The Patriot Threat

by Steve Berry

  He kept the gun aimed.

  * * *

  Hana realized that she’d made a horrible error. The woman she’d despised her entire life was blameless. Truly, her only sin had been falling in love. Her punishment? A lifetime of banishment to a place of unimaginable horror, where problems were sent to be forgotten—without consequences.

  Her mother had no choice.

  But her father had possessed many.

  This nothing of a man was the cause of all her agony. For an instant she was sad that her mother was gone. A feeling of longing, similar to what she’d felt for Sun Hi, filled her heart. Fourteen years she’d pondered this. But only in the past few minutes had she truly understood the depth of her pain.

  And she knew what had to be done.

  One hand held her gun. The other she slipped into her pocket and found the original sheet. She’d removed it from the stack while still on the train with Howell, crumpling it into a ball. Howell had liked that, saying nothing, only smiling at her desecration.

  He killed your lady, she’d said to Howell. Not me.

  And the American had nodded his understanding.

  She displayed the ball of paper to her father.

  “Are you insane,” he said. “Those fibers are eighty years old. We may never be able to open it back up.”

  The wad rested on her open palm.

  She turned and, with a flick of the wrist, propelled the ball through the air and onto the burning candles. Her father gasped and rushed to try and stop the inevitable, but the fragile paper quickly disintegrated.

  “You bitch,” he screamed.

  She heard the word that every female prisoner had been called since birth. She’d come to associate that slur with defeat, but for the first time in her life she actually felt empowered. She’d conceived, planned, and executed her every move, down to the final part, the one that would deny her father all that he sought. She stared with defiance into his angry eyes, knowing exactly what he would do.

  And he did not disappoint her.

  He aimed his gun and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Malone had not expected Kim to shoot his daughter, but the man had done so with no hesitation. Hana Sung destroying the code was perfect. Kim was now dead in the water, unlikely to have any copies or facsimiles. Everything had happened on the train, and Kim had not even known its significance until Howell told him. Kim was surely counting on leaving here with everything in his possession, figuring it out later.

  But now that plan would never happen.

  * * *

  Hana felt the bullet slam into her stomach, then pass right through her. The pain was at first unnoticeable, then excruciating, radiating upward and exploding in her brain.

  “I gave you life,” her father said. “Gave you freedom. I could have left you there to rot, but I didn’t. And you repay me with this?”

  She needed him to finish. It was time for her to die. She should have died long ago with Sun Hi. Instead she survived and spat upon her friend. The shame from that had never left her. For a long time she’d debated what to do. Kill her father? No. Then she would be no better. Instead he must be offered the opportunity to kill her, and his choice would be telling.

  Blood gushed from the wound, and she fought to stand.

  She would die on her feet with no expressions of pain—strong, determined, and silent—like Sun Hi. Maybe they’d see each other once her spirit traveled to wherever spirits went. She hoped there was a place. What a shame if there be nothing but blackness.

  One final insult swelled inside her.

  More of her redemption.

  She spat at her father.

  But he stood too far away for anything to touch him.

  He shot her again.

  * * *

  Malone rose up and aimed his gun downward just as Kim fired for the second time. Sung dropped to the stone, blood oozing from her in ever-widening rivulets. He assumed she was dead.

  “Drop the gun,” he said.

  Kim did not move, keeping his back to him, but the North Korean said, “American. You must be Malone. I saw you in the train station.”

  “I told you to drop the gun.”

  “Or you’ll shoot me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “She was a lovely girl,” Kim said. “So much like her mother. A shame she was also a fool.”

  “You kill your children easily.”

  “The choice was hers, not mine.”

  He kept the gun aimed, amused at how Kim thought a little small talk would buy him time to assesses his options.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t any.

  “I tried to love her,” Kim said. “But I assume you saw what she did. Burning that sheet, which you surely know about.”

  “It’s done,” he made clear. “This is over. The only question is, will you walk away in one piece.”

  “Of course I will,” Kim said. “Why would I not? You stand above me, in the balcony. I can tell from your voice. And I am down here. I doubt you will shoot me for no reason.”

  “Turn around. Nice and slow.”

  He’d purposefully not repeated his command to drop the gun. Kim slowly turned, the pistol still firmly gripped at waist level. He saw the sound suppressor at the end of the barrel and now knew why the shots had been so muffled.

  “I’m going to leave,” Kim said. “Here are the remaining papers.” He tossed them to the floor. “As you say, this matter is over.”

  “Except for the five murders you’ve committed.”

  “And what would you do? Try me in a court? I doubt it. The last thing America wants is to provide me with an open forum. I may not have the answers, but I can ask enough questions to cause the United States a lot of embarrassment.”

  That he could.

  Which actually begged the question that the arrogant fool apparently wanted answered.

  Would Malone shoot him?

  He lowered the gun and decided to give the bastard a fighting chance.

  “I see,” Kim said. “This is to be my trial.”

