The Patriot Threat Page 10

  “Larks and Howell are U.S. citizens,” Harriett said. “This court’s jurisdiction applies only to foreign nationals.”

  Probably another reason why the secretary had avoided the Justice Department for his warrant applications.

  “They’re both working with a foreign national, and together they’re compromising the security of this nation. That makes them this court’s business.”

  “Kim and Larks have been openly and knowingly communicating?” Harriett asked, with a lawyer’s tone.

  Levy nodded. “Many times, though Paul Larks is unaware that it’s Kim he’s speaking to. He thinks it’s a South Korean businessman, living in Europe, whose companies are being wrongfully taxed by the United States. He has no idea of Kim’s true identity, or at least that’s what we believe.”

  Something bothered Stephanie. “You knew that there’d be a robbery in Venice, didn’t you? It was Kim. He went after that $20 million. Yet you told us none of that, and put my man at grave risk.”

  He nodded. “We knew Kim was going to make a move on the money.”

  Now she was pissed. “We don’t send people into something like that blind. Not ever.”

  The secretary said nothing.

  “Whatever this is,” she said, “it better be really important.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “What is it you want from us?” Harriett asked.

  “To back off. Let me handle this.”

  Harriett shook her head. “We’re done playing games, Joe.” Stephanie had heard that tone before. “You’re way out of your league.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “That’s why I have the Magellan Billet. This is its league. You’re taking crazy risks, talking riddles, dodging questions. I’ve got no choice. I have to go to the White House.”

  Stephanie checked her watch and knew what was happening in Venice. “That cruise ship is emptying its passengers right about now.”

  “Call your people,” Harriet said. “Advise them of the situation.”

  The door to the conference room burst open.

  A man entered.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, with thick graying hair, dressed in a shirt, no tie, wearing a distinctive blue nylon jacket. Embroidered above the left breast was the seal for the president of the United States.

  “Evening,” Danny Daniels said.

  NINETEEN

  VENICE

  Malone felt better. A shower, shave, and change of clothes had made all the difference. His time unconscious had actually helped with fatigue. He was rested, ready to go. He’d packed light for the cruise, bringing only one shoulder bag, and had not deposited it outside his door last night, as required. So he’d carry it off himself.

  But first he intended to play a hunch.

  He left his cabin and headed toward the ship’s center, staying one deck above the main foyer where passengers would be leaving. The atrium was several floors high, three stylish, glass-enclosed elevators available to shuttle people up and down. A few of the ship’s many lounges could be seen along the foyer’s perimeter and all of the administrative desks were there, convenient and accessible. On their first day aboard he’d watched as Larks switched dollars for euros at one of them.

  He wondered what Cassiopeia was doing. He missed seeing her. She was one of the few people he’d ever actually become comfortable with. He had friends and associates, but few close ones. Part of that was his former job, part his personality. He just always stuck to himself. Some of that could have been the result of being an only child. Who knew? His ex-wife had hated his constant withdrawing. Cassiopeia had been different. She, too, cherished alone-time. They were actually far more alike than either of them had ever admitted. It was a shame the relationship was over. He had no intention of making further contact. He’d tried, and she’d made her position clear. Any move from this point on would be hers. Stubborn? Maybe. Prideful? Sure. But he’d never begged anyone for attention and wasn’t about to start now. He’d done nothing wrong. The problem was hers. But he still missed her.

  He checked his watch. 7:45 A.M.

  Sunshine rained down outside, softened by the ship’s bronze-tinted windows. People were debarking through the main gangway into an enclosed walk that led into the cruise terminal, where luggage and Italian customs awaited. Past that were land buses, taxis, and a concrete wharf where boats would shuttle guests into town or to the airport. Most would leave by water. The cruise terminal sat at Venice’s extreme west end, just before the only causeway that led across the lagoon to the mainland. In and around the terminal was the only place vehicles were allowed on the island. If this hunch played out, he’d have to be ready to move in an instant to who-knew-where.

