He turned to see a heavyset man in uniform bobble up in the dark. He still held his Beretta, which he quickly shielded behind his thigh.
“Are you stationed here?” he asked the man in Italian.
Languages were easy for him, the advantage of both living in Europe and having an eidetic memory. He was fluent in several.
“Were you in that crash?”
“Si. And I have to leave the island.”
The man came close. “Are you hurt?”
He nodded and lied, “I need a doctor.”
“My boat is there. Can you make it to the dock?”
He’d heard enough and revealed the gun, aiming it straight at the man.
Hands went into the air. “Please, signor. That is not necessary. Not at all.”
“The keys to the boat.”
“They are on board. In the ignition.”
“I need you to go back to wherever you stay and call for help. Tell them about the crash. Right now, do it.”
The unarmed guard did not need to be told twice. As the man hustled off, Malone made his way down to the dock and onto the boat.
The keys were indeed in the ignition.
He powered up the engines.
* * *
Kim removed the needle from Larks’ arm. The old fool had proven to be nothing but trouble. They’d spoken on the phone and communicated by email many times. He’d listened with patience to all the rants. Larks was angry with his government for a multitude of lies. Eventually Kim had revealed to Larks that he was Korean, not realizing that might be a problem. After all, Howell had bought them together, all of them supposedly kindred souls bound by the same interest. Larks himself was a widower who’d alienated his bosses—forced to retire after thirty-plus years of government service. He had no children and little other family. He was, for all intents and purposes, forgotten. Now he was dead. But two vital things had first been learned. Larks had passed his cache of documents on to a woman named Jelena and Howell would be in Venice tomorrow.
His cell phone vibrated again.
“We watched with night-vision glasses,” the voice reported in North Korean. “A man definitely jumped onto the chopper and hung from its strut. The pilot tried to lose him, but couldn’t. He dropped off, onto a small island, then we heard shots, and an explosion. That same man, still holding a gun, just left the island in a boat.”
With the chopper down, its occupants killed, and all of the men at the cash transfer, he assumed, dead too, the loose ends were certainly tied—except for whoever was in that boat.
True, the idea had been to steal the money.
But with it gone—
“I recommend you kill him,” he said.
“I agree.”
FIVE
ATLANTA
Stephanie sized up her assailant. He was government, of that she was sure. Career man. Nearing retirement. And confident. Too much so, actually, since they were now sitting in a mall food court.
“I love Chick-fil-A’s,” he said, gesturing with the sandwich he held. “When I was a kid my mother would buy them as a treat for me and my brothers.”
He seemed pleased by the memory. The other man—the one with the gun—sat at a nearby table. Though it was dinnertime, the tables were nearly empty.
“Is there a reason you’ve assaulted the head of an American intelligence unit? Your man over there threatened me and one of my people.”
He kept eating his sandwich. “The two pickles are the key. Just the right amount of dill flavor to spice up the chicken.”
She realized he was trying to get under her skin, so she asked, “What are you? DEA? FBI?”
“That hurts.”
But she knew. “Treasury?”
He quit chewing. “I was told you’re a smart lady.”
Any other time she’d tell this moron to go to hell. But that was the thing about fishing. If you dangled the right bait at the right time, what you were after just might swim by and sneak a nibble. And this fish had done just that. “Why does Treasury think it can threaten a fellow federal agent and hold her against her will?”
He shrugged. “You can leave whenever you want.”
“You must have friends in high places.”
He grinned. “Best kind of job security.”
That meant the secretary of Treasury. “All this sounds like a conspiracy to me.”
“Only in the best of terms. Done to get your attention. And see how well it worked? Here we are, sharing dinner.”
“You’re the only one eating.”
“I offered and you said no, so don’t blame me that you aren’t having any of this good ol’ American food.”
He sucked a swallow of Coke through a straw, then returned to his sandwich. His cockiness was weighing on her, as if she and the Magellan Billet were insignificant. But she’d encountered the attitude before. Of late that arrogance had all but disappeared since, for the past two years the Billet had been at the forefront of nearly every major intelligence success. It helped that the White House had total confidence in her unit, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by her colleagues.
“Who wants to get my attention?” she asked.
“Now, we just met, and I have a rule about kissing and telling, so why don’t we just say that they’re all good people and leave it at that.” He laid down his sandwich. “We figured you and your employee Ms. Lucent were not here for the sales on women’s wear.”
“So you listened in on our conversation?”
“Something like that. She seems like a loyal worker, coming to you and confessing like that.”
“She’ll be an ex-worker soon.”
“I figured. That’s why I decided it was time for us to chat.”
“About what?”
“Why is Cotton Malone in Venice?”
Finally, the heart of the matter. “We just met and I have a rule about kissing and telling, so why don’t we just say that Cotton’s good people and leave it at that.”
He smiled at her mocking. “We have a comedienne here. A real Carol Burnett.”
She dug in and readied herself for the fight she’d been hoping for.
“People wonder about you, Stephanie. Where you stand. What’s important. My boss—one of those good people I mentioned—defended you. He said Stephanie Nelle serves her country with honor. She’s a good American.”
He popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and she hoped he wouldn’t lick his fingers. But he did, then dried the tips with his napkin.
“I know a lot about you,” he said. “You’ve got a law degree and twenty-eight years at Justice. Before that you were with the State Department. You’ve been around, that’s one reason you were tagged to start the Magellan Billet. Experience and know-how, and you’ve done a heck of a job. Your agents are some of the best America has on the payroll. That kind of thing gets noticed.”
“Even by important people like you?”
He caught her sarcasm. “Even by me. You know, I love Chick-fil-A ice cream. Want some?”
She shook her head. “Trying to quit.”
He motioned to the other man. “Get me a cone and some more napkins.” The man headed off for the serving counter.
“Your minions always do your errands?” she asked.
“They do whatever I say.”
He seemed proud.
“You still haven’t said what you want with me.”
“And you haven’t answered my question. What’s Malone doing on that cruise?”
“I sent him.”
“Stay away from Paul Larks.”
Now it was her turn to play dumb. “Who’s that?”