  The challenge had been issued. Leaving here meant going through him. Kim’s daughter had pegged him right. This man’s family had ruled millions of people for a long time. And they’d accomplished that feat through lies, force, violence, torture, and death. Never had a single person voluntarily voted for them. Their power was hereditary, dependent on corruption and brutality. Placed under a microscope, or exposed to the light of day, or even debated in the simplest terms, their evil quickly came into focus. They would never amount to anything where people possessed a free and informed choice.

  “Just you and me,” he said.

  Kim stood rigid, the gun at his waist.

  He knew Stephanie Nelle wanted this problem eliminated. She hadn’t said as much, and never would she. Officially, the United States did not resort to assassination. But it happened. All the time.

  “Is this a duel? A shootout? Like in the westerns?” Kim chuckled. “Americans are so dramatic. If you want me dead, just shoot me.”

  He said nothing.

  “No, I don’t imagine you would do such a thing,” Kim said. “You don’t seem like a man who kills for no reason. So I’m going to toss my gun down and leave. That’s much better than me being given a public trial. We both know that. Then this matter can truly end.”

  Kim’s thin lips twisted into an acrid smile.

  Ordinarily, he’d agree, but there was the matter of Larks, Jelena, and Hana Sung. The waist-high wall before him shielded his gun from Kim’s view. His right thumb slowly cocked the hammer back and clicked it into place. Kim’s arm with the gun straightened and he began to aim the weapon toward the floor, as if about to discard it. Malone kept his gun at his side, wondering if Kim might actually call his bluff and walk away. But men like Kim Yong Jin always thought themselves smarter than others, and this version did not disappoint him.

  Kim swung his arm around and up.

  Malone raised the gun and
fired, all without the benefit of a solid aim, but he did not miss. The bullet tore through Kim’s chest and hurled him backward. One hand shot up for support but found none. The weapon pinwheeled out of Kim’s hand.

  He knew what had to be done.

  He fired two more shots.

  * * *

  Isabella heard retorts.

  Definitely gunfire. Both she and Luke turned toward the source.

  The cathedral.

  They rushed to its main doors and found the latch open. They each assumed a position on either side of the stone jamb. Luke pushed the wooden slab inward. Its hinges whined some resistance. She stole a glance inside, the gun gripped with both hands. Past a small vestibule and into the nave, she saw a body lying in the center aisle. Luke spotted it, too.

  “Malone,” she called out.

  “I’m here. It’s all clear.”

  They both relaxed their weapons and entered the church.

  Kim Yong Jin lay still on the floor. To her right she saw the daughter, the body in a posture only achievable in death. Malone stood above them in a balcony that encircled the church.

  She caught the warm sickly stench of blood.

  “He killed her. I killed him. What about Howell?”

  Luke shook his head.

  “That’s too bad.”

  She saw the stack of documents lying beside Kim and retrieved them.

  “The original of the code is gone, burned over there at the candles. Nobody will ever see that again.”

  “Then that ends this,” Luke declared.

  “Not quite yet,” Malone said.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

  6:00 P.M.

  Stephanie sat in the helicopter as she and Joe Levy flew across Pittsburgh. Below, rush hour clogged the highways. Since they had no time to sit in traffic, a chopper had been waiting at the airport. The trip north on a Department of Justice jet had taken less than two hours and they should be on the ground shortly.

  She knew Mellon had first been buried in Homewood Cemetery. Part memorial, part park, founded in the late 19th century, it sat at Pittsburgh’s affluent east end and served as the final resting place for the city’s elite. She’d never known there was a difference between a cemetery and a graveyard, but Joe Levy had enlightened her.

  “Graveyards are just that,” he said. “Land set aside for burials. Usually churches or a government maintain them. Cemeteries are much more. Rules and regulations control the plots. There are dos and don’ts. They’re more elaborate and provide for perpetual care. Like institutions, in and of themselves.”

  “Is this an interest of yours?”

  He smiled. “I like history. So I read a lot.”

  She’d heard Cotton say the same thing many times, and flying over Homewood she began to understand what Levy was saying. In the fading light she saw acres of rolling landscapes, open meadows, winding roads, a pond, and lots of tall trees. Monuments were everywhere, some just markers, others more like temples, a few larger than houses. One in particular caught her eye, shaped as a pyramid.

  “It’s really impressive,” Levy said as they gazed out the cabin windows.

  Evening was rapidly fading, the sun setting to the west. The pilot swung the chopper around and landed in a paved parking lot devoid of cars, except for one. A man waited for them beyond the rotor wash and they quickly exited the helicopter. He introduced himself as the superintendent and explained that a call from the White House had alerted him to their visit.

  “I understand you want to see the Mellon tomb.”

  And they climbed into the lone vehicle.

  Darkness enveloped during the drive through the quiet grounds. No lights illuminated anything. But why would they be needed?

  “The Mellon plot is located in Section 14, among an array of our more elaborate mausoleums,” the superintendent told them. “It was built for James Mellon, when he died in 1934. Andrew, James’ brother, was laid to rest there, too, in 1937, but he was moved decades later to Virginia.”

  This man had no idea why they were there and she offered nothing.

  “James Mellon was president of our board of directors until his death. He exerted a profound influence on the cemetery’s development.”

