by Steve Berry
He’d brought along his laptop in the travel bag, which was now connected to the hotel’s wireless network. A quick check of the day’s news revealed a disturbing story from North Korea. Six high-level government administrators had been arrested, tried, and convicted of “attempting to overthrow the state by all sorts of intrigues and despicable methods with a wild ambition to grab the supreme power of our party and state.” The conspirators had been labeled “traitors to the nation for all ages.”
All six had been immediately executed.
He studied the list of names and noted four were sources he’d regularly used within the government. One had been his informant about the money transfer in Venice.
That was no coincidence.
His half brother was on to him.
He’d expected repercussions from the $20 million, but not quite so fast. How had Pyongyang traced the debacle in Venice? He’d heard nothing more from the men hired to steal the $20 million, but their fate was immaterial. Unless they’d been taken prisoner and interrogated, little existed connecting him to them. No one had followed him onto the ferry. How could they? Everything happened so spontaneously. Telling the world about those six executions was a way for his half brother to send a message. Decades of inertia had long anchored North Korea in cement. What had his father said? We must envelop our environment in a dense fog to prevent our enemies from learning anything about us. So when that fog was intentionally lifted, that meant something.
The laptop dinged, signaling an incoming email.
He glanced at the listing and noticed the sender. PATRIOT. That was the tag Anan Wayne Howell had always utilized. He had many emails stored away that bore the label.
He slid the machine closer and opened the message.
You left me on the ferry. I’m assuming that was you in one of those lifeboats and some American agent named Malone in the other. He confronted me after you left, then took off when the fire alarm sounded. Which was fine by me. He came to bring me back to the United States. I’m assuming you started the fire. Jelena was nowhere on the ferry, so I’m also assuming she’s with you. I can tell you now, there’s no way you’re going to make any progress with those documents without me. There are things you don’t know. I want Jelena back, unharmed. I also want my freedom. You have what I need to prove my innocence. Let’s deal. Interested?
Yes, he was.
Thankfully, Howell seemed in the dark about what had happened on the water. But that was understandable given the storm and the fog. Visibility had been next to nothing. Malone was who-knew-where, and Howell had apparently fled, now contacting the only person who might be able to help. Unfortunately, Howell was right. There were things Kim did not know, and he did not have the time to discover them on his own. Those six executions alone were reason enough to speed up the process. Discovering the legal and historical particulars of this puzzle were one thing. What he did with that information, once known, was an entirely different matter. That would involve careful maneuvering among lawyers and publicists, the press and the courts. Bringing the United States to its knees would not be easy, but it also no longer seemed impossible.
His fingers worked the keyboard, formulating his reply.
* * *
Malone was betting that Kim Yong Jin would react as a gambler. From the little he’d read, and from what he’d observed, Kim surely fancied himself as someone smarter than everyone else. And that kind of arrogance usually led to mistakes. So he’d drafted an email for Howell to send, taking advantage of what he perceived to be Kim’s main weakness.
Ambition.
He now understood the stakes.
Kim wanted to destroy the United States, and if some of that misery spilled over to China then so much the better. To his credit Kim had stumbled onto something that might just work. He’d meant what he’d said earlier. They had to contain Kim here, and hope no one on the other side of the Atlantic was waiting for instructions. Stephanie had told him earlier that the NSA, thanks to a court order, was listening specifically to Kim’s cell phone. As usual, though, all international calls in and out of the United States were also being monitored. Millions of them, the NSA recognition software on the lookout for words like income taxes, 16th Amendment, Andrew Mellon, Roosevelt, among others.
“Do you think he saw the email?” Isabella asked.
“And if he did,” Luke said, “will he take the bait?”
He was certain. “It’s his only play. There are things he just doesn’t know.”
They were still inside the American Corner, that entire section of the library temporarily closed off. His clothes were damp and crusty from the seawater.
The desktop rang.
All of their gazes locked on Kim’s reply.
I am prepared to deal.
* * *
Kim was taking a big chance, but he thought it a calculated one. Howell, as an American fugitive, after three years of running, would have no love for any agent like Malone. He wouldn’t necessarily care much for Kim, either, but in Howell’s mind Kim had Jelena, and that he did care about. All he had to do was play out the bluff.
A new message appeared from Howell.
We need to meet and I want Jelena there, to make sure she’s okay. Once that happens, I’ll tell you things that will open your eyes. I don’t know what you have in mind, nor do I care. But if you expose all of this as the fraud that it is, that only helps me. I don’t want to go to jail. I’ve spent years studying this, and I didn’t write everything I know in the book. In fact, you have the most important piece to the puzzle. That original sheet of numbers. But for that to do you any good, we have to chat.
* * *
Isabella had to admit, what Malone was doing seemed clever. He was working a con, using the con man’s own fears and expectations against him. Not unlike when she worked a tax cheat, making him or her think she was there to help, easing her way closer and closer to the truth. She’d investigated so many, her conviction rate an impressive 93%. It helped that she was selective, walking away from the questionable ones, zeroing in on the real criminals. Unfortunately, no such luxury existed here. You played the hand dealt. Luke Daniels had been right. Malone was tough, and smart.
