The Patriot Threat (16 page)

“Since when? You’re going to learn, Frat Boy, that in the field you can do whatever you want. Unlike Ms. Schaefer, I made a career out of breaking rules.”

Luke smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Howell’s boat veered left and disappeared around a bend. They were creeping along and Luke negotiated the same corner, now headed straight through the city, due west toward the end of the island with the cruise terminal.

Why was he not surprised.

*   *   *

Kim crossed the street and walked toward the ferry terminal. Boats leaving from there shuttled passengers to other parts of Italy, Croatia, and Greece. The ferries were oceangoing vessels, more like cruise ships, equipped with all the comforts including cabins.

The woman with the Tumi bag entered the ferry terminal and Hana hurried ahead. He kept walking, showing no anticipation. Just another passenger headed off for who-knew-where. A couple of times he checked behind him and saw no one coming in their direction. His only real concern, Malone, had balanced himself across the tops of two boats with a travel bag on one shoulder before leaping into another boat and racing away. Good riddance. Now he could focus on the task at hand.

Their own luggage remained at the cruise terminal and would need to be retrieved. But their destination had yet to be determined. Luckily, there was nothing packed that could not be replaced. Personal effects were the least of his concerns. He was working on changing both his own life and the world.
Doing the impossible,
as Disney liked to say. To that end he would spend whatever time and money was needed, his father and grandfather be damned. One day there’d be
more
than five hundred statues erected in his honor. And he would not have to embalm his body and display it under glass like a sideshow. Centuries from now people would freely speak his name with their heads bowed. He would become North Korea’s greatest leader. His father, grandfather, and half brother would be forgotten. When he was done, retaking the south would be a simple matter. In fact, the south might actually ask for reunification, a request he would gladly grant. How satisfying it would be to eliminate the demilitarized zone and watch as the American army exited Korea forever. Which, if this played out as expected, it would have no choice but to do.

He entered the terminal and immediately spotted Hana at one of the counters. She finished her business and walked over, handing him two tickets.

He read the destination.

Zadar, Croatia.

The ferry departed at 9:30
A.M.
His watch read 8:50.

“I will go back and retrieve our luggage,” he said. “You keep an eye on our prize.”

*   *   *

Malone grabbed his bearings.

Their path had been relatively straight through the northern part of Venice, then, after a slight bend in the waterway, he spotted the wide expanse of the Grand Canal ahead. Howell’s boat banked right. Luke followed. Their pace increased as they rounded another curve in the wide canal that snaked from south to north then back south again, the island’s train depot now on their right. A causeway jutted from one side of the building, extending to the mainland, accommodating both rail and cars. Howell’s boat motored around the terminal and exited into the lagoon. But it traveled only a hundred yards before making a sharp left, then another left. And then they were back at the cruise port, just on the far side of the main building, where a line of ferries were docked before a series of buildings.

“He made a big circle,” Luke said. “I assume to make sure no one was interested.”

“You got it.”

“Apparently, they’re not all that good at what they do. ’Cause we’re here.”

Luke did not follow into the lagoon. No need. They could see everything as Howell leaped from the boat onto a small dock.

“Let me out here,” Malone said.

They were a hundred yards from the ferry terminal. He’d have to hurry so as not to lose him. And which boat?

“Keep my bag,” he said.

“You want your gun?”

He shook his head. “If I have to get on one of those ferries, there’ll be security. Better to go without it. I’ll call you with what’s happening. In the meantime, see about Treasury Agent Schaefer and what she’s doing next.”

Luke tossed him a salute. “Yes, sir.”

He leaped onto shore just below a roadway and ran up. It took him five minutes to make his way to the ferry terminal. He slowed his pace, steadied his breathing, and entered. Plenty of people loitered around. His gaze scoured every face in a rapid search. Four ferries were docked outside. Each boat sizable. Then he spotted Howell, standing in line to buy a ticket, ten people ahead of him. An illuminated sign above the booth indicated the ferry for Zadar in Croatia. He stepped over and assumed a place six spots behind Howell. Close enough, but not too close. When Howell approached to buy his ticket, Malone edged forward and listened carefully, hearing only, “Zadar.” No connecting ferry. He checked a lighted board and saw the boat left in twenty minutes.

