveled only a hundred yards before making a sharp left, then another left. And then they were back at the cruise port, just on the far side of the main building, where a line of ferries were docked before a series of buildings.
“He made a big circle,” Luke said. “I assume to make sure no one was interested.”
“You got it.”
“Apparently, they’re not all that good at what they do. ’Cause we’re here.”
Luke did not follow into the lagoon. No need. They could see everything as Howell leaped from the boat onto a small dock.
“Let me out here,” Malone said.
They were a hundred yards from the ferry terminal. He’d have to hurry so as not to lose him. And which boat?
“Keep my bag,” he said.
“You want your gun?”
He shook his head. “If I have to get on one of those ferries, there’ll be security. Better to go without it. I’ll call you with what’s happening. In the meantime, see about Treasury Agent Schaefer and what she’s doing next.”
Luke tossed him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
He leaped onto shore just below a roadway and ran up. It took him five minutes to make his way to the ferry terminal. He slowed his pace, steadied his breathing, and entered. Plenty of people loitered around. His gaze scoured every face in a rapid search. Four ferries were docked outside. Each boat sizable. Then he spotted Howell, standing in line to buy a ticket, ten people ahead of him. An illuminated sign above the booth indicated the ferry for Zadar in Croatia. He stepped over and assumed a place six spots behind Howell. Close enough, but not too close. When Howell approached to buy his ticket, Malone edged forward and listened carefully, hearing only, “Zadar.” No connecting ferry. He checked a lighted board and saw the boat left in twenty minutes.
He returned to his place in line.
When his turn came he bought a similar ticket.
Twelve years with the Magellan Billet and he’d never been to Croatia.
First time for everything.
* * *
Kim rolled his suitcase behind him. Hana was doing the same. Together they headed for the gangway to board the Zadar ferry. The Croatian port lay five hundred kilometers east across the Adriatic Sea. He estimated the journey would take about five hours, placing them on the ground around 2 P.M. Hana had thought ahead and reserved a cabin for privacy. But no danger existed of Howell either recognizing or connecting him to anything, since he’d never shown his face or used his real name with either Larks or Howell.
They walked toward the gangway.
The woman with the black satchel had already boarded. They were about to do the same when two men caught his eye. One was Anan Wayne Howell, the face recognizable from Howell’s website. The other was the American. Malone. Both men were heading onto the vessel.
He and Hana lingered back and sought cover behind a wide support column.
“That raises a multitude of questions,” he muttered.
He saw Hana agreed.
Things had just changed.
The documents and Howell were now again in play.
“Come, my dear. It seems Fate has smiled upon us.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WASHINGTON, DC
Stephanie drove, with Danny occupying the rear seat. He’d actually wanted to drive himself, but she’d refused. A car with two Secret Service agents tailed just behind. An unusual trip, to say the least, but the commander in chief had left no room for doubt. He was going to see Edward Tipton, and without the normal fanfare that accompanied a presidential motorcade. She knew protocol. Standard procedure required thirteen vehicles, plus three local police cars for traffic control. Two identical presidential limousines were always included, along with armor-plated SUVs for the Secret Service, a military aide, a doctor, a small assault team, a hazardous materials response unit, the press, and communications. An ambulance assumed the rear. The whole entourage formed a long black convoy with flashing lights and plenty of attention. Not here, though. All was quiet in their two-car parade. It helped that it was the middle of the night, the streets devoid of traffic, an easy matter to flee DC into rural Virginia and a quaint neighborhood of older houses.
“The Secret Service loves to tell the story,” Daniels said, “about 1996 and Clinton in Manila. Just before his motorcade was about to leave, agents in one of the cars with some heavy-duty surveillance equipment picked up radio chatter that mentioned wedding and bridge. They thought wedding could be a code word for a terrorist hit, so they changed the route, which had included a bridge. Clinton was angry as hell at the decision, but didn’t override it. Sure enough, when agents arrived at the bridge they found explosives. Clinton dodged a big one. I was reminded of that good fortune earlier.”
“And they still let you come?”
“Ain’t it great. I told ’em I doubted anybody was going to kill a guy who’d be sent out to pasture soon anyway. I like this. Nice and private. I’m going to enjoy retired life.”
“Like hell,” she said. “You’re going to drive everyone crazy.”
“Including you?”
She smiled at the possibility, then asked, “How did you find this son?”
“I did some checking after listening to that recording. The Secret Service had a file on Mark Tipton. He was a good agent. Served with distinction. But he died twenty years ago. His son lives nearby, so we made contact and hit pay dirt.”
She knew what that meant. His chief of staff, Edwin Davis, had done all the checking. “Where is Edwin?”
“Doing me a favor. I’ve worked him pretty hard the past few days.”
“Was he the one who found the recording at Hyde Park?”
“Yep. Can’t draw that hound dog far off the scent.”
“And what favor is he doing for you in the wee hours
of the morning?”
“It’s a president thing. He’ll be along soon enough. This with Tipton I have to do alone.”
“Except you’re not alone.”
“I like to include you in the definition of me.”
Only in the privacy of a car, with just the two of them, could words like that be spoken. Never had anything improper occurred between them, but she was looking forward to exploring the possibilities that might lie ahead.
They found the house, downstairs lights burning in several rooms. The man who answered their knock was short with features that clearly belonged to age—gaunt cheeks, coarsened hair, veined hands. But his smile seemed genuine and the eyes were devoid of fatigue.
They introduced themselves.
“I thank you for meeting us at this hour,” the president said. “and on short notice.”
“How often do you have the president of the United States come to your house? It’s an honor.”
“Though you don’t sound overly impressed,” Danny said.
“I’m an old man, Mr. President, who’s seen and heard a lot. My father protected presidents nearly all his life. I don’t impress much anymore. Lucky for you, though, I’ve always been a night person. Never did sleep much. My father was the same.”
Inside, Stephanie caught a warm, homey feel from dark wooden floors, worn furniture, and frayed rugs. Lots of framed photographs adorned the tables and mantel. Not a computer or cell phone in sight, though, only a flat-screen TV. But there were lots of books on shelves and four lay stacked on a table beside Tipton’s recliner. Apparently this man was a bit old-fashioned.
They sat in a dimly lit den.
Tipton crept to his chair with a broken-kneed gait. “When your chief of staff appeared at my doorstep yesterday, I really wasn’t all that shocked. My father said it might happen one day.”
“Your father seems like a smart guy.”
