The Patriot Threat (Cotton Malone series)

by Steve Berry

  “I thought you were dead,” her mother said. “I was told nothing. So I assumed you were gone.” The words were delivered with the flat lack of emotion she so vividly recalled.

  “My father came for me.”

  A look of surprise appeared on the tired face, which was exactly what she’d come to see.

  “And he did not save me?”

  “Why would he?”

  And she meant it.

  She still wanted an answer to the question she’d asked so many times. Why was I a prisoner? Her father had told her about the love affair and how his father had disapproved, her mother sent to the camp, no one at the time knowing she was pregnant.

  “Because he loved me,” her mother said with a sadness in her voice. “I was a great beauty, full of life and excitement.” Then a coldness returned to her eyes. “I never told you why we were here, because I never wanted you to know of him.”

  A curious answer, which compelled her to ask, “Why would you do that?”

  “He sent me here.”

  “That’s a lie.” The swiftness of her rebuttal surprised her.

  “What did he tell you? That his father sent me here?” Her mother laughed. “You’re so foolish. You were always foolish. He sent me here. He wanted me gone. He enjoyed what he wanted from me then, when he tired of me, I was sent here to disappear.”

  She’d never believed much of what this woman said. The camp forced prisoners to remain enemies, constantly distrusting one another. But the angry look in the sad eyes that stared back—which for the first time she could recall seemed to convey true pain—said her mother was telling the truth.

  “He is a ruthless man. Never forget that. Don’t be fooled. He is as what came before him. You stand here in your fine clothes, your belly full, smug in your freedom. But you are not free. He is Kim. They have no loyalty beyond themselves.”

  Her mother spit in her face.

  “And you are Kim.”

  Those were the last words they ever spoke. Since no semblance of anything resembling love had ever passed between them, she hadn’t given the woman another thought. She learned a year later that her mother was dead, caught trying to escape. How many times had she witnessed such teachable moments, as the guards described executions.

  She could easily imagine her mother’s fate.

  A wooden pole would be pounded into the hard earth. Prisoners would assemble, the only time more than two were allowed to gather. One of the guards would shout at how the ungrateful bitch had been offered redemption through hard work, yet rejected the generosity shown. To prevent any rebuttal, her mother’s mouth would have been stuffed full of pebbles, her head sheathed with a hood. Then she would be tied to the pole, shot, her body heaved into a cart for disposal in one of the mass graves, the occupants’ identities as meaningless in death as in life.

  But she’d never forgotten what her mother told her that final day.

  He sent me here.

  She watched her father as he read more of the documents from the black satchel. Who were those men at the hotel? Why had they come? They had to be from Pyongyang. Who else would care? The Americans? Possibly. She was sure no one had followed them from the hotel and they’d made it onto the train with no incidents. But something told her they were not alone. There was danger here.

  “I’m going to check the train,” she said.

  Her father glanced up from his reading. “I think that is an excellent idea.”

  Before she could rise the door to the compartment slid open and she saw a man. Mid-thirties, sparse hair, slight build. She knew the face.

  Anan Wayne Howell.

  “Where is Jelena?” Howell asked.

  “Nearby,” her father said. “Once we have our chat, you may have her.”

  But she knew that was a lie. Howell would most likely end up dead, too. How many more would die? Fifty? A hundred? Ten thousand? Millions? The fact that she could not say with any certainty was proof enough that her father was indeed Kim.

  “Sit down,” he said to Howell. “My daughter was just leaving.”

  She rose and stepped out into the narrow corridor. Howell allowed her to pass, then entered the compartment.

  She slid the door closed.

  It seemed that with every word she became more distant. Her father lied with such ease. Nothing about his tone or countenance changed, whether his words be truth or fiction.

  So nothing he said could be believed.

  Even more proof that he was Kim.

  ISABELLA HAD FOLLOWED HOWELL THROUGH THE TRAIN. HE WAS searching. She watched through the window in the far exit door, which offered a view into the next car, as Howell apparently found what he sought, disappearing into one of the first-class compartments.

  A young woman appeared in the hallway.

  Hana Sung.

  That meant Kim was there.

  She quickly claimed a seat across from a woman with two small children, who tossed her a faint smile. She returned the gesture and heard the door at the far end of the car open, then close. She was sitting facing away in a four-seat configuration. She waited until Hana Sung passed, heading for the exit that led toward the cars at the rear of the train. Sung should have no idea of her identity. On the cruise they’d both kept their distance from Larks and a variety of wigs had changed Isabella’s appearance by the day.

  So far, so good.

  Howell was in place and Kim’s eyes and ears were on the move, temporarily blind and deaf.

  Advantage to the good guys.

  FIFTY-THREE

  KIM FACED THE AMERICAN.

  “I’m not telling you a thing until I see Jelena,” Howell said, the voice sharp and raw.

  “I’m not sure how you believe yourself to be in a position to demand anything. We will talk. Then, once I have what I need, you will have your lady.”