  Announcements called for passengers in predesignated categories to make their way off. He found an observation spot one deck above, near a semicircular stairway that led down to all the activity. People streamed off the ship, mostly folks in their sixties and seventies. The time of year and price of the trip cut down on families and children. Mainly professionals populated the cabins—people who cruised several times a year all over the world, enjoying their retirement. He doubted he would ever retire. What would he do? As much as he hated to admit it, he missed being a field agent. Three years ago, the idea of quitting the Magellan Billet, resigning his naval commission, and moving to Denmark had seemed like a good one. Leave the past behind and head forward. But things had not worked out that way. He’d stayed in trouble, with one crisis after another. Some he had no choice but to be a part of, others were optional. Now he was again being paid for his time.

  Like the old days.

  He was betting on several factors here. One, that someone had taken the black Tumi satchel from Larks’ room. Two, that the someone would keep the contents inside the bag. Three, that whoever it might be was still aboard. Four, that they had no knowledge anyone else was interested. And five, that they would be confident enough to walk off the ship with the satchel in hand.

  A long shot? No question. But it was his only shot, so he stood behind an ornate column and kept watch below. Whatever was going to happen would happen here. His perch provided a wide view and he caught sight of Isabella Schaefer below, near one of the service desks, watching, too.

  And there it was.

  The black leather Tumi satchel, same distinctive silver buckles and white monogram—EL—on one side. It was draped across the shoulder of a young woman with long dark hair who hustled toward the gangway in quick steps. He saw that Treasury Agent Schaefer noticed her, too, and immediately followed.

  Good enough for him.

  He shouldered his bag and headed down the stairway.

  * * *

  Kim was sitting in one of the lounges, near the gangway exit, watching passengers leave. Hana was off to one side, observing, too. They’d made a point the entire cruise not to be seen together. The original idea had been for him and Larks to first talk privately, then to connect with Howell. For the first few days of the cruise, he’d called Larks’ room on a ship’s phone, but none of the calls had been answered. So Hana became his eyes and ears, watching the old man, waiting for their chance. When Larks told him the bag had been given away, his first thought was that maybe it might reappear here, at debarkation.

  He sipped a coffee and allowed the many faces to pass across his gaze. He appeared like everyone else, there waiting his turn to depart. Luckily there were two Korean groups on board, one on the far side of the main foyer, all anxious to be on their way. He was just another tourist. He wondered what had happened with the American Malone. There hadn’t been any commotion on the ship about someone dying. As far as he knew, Larks was still dead in his bed, undiscovered.

  He saw it first, then noticed Hana saw it, too.

  The Tumi bag.

  Being carried by a young woman. What was her name? Jelena. He caught his daughter’s gaze and nodded.

  She followed.

  * * *

  Isabella was thrilled.

&nbs
p; Good things happen to good people and she believed this was living proof. Where before she was dead in the water, now her hunch had played out. The documents she sought were just ahead, inside the same black satchel Larks had toted for days, hanging from the shoulder of a woman in her mid-twenties.

  Time to do what should have been done days ago. Malone was right. She could have moved on Larks at any time. But part of her mission had been to ascertain the extent of the problem, so she’d given the former Treasury official a wide leash. Too wide, actually. But that mistake was about to be remedied. All would be right once again. The only hitch was Malone, who was proof that somebody else back home had acquired an interest in all this. But to what extent and how far? Luckily, that wasn’t her problem. Others would handle that.

  She followed the young woman off the gangway and into a warehouse-like space where luggage was arranged in color-coded groups. Her target had apparently brought no belongings since she bypassed the confusion, stopping only a moment at customs to display a passport, then left the building.