He returned to his place in line.

When his turn came he bought a similar ticket.

Twelve years with the Magellan Billet and he’d never been to Croatia.

First time for everything.

*   *   *

Kim rolled his suitcase behind him. Hana was doing the same. Together they headed for the gangway to board the Zadar ferry. The Croatian port lay five hundred kilometers east across the Adriatic Sea. He estimated the journey would take about five hours, placing them on the ground around 2
P.M.
Hana had thought ahead and reserved a cabin for privacy. But no danger existed of Howell either recognizing or connecting him to anything, since he’d never shown his face or used his real name with either Larks or Howell.

They walked toward the gangway.

The woman with the black satchel had already boarded. They were about to do the same when two men caught his eye. One was Anan Wayne Howell, the face recognizable from Howell’s website. The other was the American. Malone. Both men were heading onto the vessel.

He and Hana lingered back and sought cover behind a wide support column.

“That raises a multitude of questions,” he muttered.

He saw Hana agreed.

Things had just changed.

The documents
and
Howell were now again in play.

“Come, my dear. It seems Fate has smiled upon us.”

TWENTY-FOUR

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

Stephanie drove, with Danny occupying the rear seat. He’d actually wanted to drive himself, but she’d refused. A car with two Secret Service agents tailed just behind. An unusual trip, to say the least, but the commander in chief had left no room for doubt. He was going to see Edward Tipton, and without the normal fanfare that accompanied a presidential motorcade. She knew protocol. Standard procedure required thirteen vehicles, plus three local police cars for traffic control. Two identical presidential limousines were always included, along with armor-plated SUVs for the Secret Service, a military aide, a doctor, a small assault team, a hazardous materials response unit, the press, and communications. An ambulance assumed the rear. The whole entourage formed a long black convoy with flashing lights and plenty of attention. Not here, though. All was quiet in their two-car parade. It helped that it was the middle of the night, the streets devoid of traffic, an easy matter to flee DC into rural Virginia and a quaint neighborhood of older houses.

“The Secret Service loves to tell the story,” Daniels said, “about 1996 and Clinton in Manila. Just before his motorcade was about to leave, agents in one of the cars with some heavy-duty surveillance equipment picked up radio chatter that mentioned
wedding
and
bridge
. They thought
wedding
could be a code word for a terrorist hit, so they changed the route, which had included a bridge. Clinton was angry as hell at the decision, but didn’t override it. Sure enough, when agents arrived at the bridge they found explosives. Clinton dodged a big one. I was reminded of that good fortune earlier.”

“And they still let you come?”

“Ain’t it great. I told ’em I doubted anybody was going to kill a guy who’d be sent out to pasture soon anyway. I like this. Nice and private. I’m going to enjoy retired life.”

“Like hell,” she said. “You’re going to drive everyone crazy.”

“Including you?”

She smiled at the possibility, then asked, “How did you find this son?”

“I did some checking after listening to that recording. The Secret Service had a file on Mark Tipton. He was a good agent. Served with distinction. But he died twenty years ago. His son lives nearby, so we made contact and hit pay dirt.”

She knew what that meant. His chief of staff, Edwin Davis, had done all the checking. “Where is Edwin?”

“Doing me a favor. I’ve worked him pretty hard the past few days.”

“Was he the one who found the recording at Hyde Park?”

“Yep. Can’t draw that hound dog far off the scent.”

“And what favor is he doing for you in the wee hours of the morning?”

“It’s a president thing. He’ll be along soon enough. This with Tipton I have to do alone.”

“Except you’re not alone.”

“I like to include you in the definition of
me.
”

Only in the privacy of a car, with just the two of them, could words like that be spoken. Never had anything improper occurred between them, but she was looking forward to exploring the possibilities that might lie ahead.

They found the house, downstairs lights burning in several rooms. The man who answered their knock was short with features that clearly belonged to age—gaunt cheeks, coarsened hair, veined hands. But his smile seemed genuine and the eyes were devoid of fatigue.