But so was she.
Another reply came from Kim.
How do you suggest we accomplish all this?
“The fish is on the hook,” Luke said, with a smile.
Malone nodded at Howell.
“Reel him in.”
FORTY-SIX
WASHINGTON, DC
11:00 A.M.
Stephanie made two more overseas calls on a landline to Cotton, then left the Treasury building through its main entrance. She and Joe Levy had agreed to keep what they knew to themselves, at least for a little while longer. Levy was right. Official deniability could become important, so for now the less the White House knew, the better. Everything screamed caution. Tread lightly, walk slowly. A lot was happening. She knew some, but had to know more.
From her reading of The Patriot Threat she recalled numerous references to the National Gallery of Art. Howell had noted that Mellon died in 1937, just as construction on the gallery began. The museum did not officially open until 1941. According to Howell, even from the grave Mellon had directed a great many things about the project. The museum’s first director, David Finley, remained loyal to his old boss and did exactly as Mellon requested. Cotton had suggested some further exploration. Mellon had created the code with a purpose, so the more they knew about the man the better.
A call to the National Gallery’s central office had directed her to one of the assistant curators, a young woman who was a supposed expert on Mellon. A few years ago the first definitive biography of the man had finally been published, and this curator had worked for the author as a research assistant. So while Cotton and Luke maneuvered things in Croatia, she decided to troll a little bait of her own.
She’d driven past the National Gallery a thousand times, but had only ventured inside once or tw
ice. Art was not something that had ever really interested her. The massive gallery occupied a northeast corner on the Mall, facing Constitution Avenue, in the shadow of the Capitol. Its exterior was a monument to classicism with lofty portals at each end, Ionic porticoes in the center, and a dome jutting skyward. Harmony and proportion dominated, all formed out of warm, rosy-tinted marble.
Inside she was directed to the second floor where she found Carol Williams, a pleasant-looking woman with short black hair.
“This is my first experience with an intelligence agency,” Carol said. “Curators rarely deal with things like that, but I’m told you want to know about Mr. Mellon?”
She nodded. “A little insight could prove helpful.”
“Could I ask why?”
“You could, but I can’t answer. I hope you understand.”
“Spy business?”
She grinned. “Something like that.”
Carol motioned at their surroundings. “You’ve definitely come to the right place to learn about Mr. Mellon. Here, in the rotunda, is a perfect example of his influence. He wanted a dome on the building as a focal point for the outside, to offset the mass of the long wings. He caught a lot of grief for that decision. People thought only the Capitol should be domed. Here, inside, you can see he was right. This space offers the perfect meeting point for the great halls. A true centerpiece.”
Overhead rose a coffered dome with scalloped niches and a glass oculus at its center, strikingly similar to the Pantheon in Rome. A circular procession of thick, green marble columns held the roof aloft, matted from behind by cream-colored limestone walls. A tingling fountain sat in the center.
“The bronze figure in the fountain is Mercury, cast sometime in the late 18th or early 19th century. Mr. Mellon acquired it as part of his collection.”
“Why do you call him Mr., as if he’s still here?”
“He is still here.”
A strange reply.
“This building is totally reflective of him. This was his monument to the country, and since he was paying the bills his wishes were generally honored.”
She listened as Carol explained how Mellon chose the architect and approved every aspect of the design. He selected Tennessee marble for the outside and most of the interior décor. He wanted the exhibit rooms harmonious, but not elaborate, intended to convey both period and place. So plaster was used for early Italian, Flemish, and German works. Damask for later Italian. Oak paneling displayed Rubens, van Dyck, Rembrandt, and other Dutch masters. Painted paneling accommodated the French, English, and American canvases. No other adornments were allowed in the galleries, save for a few sofas. Never, Mellon insisted, should the building dominate its contents.
“He had a good eye,” Carol said, “and a good sense of things. It would have been easy for him, with all his money, to build a palace. But he intentionally refused to do that. Instead he built a place where works of art could be appreciated.”
“You admire him?”
“For his art? Definitely. His taste? Oh, yes. But there were other aspects of him that were less than admirable. He was, after all, a clear product of his time. First, from the Gilded Age where fortunes were built upon greed and ruthless ambition. Then from the prosperous 1920s where those fortunes either expanded or collapsed. Mr. Mellon’s multiplied a hundredfold.”
Her hostess motioned and they left the rotunda, entering one of the long sculpture halls that spread east and west. Overhead, a barrel-vaulted ceiling with skylights allowed in the late-morning sun. Statuary lined the center between pediment doorways that led to more exhibition rooms. Visitors paraded back and forth, admiring the sculptures. She noticed that the hall was another simple, elegant space that did not overpower.
“Did history interest him?” she asked.