  Isabella kept pace, using the crowd for protection, and exited as well. They turned right, away from buses and land taxis, and headed for the concrete wharf where water taxis and shuttle boats waited. Maybe a dozen or more craft bobbed, ready to accept passengers. A babble of commands, mainly in Italian, quick movements, and willing hands offered many distractions. The morning was bright and sunny, the air cool and refreshing. The woman glanced out at the boats, clearly searching for someone. A variety of craft wove atop the choppy surface, each vying for space at the long wharf.

  Isabella could not allow the woman to leave. So she made her move, elbowing her way through the crowd, zeroing in. Just as she reached out to corral her target, a man appeared from her left, wearing a red ball cap yanked down over his face. He was short, dressed in jeans, a purple sweater, and running shoes.

  She saw him only an instant before he delivered a body check, propelling her over the edge and into the water.

  TWENTY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  2:05 A.M.

  Stephanie was not surprised Danny Daniels had appeared. Everything about the man fit into the category of unexpected. He’d always been bold and unabashed, a gregarious soul who loved being in charge. She wondered what he would do when his second term as president ended, his career in the limelight over. For a man like Danny, that would not be a good thing.

  He sat at the table. “Great thing about the middle of the night is that a person can come and go as they please. Nothin’ to slippin’ out of the White House.”

  “And hello to you, too,” she said.

  He threw her a smile. “I’m surprised you’re so cordial. I figured you’d be pissed right now.”

  “So you authorized the illegal entry into the Billet files?”

  “That wasn’t me. Joe, here, decided to go that route all on his own.”

  She saw that the Treasury secretary wasn’t pleased to see his boss, so she decided to press the advantage. “You realize Treasury risked Cotton’s life. They might even have wanted him caught in the crossfire, to slow us down.”

  “Oh, yeah. I get it. Friggin’ stupid. Which is why I’m here. The secretary and I are going to have a chat on that.” He tossed a glare across the table. “Just you and me. And then we’re going to talk about what the hell you’ve been doing in Europe these past ten days.”

  Joe Levy said nothing. That was another thing about being at the top of the pyramid. Only heaven could argue with you.

  “Luke and Cotton need to know what’s going on,” she said. “I was just about to make a call.”

  She’d replaced her damaged cell phone with one of two backups she always kept on hand, this one stashed at her house.

  “In a minute. First, we have to talk. That’s why I’m here instead of sleepin’.” Daniels faced the Treasury secretary and pointed a finger. “I asked you for a simple thing. Some information on a relatively obscure subject. Next thing I know you’re running an international investigation, outside the grid, risking assets who don’t even work for you. I’m going to want to know why. Are you going to have answers?”

  “Of course, whatever you want.”

  “Really? Whatever I want? The first question is going to be why you didn’t tell me the truth to start with.”

  Levy said nothing.

  “Mr. President,” Harriett said. “I thought Congress was dysfunctional, but this is right up there with their antics.”

  “Now, that could be construed as downright insulting,” Danny said. “But I understand. This is your first foray into the intelligence business … from the executive branch’s side of the table. It’s a mite different here. We don’t have the luxury, as congressional committees do, of Monday-morning quarterbacking. We’re on the field, in play, as it happens, and we have to make this stuff up as we go.”

  “A game plan is always preferred,” Stephanie added.

  The president said, “Joe, go get your warrants. I have to talk to these two ladies alone.” He paused. “Then you and I’ll have that chat.”

  The secretary left the room.

  “He’s a businessman,” the president muttered, once the door closed. “Knows nothing about intelligence work.”

  “But you do,” Stephanie said. “And you’re in charge.”

  Only she could get away with pressing him that far. A while back, during another critical operation, they’d both discovered feelings for the other. One of those unexpected revelations that they’d wisely kept to themselves. The Daniels’ marriage was over, and had been for some time, existing only as a public illusion. No anger or bitterness lingered on anyone’s part, just a realization that once his second term ended, Danny Daniels would be single. Then things might change between them.

  But not until.

  “It is my fault,” he said. “But Cotton’s okay, right?”

  She nodded. “Can’t say the same for the $20 million and the nine other men who died.”

