The Patriot Threat (Cotton Malone series) Read online

  Contents

  Also by Steve Berry

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  The Present

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Writer’s Note

  ALSO BY STEVE BERRY

  COTTON MALONE NOVELS

  The Lincoln Myth

  The King’s Deception

  The Jefferson Key

  The Emperor’s Tomb

  The Paris Vendetta

  The Charlemagne Pursuit

  The Venetian Betrayal

  The Alexandria Link

  The Templar Legacy

  STAND-ALONE NOVELS

  The Columbus Affair

  The Third Secret

  The Romanov Prophecy

  The Amber Room

  EBOOK ORIGINALS

  “The Tudor Plot”

  “The Admiral’s Mark”

  “The Devil’s Gold”

  “The Balkan Escape”

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Steve Berry 2015

  The right of Steve Berry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 444 79543 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Sam Berry,

  my father

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is my first novel with Minotaur Books, part of Macmillan Publishers. The experience has been wonderful. My sincere thanks go out to John Sargent, head of Macmillan, Sally Richardson, who captains St. Martin’s, and my publisher, Andrew Martin. Also, a sincere debt of gratitude is offered to Hector DeJean in Publicity; Jeff Dodes and everyone in Marketing and Sales, especially Paul Hochman; Jen Enderlin, the sage of all things paperback; David Rotstein, who produced the cover, Steven Seighman for the excellent interior design work, and Mary Beth Roche and the folks in Audio.

  As always, thank you Simon Lipskar for another great job.

  And to my editor, Kelley Ragland, it’s been a joy getting to know you.

  A few extra mentions: Meryl Moss and her extraordinary publicity team (especially Deb Zipf and JeriAnn Geller); Jessica Johns and Esther Garver, who continue to keep Steve Berry Enterprises running smoothly; M. J. Rose, one of the original members of the Plotters Club; and Richard Stamm, curator of the Smithsonian Castle (for pointing me toward a clever desk).

  As always, to my wife, Elizabeth, who remains the most special of all.

  This novel is dedicated to Harold Earl “Sam” Berry, who is the name-sake of Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone. How each acquired his respective nickname remains a mystery.

  What’s not in doubt is the effect both men have had on my life.

  No feeling in the world is greater, more ennobling

  and more sacred than patriotism.

  —KIM IL-SUNG, ETERNAL PRESIDENT

  DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF KOREA

  PROLOGUE

  WHITE HOUSE

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1936

  5:00 P.M.

  FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT HATED BEING IN THE SAME ROOM WITH HIS infamous visitor, but he appreciated the need for them to talk. He’d been president four years, but three weeks from now history will mark his second inauguration, the first held on January 20. Before that the oath had always been taken on March 4, commemorative of the exact day, in 1789, when the Constitution first took effect. But the 20th Amendment changed that. A good idea, actually, shortening the time after the November election day. Too much of a lame duck made for a dead duck. He liked being a part of change. Hated the way anything was once done.

  And he particularly despised any member of the “old order.”

  Like his visitor.

  Andrew Mellon had served ten years and eleven months as secretary of Treasury. He started with Harding in 1921, then worked for Coolidge before being eased from office by Hoover. He completed his government service with one year as ambassador to the Court of St. James, finally retiring in 1933. Mellon was a staunch Republican, then and now one of the wealthiest men in the country, the living embodiment of “old order” wisdom the New Deal longed to change.

  “Here, Mr. President, is my offer. I hope it can be carried out.”

  Mellon handed over a piece of paper.

  He’d invited this pariah to afternoon tea because his advisers had cautioned him that you can kick a mean dog only so long.

  And he’d been kicking Andrew Mellon for three years.

  It started just after his first inauguration. He’d instructed the Bureau of Internal Revenue to audit Mellon’s 1931 tax returns. There’d been departmental r
esistance to his over-exercise of presidential power—words to the effect that Internal Revenue should not be used as a political weapon—but his directive had been carried out. Mellon had claimed a $139,000 refund. The government found that he owed $3,089,000. Charges of tax evasion were brought, but a grand jury declined to indict. Undaunted, Roosevelt ordered the Justice Department to proceed civilly and a trial was held in the Board of Tax Appeals, involving fourteen months of testimony and evidence. It had ended only a few weeks ago.

