The Patriot Threat (Cotton Malone series)

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The Patriot Threat (Cotton Malone series) Page 31

by Steve Berry


  One down.

  He checked his watch.

  Less than five minutes until the train arrived.

  He locked and closed the car door, then headed inside.

  ISABELLA SPRANG FROM HER SEAT AND FOUND HER GUN, MOVING toward the half-glass door. She stepped aside into a row of empty seats and allowed three people from the car ahead to complete their hurried escape from the gunfire. Kim had disappeared to the right, one of the Asians toward the front.

  Two more pops.

  Louder this time.

  She instinctively ducked, then advanced to the door. A hand grabbed her from behind.

  “What are you doing?” Luke asked.

  “My job.”

  “I get it. How about we do this together.”

  She nodded.

  Luke held his gun.

  Another shot from the car ahead grabbed both of their attentions.

  HANA HEARD GUNFIRE AND KNEW THAT HER FATHER WAS KILLING more people. He’d left with the gun in the satchel for a reason. She’d counted six rounds and wondered how many of the four men were left. Howell also realized something was happening.

  “You’re not getting off this train,” he said to her.

  What did this man know that she didn’t? There was no way he was aware of the Koreans, as he’d been here, inside the compartment with her father, when all four had boarded.

  The Americans.

  They were here, too.

  KIM FIRED A SHOT IN THE DIRECTION OF THE REMAINING PROBLEM, but the man was no longer on the floor. It took a second for him to realize that his target had sought refuge in the first row of seats. Partitions protected the rows, extending from the top of the seats to the floor, which meant he could not ascertain anything from below.

  And looking up would expose him.

  The exit door ahead slid open.

  He risked a peek.

  The man was fleeing.

  He pursued.

  ISABELLA FELT THE TRAIN SLOWING.

  “We’re coming into Solaris,” Luke said.

  “We have to get to Howell.”

  She saw that he agreed. Surely by now some of the panicked passengers had alerted the crew. But the train was long with many cars, and it might take another minute or so for someone official to come investigate. Through the glass in the doors she saw Kim exit the car ahead.

  Luke motioned.

  They followed.

  Three-quarters of the way through the next car she saw the bodies of three dead Asians.

  “That makes two left, including Kim,” Luke said.

  “You’re forgetting the daughter.”

  He nodded at his error.

  “Who probably has Howell.”

  HANA HAD THOUGHT ABOUT THIS MOMENT FOR A LONG TIME, EVER since she realized that her father was evil. If her mother was right, then he was responsible for the misery she’d experienced during the first nine years of her life. No guard, no teacher, no one would have been able to hurt her if not for him sentencing her mother to exile. And though she despised her mother, for this one time she believed her. Kims created the camps and Kims kept them going. Sun Hi had been born there because of Kims. And she died there for the same reason. One afternoon a few months back her father had sat her down and told her about a book he’d read, The Patriot Threat, written by the man sitting across from her. It foretold a possible way to destroy the United States of America, and maybe even China. He’d seemed excited by the possibilities, enthused at the prospect of revenge on his half brother. He’d spent nearly every waking moment since trying to make that a reality. They’d traveled all over, him plotting and planning, she watching and waiting. He never asked and she rarely volunteered anything about herself. For men like her father—self-absorbed, egotistical, and maniacal—what others thought rarely mattered. As long as she remained willing, appeared vested, and questioned nothing he simply assumed she was his ally.

  She’d learned that trick in the camp.

  But unlike her father, the guards were rarely fooled. Of course, being able to beat, torture, and kill at will made their task much easier. Her father, at least, had a few rules to which he must adhere. Not many. But enough to tie his hands and cloud his judgment. True, he had taken her from the camp. She meant something to him. She was just not sure what.

  And that seemed the only question left to answer.

  Everything else was clear.

  Especially what to do now.

  How many people had she seen killed in the camp? She tried once to count, but had not been able. How sad that it was so many she could not even determine their number.

  So many lives lost.

  And all because of Kims.

  For a long time she was simply too young to do anything. Only in the past few years had she matured enough to watch for opportunities. Sadly, she knew she would never be happy, nor content, nor rid of the horrible memories. Any semblance of a life had been denied her. Thankfully, the instinct for survival all Insiders developed never left her. She was, in many ways, that same prisoner who’d meant nothing to no one.

  But she was also Hana Sung.

  First victory.

  Howell was fidgeting in his seat, clearly anxious.

  There may not be another opportunity.

  She raised her gun.

  SIXTY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  STEPHANIE ENTERED THE NATIONAL GALLERY WITH JOE LEVY AT her heels. They’d walked over from their bench at the far end of the Mall and gained access through the building’s impressive south entrance. Wide marble steps led up to the second floor. Chick-fil-A Man was waiting for them at the top, in the portico, among a forest of massive columns.

  “Did you record everything?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “Got it all, nice and clear.”

  “Good job.”

