Hana heard gunfire and knew that her father was killing more people. He’d left with the gun in the satchel for a reason. She’d counted six rounds and wondered how many of the four men were left. Howell also realized something was happening.
“You’re not getting off this train,” he said to her.
What did this man know that she didn’t? There was no way he was aware of the Koreans, as he’d been here, inside the compartment with her father, when all four had boarded.
The Americans.
They were here, too.
* * *
Kim fired a
shot in the direction of the remaining problem, but the man was no longer on the floor. It took a second for him to realize that his target had sought refuge in the first row of seats. Partitions protected the rows, extending from the top of the seats to the floor, which meant he could not ascertain anything from below.
And looking up would expose him.
The exit door ahead slid open.
He risked a peek.
The man was fleeing.
He pursued.
* * *
Isabella felt the train slowing.
“We’re coming into Solaris,” Luke said.
“We have to get to Howell.”
She saw that he agreed. Surely by now some of the panicked passengers had alerted the crew. But the train was long with many cars, and it might take another minute or so for someone official to come investigate. Through the glass in the doors she saw Kim exit the car ahead.
Luke motioned.
They followed.
Three-quarters of the way through the next car she saw the bodies of three dead Asians.
“That makes two left, including Kim,” Luke said.
“You’re forgetting the daughter.”
He nodded at his error.
“Who probably has Howell.”
* * *
Hana had thought about this moment for a long time, ever since she realized that her father was evil. If her mother was right, then he was responsible for the misery she’d experienced during the first nine years of her life. No guard, no teacher, no one would have been able to hurt her if not for him sentencing her mother to exile. And though she despised her mother, for this one time she believed her. Kims created the camps and Kims kept them going. Sun Hi had been born there because of Kims. And she died there for the same reason. One afternoon a few months back her father had sat her down and told her about a book he’d read, The Patriot Threat, written by the man sitting across from her. It foretold a possible way to destroy the United States of America, and maybe even China. He’d seemed excited by the possibilities, enthused at the prospect of revenge on his half brother. He’d spent nearly every waking moment since trying to make that a reality. They’d traveled all over, him plotting and planning, she watching and waiting. He never asked and she rarely volunteered anything about herself. For men like her father—self-absorbed, egotistical, and maniacal—what others thought rarely mattered. As long as she remained willing, appeared vested, and questioned nothing he simply assumed she was his ally.
She’d learned that trick in the camp.
But unlike her father, the guards were rarely fooled. Of course, being able to beat, torture, and kill at will made their task much easier. Her father, at least, had a few rules to which he must adhere. Not many. But enough to tie his hands and cloud his judgment. True, he had taken her from the camp. She meant something to him. She was just not sure what.
And that seemed the only question left to answer.
Everything else was clear.
Especially what to do now.
How many people had she seen killed in the camp? She tried once to count, but had not been able. How sad that it was so many she could not even determine their number.
So many lives lost.
And all because of Kims.
For a long time she was simply too young to do anything. Only in the past few years had she matured enough to watch for opportunities. Sadly, she knew she would never be happy, nor content, nor rid of the horrible memories. Any semblance of a life had been denied her. Thankfully, the instinct for survival all Insiders developed never left her. She was, in many ways, that same prisoner who’d meant nothing to no one.
But she was also Hana Sung.
First victory.
Howell was fidgeting in his seat, clearly anxious.
There may not be another opportunity.
She raised her gun.
SIXTY
WASHINGTON, DC
Stephanie entered the National Gallery with Joe Levy at her heels. They’d walked over from their bench at the far end of the Mall and gained access through the building’s impressive south entrance. Wide marble steps led up to the second floor. Chick-fil-A Man was waiting for them at the top, in the portico, among a forest of massive columns.
“Did you record everything?” she asked him.
He nodded. “Got it all, nice and clear.”
“Good job.”
And she meant it. He’d played his part to perfection. The technology the ambassador had boasted that China utilized was also available to the United States, and had been used to return the favor. Everything said a few minutes ago at that bench was now memorialized. She led the two men inside the building, just past the doors and before the security checks, into what was labeled FOUNDERS ROOM. Wood-paneled walls showcased framed oil portraits of men and women, the most prominent of which was Mellon’s, hanging high above the fireplace. She marveled at the irony that everything had ended up right back here.
The moment the Chinese ambassador departed Ed Tipton’s house she’d gone under a microscope. Which was why, as Danny had explained during the drive back to DC she’d been included in the meeting. Plenty of NSA intercepts had already determined that the Chinese were deeply involved and that they’d been communicating with the North Koreans. Danny had told her all about those just before she’d dropped him at the White House. He’d also correctly concluded that there was no way to be rid of the Chinese, and that they were most likely double-dealing with the North Koreans, none of which would be good for the United States.