They introduced themselves.

“I thank you for meeting us at this hour,” the president said. “and on short notice.”

“How often do you have the president of the United States come to your house? It’s an honor.”

“Though you don’t sound overly impressed,” Danny said.

“I’m an old man, Mr. President, who’s seen and heard a lot. My father protected presidents nearly all his life. I don’t impress much anymore. Lucky for you, though, I’ve always been a night person. Never did sleep much. My father was the same.”

Inside, Stephanie caught a warm, homey feel from dark wooden floors, worn furniture, and frayed rugs. Lots of framed photographs adorned the tables and mantel. Not a computer or cell phone in sight, though, only a flat-screen TV. But there were lots of books on shelves and four lay stacked on a table beside Tipton’s recliner. Apparently this man was a bit old-fashioned.

They sat in a dimly lit den.

Tipton crept to his chair with a broken-kneed gait. “When your chief of staff appeared at my doorstep yesterday, I really wasn’t all that shocked. My father said it might happen one day.”

“Your father seems like a smart guy.”

“He served Hoover, Roosevelt, and Truman. He was really close, though, with Roosevelt. Being crippled, FDR always needed someone to do things for him.”

She got it. Things that should not see the light of day. “We heard the recording, where your father and FDR spoke in the Oval Office.”

“Mr. Davis, yesterday, allowed me to hear it, too. I assume that’s why we’re talking now.”

They sat silent for a moment.

“You were right at the door, Mr. President,” Tipton said. “I didn’t vote for you, either time.”

Danny shrugged. “That’s your call. It doesn’t bother me.”

Tipton smiled. “But I do have to say, you turned out to be a pretty decent guy.”

“My time’s about over.”

“That happens. Presidents come and go.”

“But civil servants stay on, right?”

“It’s what my father used to say.”

“Why didn’t you want to talk at the White House?” Danny asked.

The older man shrugged. “My father told me that if anyone ever wanted to discuss this, do it in private. I doubt anything that goes on at the White House is ever private.”

“It is the proverbial fishbowl.”

“Do you know what happened the day Roosevelt died?” Tipton asked. “April 12, 1945.”

“Just what I’ve read in the history books.”

“There are things you won’t find in those books. Things only the people there that day knew. FDR was in Georgia, at Warm Springs, for a few weeks of rest. My father was with him.”

Mark Tipton watched as Dr. Bruenn finished his daily examination of the president and asked his patient, “How do you feel today?”

“Other than a slightly sore neck, a bit better than usual.”

Roosevelt actually looked better than he had a few days ago. Less fatigued. More color to his pallid hue, which of late stayed sickly, drained of all blood and strength. But the cheeks remained collapsed, the weight loss continuing. He probably topped off at barely 150 pounds.

“I’ll make my usual report to the White House,” Bruenn said.

“Tell them I’m not dead yet.”

And the president added one of his trademark smiles.

But everyone knew FDR was slowly slipping away and no earthly power could stop that. Bruenn, a navy cardiologist, had quietly said yesterday, outside the president’s hearing, that the heart, lungs, and kidneys were all failing. Blood pressure stayed off the charts. A stroke was a near certainty. But still the illusion was maintained. Fatigue was the diagnosis both Roosevelt and the country were told. Nothing that a little rest would not cure. But Tipton knew they were fooling no one, especially Roosevelt. He’d been with the man long enough to notice the telltale signs. Like of late, when the president ventured out, the cordial waves to well-wishers had become uncharacteristically weak. Sometimes they were nonexistent. Never in the past had FDR ignored the public. And on this trip the president had conspicuously avoided heading to the nearby rehabilitation center’s warm pool for a swim, which had always brought him joy.

Bruenn left and Roosevelt reached for a cigarette, slipping it into the holder clenched between his teeth. The president found some matches and lit one, but his hand shook uncontrollably. So much that he was unable to connect the flame to the end. Tipton wanted to help, but knew better. That was not allowed. He watched as Roosevelt slid open the drawer of the desk before him and rested his elbow inside, then partially closed it, which helped secure a firm hold on the hand. The tremors had definitely grown worse.