“I gave them to Jelena. She said the right password.”
The name was unfamiliar. A new participant. But he wanted to know. “Tell me what the password is.”
“Mellon.”
“Like a fruit?”
“No. Andrew Mellon.”
He caught the irony, but still asked why that label had been chosen.
“He was the custodian of truth.”
Only someone who’d read Howell’s book would understand that observation.
“When did you give Jelena the documents?”
“A few hours ago.”
This was a problem, for sure, as retrieving these papers was partly why he was here. Weeks ago he’d tried from long distance to coax them from Larks with no luck. Then he’d conceived the idea of a meeting overseas. A rendezvous that might not only provide the written evidence he sought, but lead him to the instigator of it all. Anan Wayne Howell. Author of The Patriot Threat.
“Does Jelena know Howell?” Kim asked.
“She does.”
“And how will she deliver the documents?”
“She’ll meet Howell tomorrow, after leaving the ship.”
Clearly, things had not gone as planned. But he’d expected bumps along this treacherous road. Dealing with odd personalities and desperate people came with risk.
“Who are you?” Larks asked suddenly.
He glanced down to the bed.
The drug had worn off faster than anticipated, but he’d kept the dose light so the old man could communicate readily.
“I’m your benefactor,” he said. “The Korean.” He did not mask his contempt at the label.
Larks tried to rise, but Hana restrained him. It took little effort to keep the older man down.
“You’ve disappointed me,” Kim said.
“I have nothing to say to you. This is an American problem. We don’t need people like you involved.”
“Yet you accepted my money. Came on this trip, and I heard no complaints.”
He twisted the valve, allowing more of the drug to flow downward. A fog quickly reappeared in Larks’ brown eyes.
“Why did you turn on the Korean?” he asked.
“Howell thought it best. He was suspicious.”
“Of what? Was not the Korean your friend?”
“These wrongs do not involve foreigners.”
“What wrongs?”
“Those done to Salomon, to Mellon, to Howell, to all the people. They’re ours to solve. Sadly, it’s all true.”
Kim increased the flow, which would allow Larks’ mind to completely surrender free will.
“What is all true?” he asked.
“The patriot threat.”
He knew the term from the book, but the question had always been—was it real, or just the fantasy of some fringe author bent on wild conspiracies? He was literally betting his life that it existed.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He handed the IV bag across the bed to Hana and found the unit.
“The helicopter exploded over the lagoon,” a man reported. “We were too far away to know anything, but we did see a man jump onto the chopper as it lifted off. We’re headed by boat now to where it exploded.”
“Twenty million dollars gone?” Kim asked.
“It seems so.”
“This is not good.”
“Like we have to be told. Our payment just went up in flames.”
The men had been hired on a 50 percent commission.
“Find out what happened,” he said.
“We’re en route.”
More problems. Not what he wanted to hear. He ended the call and stared down at the bed, thinking about the courier Larks mentioned.
“There may be a way to find the woman,” he said to Hana. “This Jelem.”
She handed the IV bag back to him.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered. “When Howell appears.”
Which meant Paul Larks was of no further use.
So he opened the valve all the way.
THREE
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
5:20 P.M.
Stephanie Nelle entered the department store and marched straight toward women’s apparel. The mall was on the north side of town, not far from Magellan Billet headquarters. She’d never been much of a shopper, but occasionally she enjoyed an evening or a Saturday afternoon browsing, something to take her mind off her job. She’d led the Magellan Billet for sixteen years. The intelligence unit had been her creation, twelve agents, employed by the Justice Department, who handled only the most sensitive investigations.
All good people.
But something was wrong.
And it was time to find out what and why.
She caught sight of Terra Lucent across the store and navigated the aisles toward her. Terra was a petite woman with copper-colored hair, one of four administrative assistants the Billet employed.
“You want to tell me why I’m here,” Stephanie said as she drew close to her employee. “And shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I appreciate you meeting me. I really do. I know it’s unusual.”
“To say the least.”
She’d found a note on her desk that asked her to come to Dillard’s at 5:30 and tell no one. Terra had worked for her a number of years, assigned the graveyard shift because of her levelheadedness and dependability.
“Ma’am, this is important.”
She registered concern on the younger woman’s face. Terra had recently divorced, for the fourth time. A bit unlucky in love, but she was good at her job.
“I have to report something. It’s not right what’s happening. Not right at all.”
She caught the dart of the other woman’s eyes as her gaze raked the store. Only a few employees and a couple of shoppers milled about.
“Are you expecting someone?”
Terra faced her and licked her lips. “I just want to make sure we’re alone. That’s why I asked you to come here.”
“Why the note? Could you not have called? Or just talked to me at the office? Why all this secrecy?”
“I couldn’t do any of those.”
The words were riddled with apprehension.