  He could see that Howell wasn’t happy, but that the younger man realized he had no choice. “What do you want to know?”

  He motioned with the original crumpled page. “What are these numbers?”

  “They’re a substitution code Andrew Mellon created.”

  “Have you solved it?”

  Howell shook his head. “I didn’t, but Cotton Malone did. He told me so on the ferry.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Because he wanted to know if he was right?”

  “Was he?”

  “Dead on. His solution makes perfect sense.” Howell paused. “I want to know what you’re going to do with all of this.”

  “I plan to end the income tax.”

  “Which will end America.”

  He shrugged. “The seeds for that destruction were laid in 1913 when the amendment was falsely certified as legal. You were convicted because of that wrongful act. I only want to right that wrong.”

  “It will still destroy the country.”

  He was perplexed by the comment. “Which you didn’t seem to mind when you published your book and told the world about your theory. Now it’s somehow my fault that you proved to be right? You are the one who started all this.”

  “I was fighting for survival.”

  “As am I.”

  “What will you do? Funnel whatever there is to some anti-tax organization and to the cable news networks? That should generate enough buzz that it can’t be swept under the rug.”

  He grinned. “Fortunately, America is full of people who want to adopt a cause. I shall simply hand them one. I’m sure there will be plenty of members of your Congress who will want to champion the issue. The lawsuits will be numerous and endless.”

  “Income tax is over ninety percent of federal revenues. If it’s voided, then the United States goes bankrupt. You do realize the effect that will have across the globe.”

  “Catastrophic, I assume. But living in a closed society, such as North Korea, will then become an advantage. We are not dependent on the world for much of anything. And we’re certainly not dependent on the United States. So its fall will ha
ve little consequence for us. Isolation will become our greatest asset.”

  “What about China?”

  He shrugged. “It will hurt, but they’ll adapt. One thing is certain. They will have a newfound respect for North Korea, and its new leader. They will not ignore or ridicule me. If you like, I can extend citizenship and you can live there, too.”

  “Like you’re going to allow me to hang around and claim some of the credit.”

  “That’s where you are wrong. I would not mind that at all. You conceived the idea, but I perfected it. And should you not resent your government? It lied to you and to millions of its citizens, demanding tax money that was legally not its to take. You were even sentenced to prison. America loves to proclaim itself a land of laws. It denounces governments across the world who ignore the rule of law. We shall see how accepting America is when those laws are turned against itself.”

  He was enjoying this moment of triumph. The last decade had been one failure after another. Only in the past few months had things begun to turn around. Now he seemed on the threshold of greatness. But he forced his mind from the grand scheme and onto a more immediate problem.

  He motioned with the crumpled sheet.

  “What does this mean?”

  HANA MADE HER WAY THROUGH EACH OF THE PASSENGER CARS, moving from first class back to standard, surveying the passengers. There weren’t all that many, the train perhaps a quarter full. The gun she’d removed from the man at the hotel rested against her spine, beneath her jacket. No security checks had been required to board the train, for which she’d been grateful. Two years ago her father had insisted she take shooting lessons. The world was a tough place, he’d said, and she should be able to protect herself. She hadn’t argued since feelings of security were always welcomed. The entire purpose of the camps had been to strip prisoners of all self-respect and keep them in a constant state of panic. It was a form of control she’d come to both recognize and deplore. She was a person. An individual. Her name was not bitch. She was as unique as each grain of sand on the beach.

  And her mother’s sins were not hers.

  So far her recon had raised no alerts.

  The train slowed.

  They were coming to the first station.

  She made her way to one of the exits between the cars. A few of the other passengers rose and headed that way, too. Apparently, this was the end of the ride for them.

  The train stopped inside a lit building.

  People moved on and off.

  She stepped down to the platform and studied both directions, checking to see who was coming on. Two cars away she spotted a man about to board. Young, dark hair, Korean face. He carried nothing, his hands jutted inside coat pockets. He tossed her a stare that contained a look of triumph, seemingly unconcerned about being inconspicuous. He wanted her to know he was there, daring her to do something about it.

  A bell rang signaling the stop was over.

  She stepped back onto the train.

  ISABELLA HAD BEEN ABLE TO EASE BACK A FEW CARS, KEEPING PACE with Sung. When her target stepped down to the station’s platform, she’d watched out the window and spotted an Asian man hopping onto the train. A glance ahead and the same man now headed straight into her car and assumed a seat, his hands remaining inside his coat pockets.

  This was trouble.

  Hana Sung had thought so, too.

  She’d caught the instant of apprehension on the young girl’s face.

  The bell rang, signaling they were leaving. She rose and headed back toward the rear cars where Luke Daniels was waiting. She found him engrossed in a conversation with an older man. When he saw her, he excused himself and came a few seats up to where she’d sat.

  “A new friend?” she asked in whisper.

  “I thought it would help blend me in. Getting down with the locals.”

  “Howell is with Kim. Sung is on the move. And we’ve got company.”

  She described the potential threat waiting three cars ahead.