  And she meant it. He’d played his part to perfection. The technology the ambassador had boasted that China utilized was also available to the United States, and had been used to return the favor. Everything said a few minutes ago at that bench was now memorialized. She led the two men inside the building, just past the doors and before the security checks, into what was labeled FOUNDERS ROOM. Wood-paneled walls showcased framed oil portraits of men and women, the most prominent of which was Mellon’s, hanging high above the fireplace. She marveled at the irony that everything had ended up right back here.

  The moment the Chinese ambassador departed Ed Tipton’s house she’d gone under a microscope. Which was why, as Danny had explained during the drive back to DC she’d been included in the meeting. Plenty of NSA intercepts had already determined that the Chinese were deeply involved and that they’d been communicating with the North Koreans. Danny had told her all about those just before she’d dropped him at the White House. He’d also correctly concluded that there was no way to be rid of the Chinese, and that they were most likely double-dealing with the North Koreans, none of which would be good for the United States.

  So he told her a story.

  “Any turkey decoy can get a tom into shotgun range,” he said. “That’s about forty yards. But a lot can go wrong in forty yards. Blink an eye or move your leg a little when you fire, and your turkey gets away. Now, if you want that bird archery close, you need a decoy, and it takes a helluva good one to draw the bird in. If you don’t think your turkey decoy looks real, the bird won’t, either. I used to love huntin’ turkeys. If you’re lucky enough to be able to chase unpressured birds, then it’s easy. Just stay on the trail till you take ’em down. But pressure changes everything. Pressured turkeys don’t run toward bad calling, fidgety hunters, or decoys that don’t look real. To score those everything has to be right, especially the decoy. That’s what we have here, Stephanie. A pressured turkey, headed straight for us. What we need is a good decoy.”

  So she and Cotton had fashioned one.

  Assuming the Chinese would be listening to her mobile calls, they’d intentionally utilized open cell phones to create the perfect turkey deco
y. The call she’d made to Cotton from the eighth floor of the Mandarin Oriental had most likely been a safe one. No one was nearby to intercept. She’d used a landline in Joe Levy’s office to make the more critical calls to Cotton, where they’d worked out the details. She then arranged for a visit to the National Gallery, the idea being to use the locale as a means to funnel information to the other side. Chick-fil-A Man had been sent to confront her, their entire conversation staged, similar to what had happened in Atlanta only this time they were all on the same side. If it worked once before, she felt, why not again? They’d prolonged the confrontation as long as possible, and she had to admit that the thing with the $20 bill was fascinating. But the main idea had been to provide anyone who might be listening with Kim’s Croatian location. The NSA had zeroed in on the Hotel Korcula thanks to Kim’s use of his laptop, which they’d been monitoring for some time. If the Chinese had succeeded and killed Kim, then it would have been all over. Sure, the crumpled sheet of paper would be in Chinese hands, but since she was way ahead of them, there’d be nothing for them to find. No harm, no foul. If the attempt failed, then Kim would have simply been flushed farther into Cotton’s trap. Either way, the good guys win.

  Before grabbing a bite to eat earlier, she’d retreated to Carol Williams’ office and, on a landline, learned from an asset the embassy had dispatched to the Zadar hotel of the attack, with one man dead, shot by Kim, who was accompanied by a young woman. The unknown was how many resources the Chinese had on the ground in Croatia and whether they could rebound and mount an attack on the train. But that was a risk Cotton had known he was taking.

  Once the code had been solved, Cotton had called on her cell phone and announced that fact to the world, sending her an encrypted text with the correct solution. That she passed on to Joe Levy via another secured text while leading her nosy listeners to a desk in the Smithsonian Castle, one she’d long known existed.

  If you don’t think your turkey decoy looks real, the bird won’t, either.

  Thankfully the Smithsonian had the resources to accommodate her urgent requests. Its conservation lab was a master at restoring old books, but it also possessed the ability to reproduce antique documents. So while still at the Treasury Department she’d called Richard Stamm, and he’d readied the perfect decoy in less than two hours. An envelope stained and bleached to look eighty years old, along with a single sheet of paper with faded print from an old manual, ribbon typewriter, which the conservation lab had on hand. Cotton had suggested the wording, and she’d refined it.

  Mr. President, I hope this quest has proven as enjoyable for you as it was for me to create. I wanted to see if you would actually do as I instructed and it’s good to know that you did. Unfortunately, there is nothing to find. No danger exists to this country, except the ones you will inflict upon it. Surely, by now, I am dead. But if for some reason you have found this message before I pass, please be sure to let me know your thoughts. I will give them the same courtesy and consideration that you have always shown to mine.

  She’d seen the writing cabinet at the Smithsonian before and knew of its many secret compartments. So the envelope with the fake message was delivered to Stamm, who hid it inside. When she called Joe Levy from the Mall on her cell phone the Chinese again were listening. And like that pressured turkey, they ran straight for an irresistible decoy. All she and Levy had to do was play their parts to perfection.

  Now the Chinese had their prize, only it was no prize at all. They would conclude that the entire affair was just a way for a rich man to torment a president, part of a vendetta from long ago that had no relevance today. Cotton’s actual deciphering of the code had been delivered to Carol Williams by Chick-fil-A Man, face-to-face, just after the earlier encounter in the garden court.

