The Patriot Threat (38 page)

“It’s a classic rococo writing cabinet.”

It stood over ten feet tall and spread six feet wide, its façade a riot of dazzling architectural order crowned with a clock. Stamm explained that it was made of oak, pine, walnut, cherry, cedar, curly maple, burl maple, mahogany, apple, walnut, mulberry, tulipwood, and rosewood. Ivory, mother-of-pearl, gilt bronze, brass, steel, iron, and silk added both contrast and accent. Finely detailed colored marquetry panels decorated its front and sides. The cupola above the clock was topped with a gilt bronze of Apollo.

“It may well be the most expensive piece of furniture ever made,” he said. “Three were created. One for Duke Charles Alexander of Lorraine, another for King Louis XVI of France, and a third for King Frederick William II of Prussia. This was Frederick’s. That’s him there in the portrait medallion, on the central door. It’s like a royal entertainment system, full of ingenious mechanisms and hidden compartments. Most of them open to the music of flutes, cymbals, and a glockenspiel. The clock also has some lovely chimes. It’s an amazing piece of workmanship.”

“For the truly rich,” she noted.

Stamm smiled. “Frederick paid 80,000 livers for this, which was an enormous amount at the time.”

“How long has it been here?” she asked.

“I checked to be sure, and my memory was right. Andrew Mellon acquired it in the 1920s. He donated it to the Smithsonian in 1936, with the proviso that it had to be displayed somewhere in the Castle at all times.”

“This desk has been here since then?” Levy asked.

Stamm nodded. “Somewhere, inside the castle. Conditions are not uncommon with gifts. If we accept the restricted donation, then we honor the request. Sometimes we do reject a gift because of the conditions. Not with this, though. I imagine it was simply too tempting. The curator at the time had to have it, which I can understand.”

She admired the exquisite cabinet.

“I took the information you provided on the phone and checked out the desk,” Stamm said. “You were right, there is a paper hidden inside.”

“Did you read it?” Levy asked.

He shook his head. “Stephanie told me not to touch it, so I left it alone. It’s still inside.”

“Joe doesn’t know what I told you,” she said to Stamm.

He led them closer. “I know most of the secret places in the desk. But what you were able to decipher told me about a new one and how to open it. That was exciting.”

He removed a skeleton key from his pocket and inserted it into a slot in the central door. Once turned, it set in motion a multitude of springs and latches. A wooden panel slowly unfolded to create a writing surface. Above it a lectern formed, angled to accommodate a book or a sheet of paper. At the same time two compartments emerged on either side that held inks, sand, and writing utensils. The whole metamorphosis was swift and smooth, done to the tune of tinkling music.

“It’s like a Transformer today,” Stamm said. “It appears as one thing, then becomes another. And it’s all old-school technology. Levers, springs, weights, and pulleys.”

He pointed out a few of the secret compartments. Small ones in nests, long slender ones with mother-of-pearl, swivel drawers concealed behind other drawers, all of them gliding open without a sound and easily slid back into place.

“There are maybe fifty or so secret spaces,” Stamm said. “That was the whole idea. To have spots to hide things. I genuinely thought I knew them all.”

He pointed to a section above the lectern where she saw more gilt bronzes and festoons of leaves and grapes. A Corinthian capital sat between two portraits in marquetry, a man on the left, woman on the right, each peeking out at the other from a side curtain, adding a whimsical touch. Stamm lightly gripped the small column between the images and twisted. “I would have never done this before for fear of damage. But a quick turn of the column releases a latch.”

The image of the man on the left suddenly moved and the wooden panel upon which it appeared sprang open, revealing a secret compartment. Stamm gently hinged the panel out ninety degrees. She saw an envelope inside, brown with age.

“I’ll be damned,” Levy said.

She reached in and slid out the packet. Written on its face, in faded black ink, was

For a tyrannical aristocrat

She realized that they were standing in a public hall, though out of the main line of traffic, people moving back and forth, so she quickly slid the envelope into a coat pocket and thanked her friend.