  They occupied the Oval Study on the second floor, his favorite spot in the White House to conduct business. It had an overcrowded, lived-in look from packed bookcases, ship models, and a confusion of paper piled everywhere. A fire raged in the hearth. He’d abandoned his wheelchair and sat on the sofa, Attorney General Homer Cummings beside him. Accompanying Mellon was David Finley, a close associate of the former secretary.

  He and Cummings read Mellon’s offering.

  It laid out a proposal for the establishment of an art museum, to be located on the National Mall, which Mellon would erect at his own expense. The building not only would become a repository for Mellon’s own massive collection, it would also accommodate future acquisitions.

  To be called the National Gallery of Art.

  “Not the Andrew W. Mellon Gallery?” he asked.

  “I do not want my name publicly associated with the building.”

  He appraised his visitor, who sat ramrod-straight, head held high, not a muscle moving, as if presidents still bowed to his every whim. He’d always wondered why three would choose the same man for their cabinet. He could understand the first—Harding, a weak and inept fool—and maybe even the second—Coolidge, who’d finished out the term after Harding had the good sense to die two years into office. But in 1924, when Coolidge earned his own four years, why not select a new Treasury secretary? That made sense. Every president did. Then Hoover repeated the mistake, reappointing Mellon in 1929, only to finally be rid of him three years later.

  He said, “It states here that the gallery will be managed by a private board of nine trustees, five appointed by you. It was my understanding that this institution would be administered by the Smithsonian.”

  “It shall be. But I want the gallery’s internal operation to be wholly independent of the government, as the Smithsonian currently enjoys. That point is non-negotiable.”

  He glanced at his attorney general, who nodded his assent.

  Mellon’s offer had first been made a year ago. The building would cost between $8 and $9 million. Mellon’s own art collection, valued at $20 million, would become its nucleus. Other quality works would also be acquired and displayed, the idea being that Washington, DC, might become one of the principal art capitals of the world. Mellon would endow the institution with $5 million, the income from which would be used to pay the salaries of the top administrators and to acquire more works. The government would perpetually pay for building maintenance and upkeep. There’d been months of behind-the-scenes negotiations to iron out the details, all leading up to this final gathering. Attorney General Cummings had kept him informed, but there’d been little give-and-take. Just as in business, in art Mellon drove a hard bargain.

  One point was still troublesome, though.

  “You have specified,” he said, “that all of the funds for the building, and for the art, will come from your charitable trust. Yet it is this trust that we contend owes the people of this country over $3 million in back taxes.”

  Mellon’s stone features never flinched. “If you want the money, that’s where it is located.”

  He could tell he was being played. But that was all right. He’d asked for this encounter. So—

  “I wish to speak to Mr. Mellon alone.”

  He saw that his attorney general did not like the idea but knew it was not a request. Both Cummings and Finley left the room. He waited until the door was closed and said, “You do know that I despise you.”

  “As if I care what you think. You’re insignificant.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve been called arrogant. Lazy. Stupid. A manipulator. But never insignificant. I actually take offense to that one. I fancy myself to be quite relevant to our current economic predicament. One, I might add, you bear some responsibility for creating.”

  Mellon shrugged. “If Hoover had listened, the Depression would have been a short one.”

  It was going on seven years since that fateful Friday in 1929 when markets crashed and banks failed. Hoover was gone, but the Republicans lingered, still in control of Congress and the Supreme Court, enough that his New Deal policies were being dealt one legal blow after another. He’d confronted so many obstacles that he’d decided to make peace with his enemies, which included this devil. But not before he had his say.

  “Let me see if I recall. As secretary of Treasury you advised Hoover to liquidate labor, stocks, farmers, and real estate. Purge all of the rottenness out of the system. Once done, according to you, people will work harder and live more—how did you put it—moral lives. Then you said that enterprising individuals will pick up from the less competent.”