  “He’s the bird dog,” Luke said. “Here to get the scent and flush the fox forward. The hunters are waitin’ ahead.”

  “There’s one more stop before Solaris,” she said.

  “And our job is to get there in one piece. But there’s no tellin’ what the other side has in mind.”

  She had to admit, this was way more exciting than a tax cheat. But she also realized she was a little scared. Contrary to what she’d boasted, this was her first street fight without gloves.

  “All kiddin’ aside,” he said, his voice low, “keep sharp. Don’t get yourself hurt. Okay?”

  “I will, if you will.”

  He smiled and pointed a finger at her. “There’s that charm again. I could grow to like that.”

  Back in Zadar she’d chastised his recklessness but, truth be told, she was now comforted knowing that Luke Daniels knew how to handle himself. What was about to happen was anybody’s guess. The not knowing was the worst part. But she was confident that they could handle things.

  The train started to move, leaving the station, gathering speed.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We give Howell the time he needs.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  MALONE KEPT WORKING ON THE CIPHER.

  He’d switched on one of the car’s interior lights and used its amber glow to illuminate the pages before him. The envoy from the embassy had informed him a few minutes ago that they were approaching Solaris. That meant the train was not far behind. He wished he could have been aboard himself, but realized that was impossible. Luke could handle it. So could Isabella. It was Howell that worried him. He’d warned the younger man about keeping his emotions in check, but understood the pain of losing someone you cared about. Though Cassiopeia had not died in a literal sense, she was still gone. And the anxiety that came from such a loss definitely clouded judgment. He was a pro, yet it still affected him. He could only imagine what it was doing to Howell. But he’d had no choice in the matter. Kim only wanted Howell. Hopefully Luke and Isabella would catch a break and have things under control before any outsiders managed to get involved.

  He’d been slowly matching the 42 numbers from Mellon’s cipher with the corresponding words in the Virginia Declaration of Rights. Thankfully, he’d guessed right and found the key. After matching the last number in the cipher he read the finished message.

  Edward Savage Eleanor Custis

  Martha Washington 16

  He didn’t have time to ascertain its meaning, which should be easy to determine given the Internet and search engines. He wanted to know what was happening on that train. But he had to stick to the plan, so he asked the envoy, “Exactly how far away are we?”

  “Less than ten minutes. The train should arrive at 9:50.”

  Which gave him a solid fifteen minutes of lead time. “Head straight for the station. It shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “I checked before we left and know precisely where it is located.”

  He folded the page with Andrew Mellon’s decoded message and handed it to the envoy. “After you drop me off, find a landline and have the embassy transmit what I decoded to the Magellan Billet, through a secure channel. No cell phones on this one.”

  The envoy nodded his understanding.

  “I don’t want to spook anybody who might be waiting, so drop me a mile or so from the station and I’ll walk in.”

  He checked his iPhone and saw that there was service.

  Perfect.

  Stick to the plan.

  He dialed the number.

  STEPHANIE WAS OUTSIDE, ON THE MALL, IN THE SUNSHINE, HAVING fled the confines of the National Gallery. She’d taken half an hour and eaten something in the museum’s café, located belowground in a connector that bisected the street above. Chick-fil-A Man had disappeared and no one had followed her to the café or out. She was stalling for time, waiting for a reply to the message she’d sent Cotton through the State Department. Last she heard he was on his way to the Cro
atian interior, a town called Solaris. Everything depended on things playing out exactly as they’d anticipated. Thank God it was Cotton on the other end. He was the one person she could always depend on. He’d never let her down. The White House had called twice and she’d dodged both attempts. She realized that could only be done for so long, as the president of the United States was tough to ignore.

  Her phone rang.

  She was walking among the grass and bare trees just before the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History. The Capitol anchored the far end of the Mall behind her, the Washington Monument rising ahead. People milled back and forth in the afternoon sun, the air typically crisp for November in DC.

  “I solved it,” Cotton said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Just about to enter Solaris and meet the train.”

  “Tell me the message Mellon left for Roosevelt.”

  “It’s a strange one. I’ll text it to you now.”

  She waited a moment until her phone signaled receipt, then she read. “That is strange.”

  “You can figure it out on your end. It shouldn’t be hard.”

  “The secretary of Treasury is having me followed. Stupid me actually thought we were on the same side.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  Bells in the distance chimed for 3:30 P.M.

  She said, “I’m going to find what Mellon left and destroy it.”

  HANA STAYED ONE CAR AHEAD OF THE KOREAN WHO’D ENTERED at the first stop, keeping a careful watch from afar. The train was slowing for its second stop, then it would be less than half an hour to Solaris. She assumed her father and Howell were still inside the first-class compartment. The man she was watching had yet to survey any of the other cars.

  What should she do?

  They were trapped, and he knew it.

  For years she’d been thinking about her life, and over the past few days its future course had become clear. The Americans. The men at the hotel. The one here on the train. She resented all of their interference. What would happen here would be her choice and hers alone. So she decided to take the offensive. One man would be easy to contain.