“I need you to keep this to yourself,” she said.

The curator nodded. “I get it. National security.”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t suppose you could at least tell me who left that.”

“Andrew Mellon hid it for FDR to find. But that never happened. Thank goodness we’re the ones to actually discover it.”

“I’ll be interested to hear, one day, just what this is all about.”

“And I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Without going to prison.”

She and Levy left the hall as Stamm went about returning the desk to its more benign self. They avoided the entrance they’d used coming in, which led back to the street, and exited the Castle toward the National Mall. She wanted a quiet place where they could read what was inside the envelope.

They followed a wide graveled path toward the museums on the far side. People moved in all directions. An empty bench ahead, beneath trees devoid of summer foliage, beckoned and they sat.

She removed the envelope from her pocket, “It’s definitely from Mellon. FDR said he used these words,
tyrannical aristocrat,
when referring to him. It seemed to really piss him off.”

“You realize,” Levy said, “that what’s inside there could change the course of this country.”

“I get it. That’s why we have to make sure no one else sees this but us.”

She was about to open the envelope when she heard footsteps behind them. Before she could turn a voice said, “Just sit still and don’t move.”

She felt the distinctive press of a gun barrel at the base of her neck. The man who’d spoken stood close, another man pressed equally close to Levy, obviously trying to shield their weapons.

“We will shoot you both,” the voice said. “Two bullets through your head and be gone before anyone knows the difference.”

She assumed the weapons were sound-suppressed and that these men knew what they were doing. Levy seemed nervous. Who could blame him. Having a gun to your head was never good.

“You do realize that I am the secretary of Treasury,” Levy tried, his voice cracking from nerves.

“You bleed like anybody else,” the voice said.

To her right she caught sight of another man, walking down the graveled path, wearing a dark overcoat, dark trousers, and the same shiny Cordovan shoes that she remembered from last night.

He stopped before them.

The ambassador to the United States from China.

FIFTY-SEVEN

C
ROATIA

Kim left the first-class car and proceeded back to where Hana said the four men were waiting. He decided that the time to lead had come and fear was the last thing he would show. So far he’d acted decisively, never hesitating in ending Larks’, Jelena’s, and the man at the hotel’s lives. No one would be allowed to stand in his way, and that included the four Koreans he saw sitting together ahead. He cradled the black case to his chest, the gun with sound suppressor still inside, and entered the car. He approached the four and sat across the aisle in an empty row of seats, their faces all set in a frosty immobility. Only eight other people were in the car, all at the far end.

“Are you looking for me?” he asked quietly in Korean.

*   *   *

Isabella could see into the car ahead and spotted Kim, apparently confronting the four problems. Luke was facing her, his back to the action.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she whispered.

And she told him.

“Crazy fool is tryin’ to unnerve them,” he said.

“He’s carrying the black satchel.”

“Let’s get closer,” he said. “You go ahead and move to a seat at the end of this car, near the exit door. I’ll be along.”

She stood, walked down the center aisle, counting six others scattered among the empty seats. She claimed a spot near the exit door, facing toward Kim, whom she could see through the half glass in the doors between the cars. Luke appeared and sat in the row across the aisle, he, too, watching ahead.

“Where’s Howell?” she heard him mutter over the clank of the wheels on the tracks.

She was wondering the same thing.

Howell had been sent to occupy Kim.

But that wasn’t happening.

“It has to be the daughter,” she whispered. “She’s got him.”

*   *   *

Hana studied the man called Anan Wayne Howell. He watched her with a stern gaze that did not betray even a hint of fear. She’d observed Howell and the dead woman in the dining room on the ferry. They were obviously close, their touch and looks those of lovers. She envied him. Never had she experienced affection. Not with her mother, her father, her siblings, or anyone else. She’d even escaped the guards’ lust and kept her virginity. Perhaps only with Sun Hi had she ever experienced any form of close connection with another human being.

“Did you throw Jelena into the ocean, or did he?” Howell asked.

“I have never killed anyone.”