  “That was sound advice.”

  “Coming from a man worth hundreds of millions I could see how you would feel that way. I doubt you’d have the same attitude if you were starving and out of work, with no hope.”

  He was actually surprised by Mellon’s physical appearance. The face had drawn gaunt, the tall frame even thinner than he recalled. The skin was pale as lead, eyes tired and longing. Two heavy furrows ran at angles from the nostrils to the corner of the mouth, obscured partially by the trademark mustache. He knew Mellon to be eighty-one years old, but he looked over a hundred. One fact was clear, though—this man remained formidable.

  He plucked a cigarette from the box on the side table and slid it into an ivory holder. The sight of its soft tip between his clenched teeth, held at a jaunty forty-five-degree angle, had become a sign of presidential confidence and optimism. God knows the country needed both. He lit the end and savored a deep drag, the smoke heavy, each inhalation producing a comforting ache in his chest.

  “You do understand that there will be no change in our position relative to the matter presently pending in the Board of Tax Appeals. Your gift will have no affect on that litigation.”

  “Actually, it will.”

  Now he was curious.

  “The National Gallery of Art will be built,” Mellon said. “You cannot, and will not, refuse to do this. My gift is too much to ignore. Once opened, the gallery will become the premier place for art in this nation. Your petty tax trial will be long done. No one will ever give it another thought. But the gallery—that will stand forever and never be forgotten.”

  “You truly are the mastermind among the malefactors of great wealth.”

  “I recall that quote of yours, describing me as such. I actually took your words as a compliment. But coming from a professional politician, interested only in votes, it matters not to me what you think.”

  He said, “I am saving this country from the likes of you.”

  “All you’ve done is create a blizzard of new boards and agencies, most overlapping already existing departments. They do nothing, other than bloat the budget and increase taxes. The end result will be disastrous. More is never better, especially when it comes to government. God help this country when you’re done with it. Thankfully, I won’t be here to see those wretched consequences.”

  Roosevelt savored more tobacco before noting, “You’re right, to refuse this gift would be political suicide. Your friends in the Republican Congress would not take kindly to that. And, I’m told, since the gift is yours you may set its terms. So your grand national gallery will be built.”

  “You weren’t the first, you know.”

  He wondered what the old man meant.

  “I did it long before you ever thought of it.”

  Then it hit him.

  James Couzens, who’d died two months back, after fourteen years in t
he U.S. Senate. Thirteen years ago Senator Couzens launched a congressional probe of tax rebates provided to companies owned by then Treasury secretary Mellon. The investigation revealed Mellon had not divested himself of control over those companies, as he’d pledged to do prior to entering government service. There’d been calls for Mellon’s resignation, but he’d weathered the storm and Coolidge reappointed him in 1924. That’s when Mellon turned the Bureau of Internal Revenue on Couzens, whose audit revealed $11 million in back taxes. But the Board of Tax Appeals reversed the decision and concluded that, actually, Couzens was entitled to a refund.

  “Was that not your greatest humiliation,” he told Mellon. “The appeals board sided completely against you. Your vendetta against Couzens was exposed for all that it was.”

  Mellon stood. “Precisely, Mr. President.”

  His guest stared down at him with eyes black as coal. He prided himself on dominating a room, able to take command of any situation, but this statue of flesh and blood made him feel nothing but uncomfortable.

  “I’m dying,” Mellon said.

  That he had not known.

  “Cancer will kill me before the next year is done. But I have never been a man to whine or cry. When I held power, I used it. So you have, after all, done to me, your apparent enemy, nothing different from what I did to mine. Thankfully, I still possess the money and means to hold my own. I do want to say this, though. I destroyed my enemies because they tried to destroy me. Mine were all defensive strikes. Your attack against me was clearly offensive. You chose to hurt me simply because you could. I have done nothing either to or toward you. That makes our fight … different.”

  He allowed the nicotine flooding his lungs to calm his nerves and told himself to show not a speck of concern or fear.

  “I’ve left my country a donation of art. That will be my public legacy. For you, Mr. President, I have a separate, more private gift.”