Carol nodded. “His father, Thomas, once said that in the short voyage of a lifetime, we can see the eddies and ripples on the surface, but not the under-currents changing the main channel of the stream. Only history can determine the causes that bring that about. The son believed that, too. History was important to him. His book on taxation is still regarded as authoritative. Many of the things he wrote about then continue to apply today.”
She recalled Danny reading portions to her in the car.
“He was not a proponent of big government,” Carol said. “To him, less was more. He never felt government should be taking care of people. He believed people should take care of themselves. And that wasn’t a cruel attitude. He just cherished personal independence. The New Deal, to him, infringed on that freedom, with government mandating everything for you. Social Security, unemployment insurance, a minimum wage. Those he opposed. He was definitely a product of his circumstances. Prior to 1932, ideas of wealth redistribution and social welfare were not popular.”
They stopped near the gallery’s end, before another of the rectangular doorways.
“Did Mr. Mellon appreciate any historical figures? Like George Mason?”
Carol’s face lit up. “How did you know? He admired Mason a great deal. It took courage to not sign the Constitution, but Mason stood his ground. That was the type of independence Mr. Mellon respected. He was a contributor to the renovation of Gunston Hall, Mason’s ancestral home in Virginia. It was restored in the 1930s and is now a lovely museum.”
Which might explain why Mellon chose to utilize that name in the start of his quest. The fact that, upon the Great Seal, a six-pointed star and five letters combined to form the word Mason was surely just a coincidence. Albeit a fortuitous one for Mellon, which he used to aggravate the 32nd president of the United States. And no matter how much FDR protested, he’d clearly been intrigued. Enough to assign a Secret Service agent and the secretary of Treasury to investigate. Unfortunately, Roosevelt did not live long enough to see any of that through.
They left the hall and entered a spacious garden court.
“This is more of Mr. Mellon’s influence,” Carol said. “He wanted people to feel refreshed and uplifted, not worn out or tired. So he had these green spots added where visitors could rest among plants and flowing water.”
More sunlight poured in from skylights in another barrel-vaulted ceiling and added to the obvious feeling of being outdoors. Stalks of varied greenery stretched up twenty feet. Roses, begonias, and chrysanthemums added a blaze of color. Everything was meticulously tended. They sat on one of the stone benches abutting the walls and she listened as the curator told her more about Andrew Mellon.
“His father, Thomas, required that all of his sons memorize every word of ‘Epistle to a Young Friend.’ It’s by Robert Burns. Have you ever read the poem?”
She shook her head.
“Burns wrote it in 1786 to someone who was about to head out into the world. It’s a poem of advice that deals with practical wisdom and self-sufficiency. One verse was Mr. Mellon’s favorite. To catch dame fortune’s golden smile, assiduous wait upon her. And gather gear by every wile that’s justified by honor. Not for to hide it in a hedge, nor for a train attendant. But for the glorious privilege of being independent.”
She smiled at the verse’s cleverness.
“As a boy of ten, Mr. Mellon would recite the poem then, together, he and his father would repeat out loud that seventh verse. Burns wrote the poem to a young man named Andrew. Of course, that was Mr. Mellon’s first name, too, a coincidence he loved.”
What she’d heard on the tape with FDR flashed through her mind. Roosevelt told Mark Tipton that Mellon had quoted from Lord Byron. A strange coincidence, to use a phrase, by which such things are settled nowadays.
Strange, indeed.
“That verse from Burns defined Mr. Mellon,” Carol said. “He literally lived his life by it.”
“What Roosevelt did,” she said, “going after him, at the end of his life for tax evasion. That had to be devastating.”
Carol nodded. “For someone of his stature, being portrayed as a cheat and a crook was awful. He attended court proceedings every day, whic
h dragged on for months. He personally fought every charge and won. Unfortunately, he died before the decision was announced.”
“Any idea why Roosevelt targeted him?”
“Politics. There’s no other way to view it. Who was going to stand up and defend one of the richest men in the country against the president of the United States? Particularly when half the population was out of work. Roosevelt saw in Mr. Mellon an easy target, a way to bolster his own political image. A free shot, with little to no repercussion.”
Except that Roosevelt lost and Mellon went on the offensive. But this woman would know none of that. She thought about quizzing her on some of the particulars Mellon had discussed with Roosevelt, but knew better. The connection with George Mason had been worth the trip over. But she did recall something else from the tape recording in the Oval Office, when Roosevelt and Mark Tipton were speaking. He said he’d be waiting for me. Can you imagine the arrogance? He told the president of the United States that he’d be waiting.
That was New Year’s Eve 1936.
“What did Mellon do in the final months of his life?” she asked.
A group of schoolchildren entered the court, for the most part quiet, but still excited. Two adults kept them in check as they made their way toward the fountain and the sunken garden at the center.
“By 1937 he was, essentially, retired. He’d turned over control of his businesses to others, withdrawn from public life, and the tax trial was finally over. He did a lot of art collecting during that time, most of which is on display here. But he also knew he was dying. So his main focus was on the plans for the National Gallery.”
“I’m curious, why didn’t he name this after himself?”
