She recalled something they’d discussed earlier. “You told me that Mellon is buried in Virginia. So they had the funeral in Pittsburgh, then brought him south for burial?”
Carol shook her head. “That’s not what happened. He died in New York and they returned the body to Pittsburgh. Flags were flown at half-mast and the service itself took place in the East Liberty Presbyterian Church, where he’d worshiped as a boy. It was all a bit unusual for the Mellons. Normally they paid their last respects at the home of the deceased. The casket stayed closed. At his request.”
Which immediately raised questions in her mind, as she knew it would in Danny’s.
“Three thousand people came. There were so many flowers that the local florist had to send to Chicago for more roses and chrysanthemums. I read some of the newspaper articles. Even President Roosevelt sent flowers.”
She realized how hollow that gesture had been.
“His casket was taken to Homewood Cemetery. The family had a mausoleum there. He was laid to rest with his brother.”
“So how did he end up in Virginia,” she asked.
“His son died in 1999. He had the Virginia connection. The son lived a long time, surviving them all. So before he died he had his mother, sister, wife, and father all brought to the church in Upperville. Like I told you before, a reunion in death for a family that had never been united in life.”
“That means,” Danny said through the phone, “in 1937 Mellon was in Pittsburgh.”
She got it.
The sound of the president of the United States’ voice clearly unnerved Carol.
“You know where I need to go,” she said.
“It’s less than two hundred miles,” Danny said. “I can have you there in under two hours.”
“I want to come, too,” Levy said.
Danny chuckled. “I thought you might. You’ve been along this far, so why not.”
SIXTY-FIVE
CROATIA
Kim kept to a steady pace up the barren street, careful on the slick stones. Unfortunately, he wore leather as opposed to rubber soles, which ordinarily he preferred. He was grateful for the fog, though, which was moderately close to the ground, thicker up the lengths of the weathered houses that encased the narrow way. If this path accommodated any traffic it was surely only one-way.
The lights of the cathedral bled through the fog and he used them as a beacon. He had no idea where they were headed, only that it was away from the station and the gunfire. It had been a miracle they escaped. During the chaos he’d recognized one of the shooters. He’d been off to himself, using one of the pillars for cover, but he was reasonably sure it had been the American, Malone.
Hana had handled herself with skill, forcing some of their attackers to seek cover. The two Koreans, whom he’d seen clearly, had definitely been sent by his half brother to kill him. The other two from inside the train he wasn’t sure about, but they’d appeared American. He needed to accelerate his plans, but Anan Wayne Howell was gone. How to proceed from this point was a mystery, but he’d find a way. Hana carried the documents, which he’d need. And Howell said that Malone had solved the code.
That meant he could, too.
He just needed time.
*
Malone stayed back, more hearing Kim and his daughter than seeing them. Kim must be wearing leather heels, the click off the cobbles easy to follow. Thankfully, his own shoes were rubber-soled, each step silent and sure.
Behind him the foggy night sky continued to be red-and-blue-strobed from the police cars. Hopefully Isabella had distracted the authorities enough so that he could finish this. He wasn’t sure where Kim thought he might be going, but he appreciated the fact that they were no longer near the train station. He hoped Howell would make it, but doubted it. Taking two bullets to the chest was usually fatal. He hated that he’d placed the man in jeopardy, but doubted he could have kept Howell away. Death always seemed a consequence of what he did. He still thought about his friend Henrik Thorvaldsen, and what had happened in Paris. And then there was Utah, just a month ago, and the events that had cost him Cassiopeia Vitt. An anger began to boil inside him, and he told himself to keep cool. This was no time for sentiment or emotion.
He had a job to do.
And the future of the United States might depend on it.
*
Isabella’s hands were cuffed behind her back, another one of those plastic bands that the police here seemed to tighten too much. Arrested twice in one day. That had to be a record for a Treasury agent. But she’d done her job and covered Malone’s back.
Now it was up to him.
An ambulance finally arrived at the station and two uniformed men rushed inside with cases.
“Do you speak English?” she asked the officer gripping her arm.
He nodded.
“I’m an agent, working the United States Treasury Department. My identification is in my pocket. The man inside is an agent, too. I need to see about them.”
The officer ignored her. Instead, she was led to one of the police cars, shoved into the backseat, and the door closed. Through the front windshield she spotted the body of the man she killed, police standing nearby. She’d noticed no one had headed up the street.
Her diversion worked.
“Now it’s up to you,” she whispered to Malone.
*
Hana stopped and turned. Though she saw nothing but darkness and mist, she knew someone was behind them. The camp had taught her about danger. From the guards, other prisoners, even family. Attacks were common, and prisoner-on-prisoner violence was never punished. On the contrary, it seemed to be encouraged. Even she’d finally succumbed to its lure, attacking her mother with a shovel.
“What is it?” her father asked.
She continued to stare back down the street. Lights only existed at a few of the intersections, barely visible in the murk. All the buildings were rudely constructed of stone, topped by tiled roofs, most with unpainted balconies jutting outward, everything stained by time and weather. No movements anywhere betrayed a problem, the storefronts and doorways quiet.