  Edward Savage Eleanor Custis

  Martha Washington 16

  Hopefully, while she and Joe Levy finished their performance on the Mall, Carol had solved the riddle. Like Danny had said a few hours ago outside the White House, as he exited her car, Remember, the second mouse to the trap is the one who always gets the cheese.

  Carol Williams entered the Founders Room. Visitors wandered in and out too, the building’s coat check located just beyond. They drifted near the fireplace, among a cluster of comfortable upholstered chairs, beneath Mellon’s portrait. Chick-fil-A Man stood at the doorway to keep watch, but little danger existed anymore. The turkeys were long gone.

  “It was easy,” Carol said. “I didn’t even need the Internet. This one I know.”

  Stephanie’s phone vibrated, the caller unknown.

  She decided to answer.

  “Ms. Nelle, this call is a courtesy, ordered by my superiors,” said the male voice, which she recognized.

  The Chinese ambassador.

  “Our friends to the south were not happy with what I secured from you. It was not as … substantial as they’d hoped. Whether it be true or false matters not to us. Regardless of what you think, we are simply trying to keep two allies happy. But being in the middle of this fight has proven most unpleasant. We are done. It is over, as far as we are concerned. But I cannot say the same for our friends to the south. They are the ones currently handling the operation overseas and they have decided to eliminate all remnants of the problem. I pass the message on as a show of good faith that we are not your enemy.”

  She sucked a deep breath.

  “They have trained personnel on the ground in Croatia,” the ambassador said. “They made a move on Kim, which failed. They now have sent their assets to finish the task. They have orders to kill Kim, his daughter, Howell, and anyone else who may be on that train, which includes any American assets. As I said, they are angry.”

  This man was clearly informed.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Not at all. It is, after all, what friends do for one another.”

  She ended the call.

  It’s a two-front war, Cotton had told her.

  And he was right.

  She quickly sent one more text.

  SIXTY-ONE

  CROATIA

  MALONE HEARD THE TRAIN APPROACHING, MAYBE A MILE DOWN the tracks. He’d checked the schedule board and saw that this was the last one due here for the night. Only a handful of people were around, the station nearly empty. Inside the station was a cavernous hall with a lofty ceiling supported by iron beams. The remaining Korean stood on the loading platform, off to the side, near one of the iron supports that held up an overhang. Both of the man’s hands rested inside his coat pockets, one of them probably holding a weapon. Malone’s gun was just beneath his leather jacket. What was their plan? Were there assets on the train to secure Kim and then these two would be waiting to take him away? Or were these two the only ones involved, here to claim Kim as he disembarked? He’d done his part to make things difficult here. But what were Luke and Isabella facing?

  His phone vibrated.

  He’d been waiting for the text.

  Under control here. All done. Worked perfectly. No Chinese on your end. It’s NK. They are greenlighted to move on all of you.

  He knew what that meant. There was no way Kim Yong Jin would be allowed to just walk away. For good measure, they’d also take out anyone else who happened to be nearby.

  And he’d provided them the perfect venue.

  This Croatian isolation worked both ways.

  Which meant things were about to get messy.

  ISABELLA KEPT MOVING FORWARD, ADVANCING TO THE CONNECTING space between the cars. There were still passengers in some of the seats ahead of her, the bodies and commotion now behind them. Farther on, in the next car, began the first-class compartments.

  The train was slowing.

  Luke stood to her left, she to the right of the door into the next car, both of them with guns drawn. She ventured a quick look and saw Kim moving down the center aisle, still holding the black satchel, which surely contained a gun.

  “We need to stop him,” Luke said.

&
nbsp; She nodded her understanding.

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  KIM WAS LOOKING FOR HIS ADVERSARY, INTENT ON KILLING THE final obstacle to his success. The man had fled toward where Hana and Howell waited among the first-class compartments. One more car and he’d be there. His left arm held the satchel while his right hand was inside, wrapped around the gun. None of the passengers here seemed concerned, as they surely had no idea what had happened behind them. The clank of wheels to rails seemed more than enough noise to mask the suppressed shots. He glanced out the exterior windows and saw lights. That and the ever-slowing speed indicated they’d arrived in Solaris.

  “Kim Yong Jin.”

  He stopped and turned.

  A man and woman stood at the far end of the car, guns pointed toward him.

  HANA SENSED THAT SOMETHING HAD GONE WRONG. SHE LOWERED her gun, grabbed the clipped stacked of papers, and stood from her seat.

  “Where are you going?” Howell asked.

  She ignored him and slid open the compartment door, stealing a quick look into the car behind her. Through the glass in the doors she saw her father, facing away, a man and woman at the car’s rear with guns aimed at him.

  Then another man.

  The first Korean who’d boarded the train.

  He was standing in the space between her exit door and the entrance for the next car. He held a gun and was carefully peering around the window’s edge toward her father, his back to her.

  She aimed at the door two meters away and fired.

 

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