“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
WASHINGTON, 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.”