Before she could rise the door to the compartment slid open and she saw a man. Mid-thirties, sparse hair, slight build. She knew the face.
Anan Wayne Howell.
“Where is Jelena?” Howell asked.
“Nearby,” her father said. “Once we have our chat, you may have her.”
But she knew that was a lie. Howell would most likely end up dead, too. How many more would die? Fifty? A hundred? Ten thousand? Millions? The fact that she could not say with any certainty was proof enough that her father was indeed Kim.
“Sit down,” he said to Howell. “My daughter was just leaving.”
She rose and stepped out into the narrow corridor. Howell allowed her to pass, then entered the compartment.
She slid the door closed.
It seemed that with every word she became more distant. Her father lied with such ease. Nothing about his tone or countenance changed, whether his words be truth or fiction.
So nothing he said could be believed.
Even more proof that he was Kim.
* * *
Isabella had followed Howell through the train. He was searching. She watched through the window in the far exit door, which offered a view into the next car, as Howell apparently found what he sought, disappearing into one of the first-class compartments.
A young woman appeared in the hallway.
Hana Sung.
That meant Kim was there.
She quickly claimed a seat across from a woman with two small children, who tossed her a faint smile. She returned the gesture and heard the door at the far end of the car open, then close. She was sitting facing away in a four-seat configuration. She waited until Hana Sung passed, heading for the exit that led toward the cars at the rear of the train. Sung should have no idea of her identity. On the cruise they’d both kept their distance from Larks and a variety of wigs had changed Isabella’s appearance by the day.
So far, so good.
Howell was in place and Kim’s eyes and ears were on the move, temporarily blind and deaf.
Advantage to the good guys.
FIFTY-THREE
Kim faced the American.
“I’m not telling you a thing until I see Jelena,” Howell said, the voice sharp and raw.
“I’m not sure how you believe yourself to be in a position to demand anything. We will talk. Then, once I have what I need, you will have your lady.”
He could see that Howell wasn’t happy, but that the younger man realized he had no choice. “What do you want to know?”
He motioned with the original crumpled page. “What are these numbers?”
“They’re a substitution code Andrew Mellon created.”
“Have you solved it?”
Howell shook his head. “I didn’t, but Cotton Malone did. He told me so on the ferry.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Because he wanted to know if he was right?”
“Was he?”
“Dead on. His solution makes perfect sense.” Howell paused. “I want to know what you’re going to do with all of this.”
“I plan to end the income tax.”
“Which will end America.”
He shrugged. “The seeds for that destruction were laid in 1913 when the amendment was falsely certified as legal. You were convicted because of that wrongful act. I only want to right that wrong.”
“It will still destroy the country.”
He was perplexed by the comment. “Which you didn’t seem to mind when you published your book and told the world about your theory. Now it’s somehow my fault that you proved to be right? You are the one who started all this.”
“I was fighting for survival.”
“As am I.”
“What will you do? Funnel whatever there is to some anti-tax organization and to the cable news networks? That should generate enough buzz that it can’t be swept under the rug.”
He grinned. “Fortunately, America is full of people who want to adopt a cause. I shall simply hand them one. I’m sure there will be plenty of members of your Congress who will want to champion the issue. The lawsuits will be numerous and endless.”
“Income tax is over ninety percent of federal revenues. If it’s voided, then the United States goes bankrupt. You do realize the effect that will have across the globe.”
“Catastrophic, I assume. But living in a closed society, such as North Korea, will then become an advantage. We are not dependent on the world for much of anything. And we’re certainly not dependent on the United States. So its fall will have little consequence for us. Isolation will become our greatest asset.”
“What about China?”
He shrugged. “It will hurt, but they’ll adapt. One thing is certain. They will have a newfound respect for North Korea, and its new leader. They will not ignore or ridicule me. If you like, I can extend citizenship and you can live there, too.”
“Like you’re going to allow me to hang around and claim some of the credit.”
“That’s where you are wrong. I would not mind that at all. You conceived the idea, but I perfected it. And should you not resent your government? It lied to you and to millions of its citizens, demanding tax money that was legally not its to take. You were even sentenced to prison. America loves to proclaim itself a land of laws. It denounces governments across the world who ignore the rule of law. We shall see how accepting America is when those laws are turned against itself.”
He was enjoying this moment of triumph. The last decade had been one failure after another. Only in the past few months had things begun to turn around. Now he seemed on the threshold of greatness. But he forced his mind from the grand scheme and onto a more immediate problem.
He motioned with the crumpled sheet.
“What does this mean?”
* * *
Hana made her way through each of the passenger cars, moving from first class back to standard, surveying the passengers. There weren’t all that many, the train perhaps a quarter full. The gun she’d removed from the man at the hotel rested against her spine, beneath her jacket. No security checks ha
d been required to board the train, for which she’d been grateful. Two years ago her father had insisted she take shooting lessons. The world was a tough place, he’d said, and she should be able to protect herself. She hadn’t argued since feelings of security were always welcomed. The entire purpose of the camps had been to strip prisoners of all self-respect and keep them in a constant state of panic. It was a form of control she’d come to both recognize and deplore. She was a person. An individual. Her name was not bitch. She was as unique as each grain of sand on the beach.
And her mother’s sins were not hers.
So far her recon had raised no alerts.
The train slowed.
They were coming to the first station.
She made her way to one of the exits between the cars. A few of the other passengers rose and headed that way, too. Apparently, this was the end of the ride for them.
The train stopped inside a lit building.
People moved on and off.
She stepped down to the platform and studied both directions, checking to see who was coming on. Two cars away she spotted a man about to board. Young, dark hair, Korean face. He carried nothing, his hands jutted inside coat pockets. He tossed her a stare that contained a look of triumph, seemingly unconcerned about being inconspicuous. He wanted her to know he was there, daring her to do something about it.
A bell rang signaling the stop was over.
She stepped back onto the train.
* * *
Isabella had been able to ease back a few cars, keeping pace with Sung. When her target stepped down to the station’s platform, she’d watched out the window and spotted an Asian man hopping onto the train. A glance ahead and the same man now headed straight into her car and assumed a seat, his hands remaining inside his coat pockets.