  “I’ve only been told in the last couple of hours that we knew Kim was going to make a move on that money. Joe decided to keep that tidbit to himself. You should have been advised as to all the risks.”

  “Why weren’t we?” Harriett asked.

  “Now, that’s the rub. I think Stephanie was right. It may actually have been deliberate on Joe’s part.”

  The admission surprised her.

  “What’s Kim after?” Stephanie asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s what Joe kept repeating,” Harriett said.

  Stephanie pointed to the printed pages on the table. “Have you read The Patriot Threat?”

  “Every word, and the author is no idiot.”

  “He’s a convicted tax evader,” Harriett said.

  “That he is. But some of what he says makes sense.”

  The president reached inside his jacket and produced a dollar bill, which he laid on the table. “Look on the back.”

  Stephanie flipped the bill over.

  Lines appeared on the obverse of the Great Seal.

  “I drew those,” the president said.

  She studied the six-pointed star. “What’s the significance?”

  “Check out the letters where the triangles form.”

  She did.

  A S O N M.

  “It’s an anagram,” the president noted. “For the word Mason.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking Freemasons are involved here,” Harriett said. “How many times have we heard that they’re secretly controlling this country. That’s utter nonsense.”

  “I agree. But the word Mason is formed from the joining of those letters. That’s a fact. Which, coincidentally, also forms a six-pointed-star.”

  “Or a Star of David,” Stephanie muttered.

  “Heck of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How would you have known to do this?” Stephanie asked.

  “Those classified papers Paul Larks copied. They mention another dolla
r bill with lines on it. Larks talked of a bill like that to Kim and Howell.”

  “And how do you know that?” she asked.

  “Yesterday I read those classified papers Treasury is holding, the ones Larks copied. The NSA also provided me transcripts of conversations between Kim and Howell. Contrary to what Joe Levy thinks, I’m neither in the dark nor an idiot.”

  But she was still puzzled. “What’s this about?”

  “A few months ago I received a letter from a prominent Jewish organization. It dealt with a man named Haym Salomon. Do either of you know the name?”

  Neither she nor Harriett did.

  So he told them.

  Salomon was born in Poland, but immigrated to New York in 1772. He was Jewish, highly educated in finance, fluent in several languages, and became a private banker, securities dealer, and member of a commodities exchange. By 1776 there were 3000 Jews living in the American colonies. Salomon was active in that community and fought for political equality. He became a patriot early on, supporting the Revolution, and was even arrested in 1778 as a spy by the British and sentenced to death. But he escaped New York to the rebel stronghold of Philadelphia, where he resumed his financial career.

  The American Revolution was financed with no definable base. No regular taxation or public loans existed. No fiscal system had been created for collecting revenue, and the treasury, a mere pretense, stayed empty. Money was constantly needed for supplies, ammunition, food, clothing, medicine, and pay for soldiers. States were supposed to care for the troops they sent to fight, but that rarely happened. Members of the Continental Congress were short on money, too, their horses routinely turned away because livery stable keepers had gone unpaid. Continental currency was barely accepted anywhere, generally regarded as worthless. The lack of money was England’s best ally, many Loyalists arguing that the Revolution would fizzle once the colonists could no longer feed their army.

  In 1781 Haym Salomon came to the attention of Robert Morris, the superintendent of finance for the fledging confederation of thirteen colonies. He was enlisted by Morris to broker bills of exchange for the upstart American government. That he did, but he also personally extended interest-free loans to many of the Founding Fathers and to army officers. He became the banker and paymaster for France, an essential American ally, and converted French bills of exchange into American currency, which financed French soldiers fighting in the Revolution. He likewise performed those same services for Holland and Spain, keeping the Spanish ambassador afloat after funds from Spain were thwarted by the British blockade. From 1781 to 1784 his name appeared nearly a hundred times in Robert Morris’ diary. Many entries simply read, I sent for Haym Salomon.