by Steve Berry
“Are you two always together?” he asked. “It sure seems that way every time we’re on the phone.”
Daniels chuckled. “We need you to get those documents back. They’re actually more important than Howell. So if you have to choose—”
“Let’s hope I don’t have to.”
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on site,” the president said.
“Your nephew might take issue with that.”
“Experience over youth. That’s all.”
“Were the Chinese behind that money theft?” he whispered.
“No, that was Kim,” Daniels said. “He didn’t want his half brother getting the money this year. But that cash is no loss to us.”
His hunch had been right. All of it was related. “Do you want me to use the direct approach or a little finesse to get those documents back?”
“Your call,” Stephanie said. “But get them, and bring Howell home with you, if you can. You might tell him that the Chinese have far less regard for his physical safety than we do. He’s in their crosshairs. He’ll be a lot safer in a federal penitentiary.”
“Let’s sweeten the deal,” Daniels said. “Tell Howell he’ll get a presidential pardon if he plays ball with us.”
“That’s quite a prize,” he said.
“Cattle go to the slaughterhouse a lot faster when there’s food in the chute.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He ended the call and went back to eating his breakfast. The ferry provided free WiFi, so he connected and used his smartphone’s browser to gather more about Kim Yong Jin, keeping one eye on Howell and the woman.
The name was familiar, but he could recall few details. He read that Kim was now fifty-eight. From an old article he learned that when Kim had been caught trying to gain illegal entry into Japan he’d chosen an odd identity, passing himself off as a Dominican friar named Pang Xiong. Fat Bear. Which seemed to fit Kim physically. Every online image showed that weight had always been a problem. There were two other brothers. The current Dear Leader, who was the youngest. And a middle brother, never in serious contention for anything as their father had considered him too feminine to lead. Kim remained a North Korean citizen, though he lived in Macao. His only public comment about the current North Korean leadership came ten years ago and was not flattering. “The power elite that have ruled the country will continue to be in control. I have my doubts about whether a person with only a few years of grooming as a leader can govern.”
Another more recent article described how North Korea had long been actively engaged in both ballistic missile and nuclear warhead production. The country remained under international sanctions, pressure to end its nuclear development coming from all sides, including now from its chief ally, China.
He then found a fascinating New York Times piece from last summer describing a stage show that had been broadcast live throughout North Korea. A costumed Tigger, Minnie Mouse, Mickey, and other Disney characters had paraded before Dear Leader and a slew of clapping, uniformed generals. Mickey Mouse himself had conducted women in slinky black dresses playing violins. Scenes from Disney movies were shown on screens behind the performers. Disney songs were played and sung. A spokesman for Disney was quoted as saying that none of that proprietary use had been sanctioned or licensed by the company. The band on stage was said to have been organized by Dear Leader himself, who was noted as possessing a grandiose plan to bring a dramatic turn in the field of literature and arts.
He smiled. What irony.
One brother was chastised and stripped of power for his interest in Western entertainment. And the other used the same thing to seemingly bolster his popularity. He could see how Kim Yong Jin might resent his half brother. But none of that explained exactly what was happening here. Lots of tendrils and bits and pieces existed, but nothing as yet had come into focus.
He finished his food and downed the rest of his juice. Howell and the woman remained at their table. He was about to head that way and get this over with when a man entered the dining room. He had a round brow on a round, fleshy head, atop a heavy, doughy body. The face was wide and seedy, his hair cut short, the neck thick and chinless. Replace the designer shirt, slacks, and jacket—which surely hung better on their hangers—with a drab green uniform buttoned to the neck and he made for the perfect North Korean stereotype.
Kin Yong Jin.
TWENTY-EIGHT
VENICE
Isabella had changed clothes and dried her hair. Her luggage rested in the water taxi, beside the helmsman, along with two travel bags Luke Daniels had tossed on board. They were headed to the airport. Just before leaving the cruise ship terminal, Daniels had taken a short telephone call. He then informed her that not only Howell but also Kim and the woman with the documents were now on a ferry to Zadar, Croatia, scheduled to arrive there in three hours.
Exactly what she wanted to hear.
That cold trail just turned hot.
She was back positive, reassured, in command. So she’d arranged for a quick flight across the Adriatic on a charter plane, which would place them on the ground just before the ferry arrived. The only thing Daniels had not mentioned was how he’d come to know all that he did.
So she asked.
“Malone’s on the ferry,” he told her. “We tagged Howell after he clipped you into the water and followed him.”
They were alone inside an enclosed cabin that usually accommodated about ten passengers. The water taxi rode low to the water and the roar from its engines shielded their conversation.
“Maybe it’s a good thing Malone doesn’t follow orders,” she said.
Otherwise she’d be back to square one, three months’ worth of work truly wasted.
“This Haym Salomon,” Daniels said. “Was he really that important?”