  A touch of pride laced the statement.

  They wound through the shedding trees. A carpet of leaves shone in the headlights, lining the road on both sides. Finally they stopped, and the superintendent indicated that they should all exit.

  “I have flashlights in the trunk. I thought you might need them.”

  He retrieved three and handed two over. Stephanie switched hers on and played the beam off toward the mausoleum where she saw white marble walls, a pedimented front, and columns that cast the look of a Greek temple. Iron doors blocked the way inside beneath the word MELLON carved in stone. A bronze statue sat between the road and three short steps that led to the entrance. A haggard-looking man, cradling a little girl on his lap. She stepped closer and saw the word MOTHERLESS carved into its base.

  “That was in James Mellon’s garden,” their host said. “There are a lot of tales about it. Some say it represented the premature death of a Mellon woman, and the father took up the charge of raising the child. But the simple truth is James had it made in Scotland as a lawn ornament. The artist named it Motherless. After James died it was moved here as adornment. No mystery at all.”

  But it was striking.

  “I was told,” the superintendent said, “that you wanted to be brought here. Unfortunately, I can’t open the doors. That would violate our rules. Only the family can allow that.”

  She needed this man to leave. “Could you excuse us. Come back in half an hour or so.”

  She saw the perplexed look on his face, but he left with no argument. She assumed the White House had also requested privacy.

  They stood silent until the car’s taillights faded down the road.

  “That key,” Levy said. “You think it opens the lock?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  They walked across the soft grass and stepped up to the iron doors. A notched hole was visible in the right bronze panel. She removed the key from her pocket, the one Mellon had left inside the painting, and slipped it in.

  Which fit perfectly.

  She worked the stem right, then left, and freed the lock, releasing the latch with a distinctive click.

  “Looks like we don’t need the family’s permission,” she said.

  They opened the doors and shined their lights inside. More white marble could be seen, the walls lined with markers where Mellon relations lay. She studied the dates and saw that there hadn’t been a burial here since 1970. One section was blank, its marble front gone, the stone niche beyond it empty.

  “That must have been for Andrew,” Levy said. “Before he was moved.”

  She agreed.

  “What now?” Levy asked.

  She surveyed the interior, trying to make sense of what Mellon had left. And then she saw it. Marble outlined with a thin border of gold. She stepped across. The panel measured about eighteen inches square. Atop its face was carved a Roman numeral.

  XVI.

  “Not exactly X marks the spot,” she said. “But close enough.”

  The Roman numerals had been etched into a separate piece of thin marble, maybe four inches square. So far Mellon had kept things simple and direct. No reason to doubt he’d stopped now.

  She tested the Maglite in her right hand. Sturdy. More than capable. So she reversed the flashlight in her grip, then slammed its weighted butt into the numerals.

  The stone easily shattered.

  Just as she suspected.

  She cleared away the remaining bits and pieces and saw a gold lock.

  “You know it fits,” Levy said.

  She inserted the key and turned, revealing that the panel was actually a door.

  Their combined lights exposed a compartment about two feet deep. A stack of brown and brittle parchmen
ts lay inside, a few rolled and bound by leather straps. Other sheets were lighter in color. Vellum, she assumed, stacked loosely about six inches high thanks to bulky waves and curves. She aimed the light while Levy carefully removed them.

  “They’re promissory notes,” he said.

  She watched as he studied a couple.

  “Incredible. These are from the Second Continental Congress. This one acknowledges a loan made to the colonies by Haym Salomon. It specifies the amount, an interest rate, and due date. 1790.” He stared up at her. “It’s like Mellon said in the note from the painting. Here’s proof of the debt.”

  “Are they all similar?”

  He carefully examined the fragile documents. “Some are from the Continental Congress, others from the Congress of the Confederation, which was what the Continental Congress became in 1781, when the Articles of Confederation were approved. But, yes, these are the promissory notes for debts owed to Haym Salomon.”

  “Which today would be in the hundreds of billions of dollars.”

  “That’s certainly one way to calculate it.”

  She noticed the signature on some of them. Distinctive and iconic. John Hancock. Then she recalled. He’d served as president of the Continental Congress.

  Another envelope and some paper remained inside the compartment. She carefully removed both. The envelope was identical in size and condition to the one from the museum, its flap open, only a single folded sheet inside. Beneath the envelope were two sheets of browned paper, the type upon them still readable.

  And significant.

  Department of State

  _______

  Office of the Solicitor

  _____________

  Memorandum

  February 13, 1913

  Ratification of the 16th Amendment to the

  Constitution of the United States

  The Secretary of State has referred to the Solicitor’s Office for determination the question whether the notices of ratifications by the several states of the proposed 16th Amendment to the Constitution are in proper form, and if they are found to be in proper form, it is requested that this office prepare the necessary announcement to be made by the Secretary of State under Section 205 of the Revised Statutes. The 61st Congress of the United States, at the first session thereof, passed the resolution which was deposited in the Department of State July 31, 1909. It called for an amendment to the Constitution of the United States, which, when ratified by the legislatures of three-fourths of the several States, shall be valid to all intents and purposes: