by Steve Berry
They were not all that dissimilar in size and weight. She’d grown and her mother had shrunk. No affection at all existed inside her for this person who’d given her life. In fact, she hated that such a thing had ever happened. And not because of what she might be missing outside the fence, but solely because of what was happening within. Sun Hi was gone. And she’d only now realized what that loss meant to her. A strange feeling of fear had swelled inside her since yesterday, watching Sun Hi die on the floor, and for the first time in her life she felt entirely alone.
A shovel stood propped against the block wall. Her mother carried it to and from the fields each day. She gripped its wooden handle and swung the blade in a wide arc, catching her mother square in the stomach. Intentionally, she’d made sure the rounded flat side made first contact. Her mother slumped forward, grabbing her midsection. A second crashing blow with the rounded end sent her mother to the floor.
She tossed the shovel aside and pounced, yanking back her mother’s head. “You will never beat me again.” And she meant it. “I asked why am I here? Answer me.”
Violence seemed the only thing that worked inside the camp. The guards routinely meted it out. Teacher seemed to have enjoyed killing Sun Hi. The older children abused the younger. And once, not all that long ago, she’d been forced to watch as her mother pleasured one of the guards, not an ounce of emotion seeping from either of them. After he finished, the guard had slapped and kicked until his conquest managed to crawl away.
Her mother’s gasping breathes eased. The eyes were alight, not with fear, but with something else. Something new.
“You … are a … Kim.”
“What is that?”
“It is what … you are.”
“Explain or I’ll beat you again.”
Her mother smiled.
“That … is a Kim.”
She hadn’t understood any of that at the time.
Then everything changed.
Unlike her mother she’d only spent a short time in the fields and had never been sent to the mines. Instead she’d worked in one of the factories, making glassware. Other sites produced cement, pottery, and uniforms. Her life should have been as meaningless as her mother’s. But a week after Sun Hi died, as she walked home from the factory, the guards cuffed her hands behind her back and blindfolded her. She was tossed into a jeep and driven a long way on a bumpy road. Then she was led inside a building, where the blindfold was removed. The room was windowless and empty, except for a chair where she sat. She’d heard stories of places like this and wondered if today the guards would finally have their way with her. The door opened and a short, stout man with a pudgy face wearing plain, dark, uniform-like clothing entered. His hair was cut short, like the guards, with no sideburns. But instead of the emotionless features she’d seen on those around her all her life, this man smiled.
“I am your father,” he said.
She stared at him, unsure how to reply. Was this a trick?
“Your mother and I once knew each other. We were in love. But my father sent her here. I never knew that, until recently. I never knew you existed, either.”
She was confused.
“I asked that you be brought to me,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Hana Sung.”
He smiled. “Did your mother name you?”
“Someone else chose it. But I like it.”
“Than you shall be Hana Sung.”
“You knew my mother?”
He nodded. “She and I were close. But that was many years ago.”
“I was born here.”
“I know that. But you will live here no longer.”
“Who are you?”
“Kim Yong Jin.”
And she knew then what her mother had meant.
She truly was a Kim.
That day her father saved her from the camp, but any concept of gratefulness remained foreign to her, both then and now. At that first encounter all that had raced through her mind was that maybe, just maybe, she would eat no more spoiled cabbage or rotten corn. No more grasshoppers, locusts, or dragonflies. Even worse, no more regurgitating what had been eaten, then eating it again, as a way to fool her hunger. The grapes, gooseberries, and raspberries found sometimes in the forest she would miss, but not the rats, frogs, and snakes that she’d also hunted down.
“What of my mother?” she asked him.
“I cannot help her.”
Which had actually pleased her. After the shovel attack they hadn’t spoken a word, though they continued to live together. Each went her own way and, surely, if the opportunity presented itself, one would turn on the other to the guards, so they both stayed wary.
“I am an important man,” her father said.
“Can you give orders?” she asked. “Like the guards?”
He nodded. “No one here will question a thing I say.”
“Then I want you to do something for me.”
He seemed pleased that she’d made a request.
“I want someone punished for hurting my friend.”
“What did he do?”
She told him about Sun Hi, then said, “I want him punished for that. If you are important, then you can do that.”
Two hours later she was led into another windowless room. Teacher hung upside down, his ankles in shackles, the body just high enough from the floor that his outstretched arms could not touch. His head was flushed with blood, his clothes stank of urine.
“What would you have me to do with him?” her father asked her.
“Kill him, as he did Sun Hi.”
“I thought that might be what you’d say, so I had this brought with him.”
A guard appeared with a pointer in hand.
The shower water rained down on her and she allowed the lubricated sensation of the soap to soothe her rattled nerves. Religion had been forbidden in the camp, and her father believed in nothing. Neither did she, really. Insiders only believed in themselves. She’d stood that day and watched as Teacher’s skull was pounded with the pointer, each smack sharp and clear. Unlike Sun Hi, who took her beating in silence, he screamed in pain like a puppy. Welts appeared that burst open, blood dripping from them to the floor.
He struggled at first, then eventually gave up and died.
“You are an important man,” she told her father.
“I will be the next leader of this country.”
During the past fourteen years she’d watched her father’s rise, then fall. He’d taken her from the camp, then eventually with him when he fled the country to Macao. She’d been educated first in North Korea, then in Chinese private schools, where she became familiar with world history beyond the camp fences.
Some of which had astounded her.
Long ago, nearly 2.5 out of 10 million people died in what the world called the Korean War. The north had actually invaded the south, with no clear victor from the fight. Millions of North Koreans were starving, the country so isolated and corrupt that no nation wanted anything to do with it. Her father had been born a communist prince, raised in luxury and educated abroad, all while people by the tens of thousands died every year from malnutrition. She’d come to learn that breeding and bloodlines defined everything in North Korea.
As did power.
Her father was once a four-star general in the Korean People’s Army, though he possessed no experience for the job. While inside the camp she’d been taught no notion of the country, the world, or its leaders. Only after being removed, during the short time she attended state schools, had she been told that America was evil, South Korea even worse, and North Korea was supposedly the envy of the world. Unlike every other schoolchild outside the fences, in the camp she’d never carried and praised a photo of Dear Leader, nor one of his father or the father before. Prisoners were not even important enough to brainwash. Her life had been nothing but a constant reminder of genetic sins. Then to be told that she was actually part of the national leadership, part of the fabric that
condemned so many people to exist behind the fences—that had been too much.
She’d would never forget the prisoners.
Not ever.
She’d watched her father kill a defenseless old man, then toss a drugged woman out to drown. He placed no significance on other people’s lives. Kims were just like the guards and Teacher. Her great-grandfather created the camps, her grandfather expanded them, and her half uncle kept them going. Hundreds of thousands remained prisoners, more added by the day. The Kims killed Sun Hi, as surely as if they’d personally beat her with that pointer. And she had no doubt that her father, once installed as supreme leader, would continue that legacy. He said otherwise, but she knew better.
He was a Kim.
She finished her shower and shut off the water, her body scrubbed clean and immaculate. Steam engulfed her, the wet marble walls warm to the touch. She stood naked, water dripping from her skin. One thing was certain.
She was no Kim.
Names fascinated her, perhaps because for the first nine years of her life they’d meant little to nothing. She’d taken the time to study her father’s and learned that Yong referred to bravery and Jin a jewel.
He was neither.
Her own name was different.
Hana Sung.
First victory.
Which pointed the way.
FORTY-FIVE
KIM FINISHED HIS LUNCH, DELIVERED BY ROOM SERVICE HALF AN hour ago. He’d made a good choice with the hotel, an upscale establishment that faced the bay and offered a level of personal service he’d come to expect.
After abandoning the lifeboat he and Hana had made their way into a small suburb north of Zadar where they found a taxi. The driver had suggested the hotel and delivered them to the front door. He’d kept a close hold on the black satchel and Hana had brought along the travel bag from the ferry. All in all, their escape had worked perfectly. He was now free of the American, with the documents, ready to move forward.
Hana was showering and he needed to do the same. He wore a soft robe from the bedroom closet, as their clothes were being laundered. They’d need to buy some more, which he could do later or tomorrow. Their suite was the hotel’s largest, with two bedrooms, two baths, and a spacious living room. French doors opened out to a terrace that overlooked open water. The day had turned chilly, the wind finally eased, the fog lifted to a thin gray film. Waves continued to march in the bay, the pulse of the sea strong, constant, and relentless.
The documents from the satchel were spread out on the table, a cache straight from the private records of the U.S. Treasury Department. He knew the sole original was the most important. It had been unfortunate that he hadn’t been able to speak with Howell further. He’d intended on forcing more information on threat of harm to his lover. Unfortunately, that lever was now gone, as was Howell. So he’d have to figure out the rest on his own.
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.