Telling him more on that subject wouldn’t hurt a thing. “I’d say so. The Continental Congress was broke. It had no gold or silver, and in those days currency had to be backed up with real collateral. Each colony printed its own money, but hyperinflation had taken hold. Prices skyrocketed, shopkeepers quit taking Continental dollars. We desperately needed a loan from the French, but it never came. What did come was French money that flooded the American market. Scrip sent to pay soldiers who were here fighting with us.”
She explained how Salomon realized the usefulness of that French scrip and started buying those bills of exchange, the goal being to establish a standard value. But there was risk. If the American Revolution failed, the bills would be worthless and Salomon would lose everything. There’d be no way to recoup his investment.
“But he believed in the cause,” she said. “And what he did funded the Continental army. He invested his entire fortune in buying those French bills of exchange. Then he made loans to Congress, mainly from his own reserves. He expected those loans would be repaid once the fighting ended, but he died in 1785 before any of that could happen.”
“And his widow was cheated out of repayment?”
“Cheated is a strong word. She provided documentation for the debts and asked for repayment, but those papers disappeared. Without them, she had no evidence of the debts. That documentation has been missing since 1785.”
The boat continued to plow along, rounding Venice’s northwest corner and heading for the international airport.
“During the Revolutionary War Salomon and George Washington became close. Washington was grateful for all that Salomon was doing. When the war ended, he asked Salomon what he might like in return. The man was modest and said he wanted nothing for himself, but he would like something for American Jews. So years later, as president, after Salomon had died, Washington made sure there was a tribute added to the nation’s Great Seal. You have a dollar bill?”
He found one in his wallet and handed it over.
She flipped it over and pointed at the right side to the familiar eagle clasping thirteen arrows. “Look there, above the bird. Thirteen stars. Notice anything about
them?”
She traced the outline of two triangles with her finger.
A six-pointed star.
“The Star of David,” she said. “Washington’s gift to Haym Salomon.”
He was amazed. “I’ve never noticed that before.”
“Few have. But once you see it, it’s hard to miss. Kind of like that arrow in the FedEx logo.”
She could see that he was fascinated. She had been, too, when first told. “I assume history was not one of your interests in school?”
“Hell, school was not an interest in school. Not my thing.”
“Paul Larks was investigating some sensitive matters for the Treasury secretary that dealt with Haym Salomon and the heirs’ claims for repayment. The president himself ordered that inquiry. Larks found some information but, unfortunately, the important stuff was purged by Andrew Mellon in 1925, when Congress was once again looking into authorizing repayment. A previous investigation, ordered in 1937 by FDR, confirmed that Mellon had probably taken the Salomon repayment documents.”
“Which proves the U.S. government now owes his heirs $330 billion?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t get it. How could this interest a guy like Kim Yong Jin? Okay, we might owe somebody $330 billion, but that’s not an international incident.”
She needed this man to believe her.
Get those documents, Isabella.
She could not let her boss down again.
“Larks copied some confidential papers—”
“I get that. But you still have the originals. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Actually, it is. Those copies are important, particularly if you know what you’re looking at. We don’t want them floating around. And Anan Wayne Howell, for all his fanaticism, actually might know exactly what they mean.”
She wondered how long Luke Daniels had worked with the Magellan Billet. From what she knew, that agency only hired the best. Stephanie Nelle, its longtime head, bordered on legendary. She’d even once considered applying there herself. For a long time you had to be a lawyer to be a part, but in recent years that requirement had been waived. Perhaps Stephanie Nelle might take notice of her here. A move to international espionage would be good. She’d had a few tastes of that on several other assignments.
Daniels smiled at her. “You must really think me an idiot.”
She said nothing.
“I hear what you’re sayin’. But I also hear what you’re not sayin’. All this trouble for a bunch of copies? Bullshit. But I’m going to give you the benefit of allowing you to keep what you’re holdin’ back to yourself. At least for a while longer. ’Cause right now, it doesn’t really matter.”
She remained silent.
“Lockjaw?” he asked. “I get that myself sometimes. A word of advice. Don’t try this bullshit story with Pappy. He’s—”
A perplexed look came to her face, which he noticed.
“Malone. That’s Pappy. Me? I’m downright congenial compared with him. He has a zero bullshit-tolerance level. Don’t push him.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She watched as he studied the dollar bill again.
“That is pretty amazing, though, about the Star of David,” he said. “You almost had me with that one.”
“What I said about that is true. There are many amazing things about the dollar bill.” She decided to toss him one more tidbit. “In recent years the $10, $20, $50, and $100 bills have all been redesigned. Lots of bells and whistles have been added to make counterfeiting harder. Ever heard of the Omnibus Appropriations Act?”
He shook his head.
“Section 111 of that act expressly forbids Treasury or the Bureau of Engraving from using any funds appropriated by Congress for the redesign of the $1 bill.” She pointed at the money he held. “That has to stay exactly like it is.”
The look on his face asked why.
So she led him along.
“That is part of what we’re here to find out.”
TWENTY-NINE
ADRIATIC SEA
Kim was enjoying his anonymity. Neither Howell nor the woman had a clue to his identity. The crowded room was full of strangers, except for one face, on the far side, sitting at a window table by himself.
Malone.
The American had managed not only to escape the trap set for him, but had also found his way here. He assumed Howell had led him, as there’d been no sign of Malone from their tail of the woman with the satchel.
Hana stood at a counter twenty meters away sipping a bottled water.
For him, knowing the lay of the land, and the players in a room, came from living in an autocratic society where no one trusted anyone. Keeping everyone off guard was the most effective mechanism in retaining control. His family, occupying the apex of the political pyramid, had always enjoyed the luxury of only looking for trouble beneath them, never above. But that didn’t mean you ignored your family. His father had executed his own father’s brother, branding his great-uncle an enemy of the state. As a younger man, he’d never understood that. But as he’d grown older, the idea that family might pose the greatest threat had become a much clearer reality.
His half brother was living proof.
His own immediate family, though, remained benign. His children were all grown, all of them except Hana married. None to his knowledge had any interest in politics. His sons were businessmen, his daughters either mothers or teachers, living in North Korea. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since he’d left. It seemed that his fall from power had also included losing his children. Hana alone remained loyal, never judging, always there. She so reminded him of her mother. They’d not been married. Instead, she’d been one of many mistresses he once maintained. On that score he and his father and grandfather were much alike. He couldn’t help it. Women were a weakness. He’d met Hana’s mother twenty-five years ago when he was still in favor, drawn by her beauty. His wife had never minded his dalliances, content with the wealth and privilege that being married to the heir apparent had provided. But she, too, left him after the fall, remaining in North Korea when he fled to Macao. Which he hadn’t really minded. The marriage had turned depressing, draining from him much-needed talents and energy.
As he studied Howell and the woman Parks had said was named Jelena it was obvious they were connected. Their light touches and casual conversation seemed proof of a close relationship. They seemed utterly at ease with each other, content that everything had worked as planned. So what should he do next? He could proceed a number of ways.
But Jelena made the decision for him.
She stood, kissed Howell lightly on the lips, and walked away, leaving the satchel on the table. Perhaps she was visiting the restroom? Or headed somewhere else? Didn’t really matter. They were now separated and he caught Hana’s eyes with his own.
And he saw she knew exactly what to do.
* * *
Malone studied Kim Yong Jin, who was clearly interested in Howell and the woman. He had to assume Kim knew both his and Howell’s identity—as who else on board that cruise ship would have set him up for Paul Larks’ death.
So what now?
The answer came as the woman with the satchel left Howell and bounded off toward the restrooms.
Kim immediately walked to Howell’s table and sat in the empty chair.
* * *
“Mr. Howell, you and I have never met personally. But we do know each other. I am Peter From Europe.”
It took a moment, then Kim saw that Howell seemed to register the identity.
“We’ve emailed,” Howell said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Howell looked much like his photo on the website. Mid-thirties, trim build, thinning black hair. The bio from the site had also noted a degree in political science. No work experience had been referenced and Kim doubted this man had accomplished much, besides stumbling onto what may be the cleverest weapon
of mass destruction ever devised.
“How did you find me?” Howell asked, concern in his voice.
“Paul Larks facilitated that. I assume from him you know me as the Korean.”
He caught the surprise on Howell’s face as the American reached for the satchel and started to leave.
“That would not be wise.”
“Go screw yourself.”
Howell lifted the bag.
“I have Jelena.”
Howell froze.
“She is my prisoner.”
Howell’s gaze raked the room in the direction the woman had gone.
“Quite right. She just left. But my associates have her hidden away. Her life is now in your hands.”
He kept his voice low, directing both his words and gaze straight at his intended audience. The use of Jelena’s name sent a further message that he was also informed. But he hadn’t forgotten about Malone, across the room, who was certainly watching.
Howell sat.
“Much better,” he said.
He allowed Howell a moment of composure.
“I have to say, I’m disappointed in both you and Larks. I paid for you and him to come here, the idea being that I wanted to meet with you both. I thought we shared the same ideals. But then I learn that you considered me untrustworthy. A foreigner.”
“This doesn’t concern you. I’m not a traitor.”
“You’re just a man who thinks the rules do not apply to him.”
“They don’t apply to anyone.”
“Are you right, Mr. Howell? Is what you say true? That’s what I came to find out. We do share the same ideals. I want to believe what you say.”
He thought appealing to this man’s ego might work. People like Howell, who’d convinced themselves of the righteousness of their cause, were easily swayed by sympathetic ears. That same tactic worked every day across North Korea.
“Are you an American citizen?” Howell asked. “Do you really pay taxes? Are you subject to our laws?”
He shook his head. “None of the above. I lied about my predicament. But only because I truly want to understand what it is you know.”