So he told her a story.
“Any turkey decoy can get a tom into shotgun range,” he said. “That’s about forty yards. But a lot can go wrong in forty yards. Blink an eye or move your leg a little when you fire, and your turkey gets away. Now, if you want that bird archery close, you need a decoy, and it takes a helluva good one to draw the bird in. If you don’t think your turkey decoy looks real, the bird won’t, either. I used to love huntin’ turkeys. If you’re lucky enough to be able to chase unpressured birds, then it’s easy. Just stay on the trail till you take ’em down. But pressure changes everything. Pressured turkeys don’t run toward bad calling, fidgety hunters, or decoys that don’t look real. To score those everything has to be right, especially the decoy. That’s what we have here, Stephanie. A pressured turkey, headed straight for us. What we need is a good decoy.”
So she and Cotton had fashioned one.
Assuming the Chinese would be listening to her mobile calls, they’d intentionally utilized open cell phones to create the perfect turkey decoy. The call she’d made to Cotton from the eighth floor of the Mandarin Oriental had most likely been a safe one. No one was nearby to intercept. She’d used a landline in Joe Levy’s office to make the more critical calls to Cotton, where they’d worked out the details. She then arranged for a visit to the National Gallery, the idea being to use the locale as a means to funnel information to the other side. Chick-fil-A Man had been sent to confront her, their entire conversation staged, similar to what had happened in Atlanta only this time they were all on the same side. If it worked once before, she felt, why not again? They’d prolonged the confrontation as long as possible, and she had to admit that the thing with the $20 bill was fascinating. But the main idea had been to provide anyone who might be listening with Kim’s Croatian location. The NSA had zeroed in on the Hotel Korcula thanks to Kim’s use of his laptop, which they’d been monitoring for some time. If the Chinese had succeeded and killed Kim, then it would have been all over. Sure, the crumpled sheet of paper would be in Chinese hands, but since she was way ahead of them, there’d be nothing for them to find. No harm, no foul. If the attempt failed, then Kim would have simply been flushed farther into Cotton’s trap. Either way, the good guys win.
Before grabbing a bite to eat earlier, she’d retreated to Carol Williams’ office and, on a landline, learned from an asset the embassy had dispatched to the Zadar hotel of the attack, with one man dead, shot by Kim, who was accomp
anied by a young woman. The unknown was how many resources the Chinese had on the ground in Croatia and whether they could rebound and mount an attack on the train. But that was a risk Cotton had known he was taking.
Once the code had been solved, Cotton had called on her cell phone and announced that fact to the world, sending her an encrypted text with the correct solution. That she passed on to Joe Levy via another secured text while leading her nosy listeners to a desk in the Smithsonian Castle, one she’d long known existed.
If you don’t think your turkey decoy looks real, the bird won’t, either.
Thankfully the Smithsonian had the resources to accommodate her urgent requests. Its conservation lab was a master at restoring old books, but it also possessed the ability to reproduce antique documents. So while still at the Treasury Department she’d called Richard Stamm, and he’d readied the perfect decoy in less than two hours. An envelope stained and bleached to look eighty years old, along with a single sheet of paper with faded print from an old manual, ribbon typewriter, which the conservation lab had on hand. Cotton had suggested the wording, and she’d refined it.
Mr. President, I hope this quest has proven as enjoyable for you as it was for me to create. I wanted to see if you would actually do as I instructed and it’s good to know that you did. Unfortunately, there is nothing to find. No danger exists to this country, except the ones you will inflict upon it. Surely, by now, I am dead. But if for some reason you have found this message before I pass, please be sure to let me know your thoughts. I will give them the same courtesy and consideration that you have always shown to mine.
She’d seen the writing cabinet at the Smithsonian before and knew of its many secret compartments. So the envelope with the fake message was delivered to Stamm, who hid it inside. When she called Joe Levy from the Mall on her cell phone the Chinese again were listening. And like that pressured turkey, they ran straight for an irresistible decoy. All she and Levy had to do was play their parts to perfection.
Now the Chinese had their prize, only it was no prize at all. They would conclude that the entire affair was just a way for a rich man to torment a president, part of a vendetta from long ago that had no relevance today. Cotton’s actual deciphering of the code had been delivered to Carol Williams by Chick-fil-A Man, face-to-face, just after the earlier encounter in the garden court.