Her English was perfect, learned in Macao at a private school where she’d lived for the past twelve years. It had taken time for her to catch up with the other students, but she’d been determined to free her mind of ignorance. And she had. Reading was one of her few delights. Howell’s eyes signaled that he did not believe her declaration, but she did not care what he thought.

She knew the truth.

“What’s wrong with you?” Howell asked. “There’s not a speck of feeling on your face or in your eyes. It’s all blank, like you’re a machine.”

He was the first person to ever say that to her. Not once in fourteen years had her father ever inquired about how
she
felt. Everything had always been centered on him. His thoughts. His desires. Especially during the past few months, as his excitement rose in proportion to his potential success.

She said nothing and continued to stare at him.

“I’m leaving,” Howell said.

She produced the gun from beneath her jacket.

Howell froze.

*   *   *

Kim faced the four men, the black satchel in his lap, its zipper open, the gun inside easily accessible. “I asked a question.”

The man closest to him, on his right, said, “We’re here for that satchel and for you.”

“And did my bastard of a brother send you?”

“The people of the Korean Republic sent us. You have been named an enemy of the state, as was your other brother.”

“Who was slaughtered, along with his entire family.”

“You cannot escape this train,” the man said in Korean. “We have people waiting in Solaris.”

“Might I inquire how you know so much about my whereabouts.”

“We have friends helping, supplying excellent information. And they have the means to know.”

That meant the Chinese. Then it occurred to him how. They were monitoring his mobile phone and computer use. He’d honestly thought nobody cared what he was doing. Definitely a miscalculation, but not insurmountable given his present location. Isolation worked both ways, and he intended to take advantage of the situation.

“The Chinese are not our friends,” he said to the man, who was apparently in charge of the other three. “Far from that, in fact.”

He gestured with his head to the satchel in his lap. “I assume you want the documents this contains?”

The man nodded. “All of them, especially an original crumpled page with numbers on it.”

Amazing. How much did these people know? And just who exactly were the Chinese monitoring?

“Do you think me a fool?” he asked.

“I think you are a reasonable man. There are four of us here and more waiting when this train stops. There is literally nowhere for you to go. Can we not do this without violence?”

He seemed to consider the inquiry.

“Let us start,” the man said, “with you handing over those documents.”

He lost all of his curiosity at these men’s intentions as another more vital desire rose within him. Survival. So a nod of his head seemed to accept the inevitable, and the hint of a tolerant smile masked his right hand as it slipped into the case and found the gun. He did not bother to withdraw the weapon. That would provide too much of an opportunity for his targets to react.

Instead he angled the satchel to the left and pulled the trigger.

*   *   *

Isabella could see that something was happening in the next car. Kim jerked the black satchel, first left, then right. The four men sitting across the aisle from him were only partially visible, but over the train noise she heard faint pops and saw part of the satchel burst open. One of the passengers in the car ahead leaped to his feet and the exit door was flung open. A bearded man in an overcoat rushed her way. Through the glass she saw others bolting for the exit at the other end of the next car.

Luke saw it too. “What the hell?”

*   *   *

Kim fired three shots, leaving neat holes in the two men to his left and one to his right. The man in charge, sitting closest to him, had clearly been caught off guard but recovered and managed to pivot in his seat and thrust with his legs. The man’s feet slammed into the satchel and threw Kim back, but he managed to keep a grip on the gun, which he now withdrew from the case.

His target was quick.

Slipping to the floor, and finding a gun of his own.

FIFTY-EIGHT

W
ASHINGTON
, DC

Stephanie sat straight on the bench and never moved, her gaze locked on the Chinese ambassador.

“We’ve been watching and listening to you,” he said. “But your agents inside China do the same to us.” He shrugged. “It’s the way of the world.”

No real surprise, so she said, “Once you left Virginia last night, you knew I’d be running the show from this end. Of course, China would never risk an international incident. We are, after all, supposedly friends. But North Korea is a friend, too, whom you were talking to long before you came and spoke to me and the president.”