“I can’t go into that. And it’s not important to what I need from you at the moment. Suffice it to say that we’ve been before this court here several times and obtained surveillance warrants on Kim, Larks, and Howell. They like to email.”
“Larks and Howell are U.S. citizens,” Harriett said. “This court’s jurisdiction applies only to foreign nationals.”
Probably another reason why the secretary had avoided the Justice Department for his warrant applications.
“They’re both working with a foreign national, and together they’re compromising the security of this nation. That makes them this court’s business.”
“Kim and Larks have been openly and knowingly communicating?” Harriett asked, with a lawyer’s tone.
Levy nodded. “Many times, though Paul Larks is unaware that it’s Kim he’s speaking to. He thinks it’s a South Korean businessman, living in Europe, whose companies are being wrongfully taxed by the United States. He has no idea of Kim’s true identity, or at least that’s what we believe.”
Something bothered Stephanie. “You knew that there’d be a robbery in Venice, didn’t you? It was Kim. He went after that $20 million. Yet you told us none of that, and put my man at grave risk.”
He nodded. “We knew Kim was going to make a move on the money.”
Now she was pissed. “We don’t send people into something like that blind. Not ever.”
The secretary said nothing.
“Whatever this is,” she said, “it better be really important.”
“You have no idea.”
“What is it you want from us?” Harriett asked.
“To back off. Let me handle this.”
Harriett shook her head. “We’re done playing games, Joe.” Stephanie had heard that tone before. “You’re way out of your league.”
“And you’re not?”
“That’s why I have the Magellan Billet. This is its league. You’re taking crazy risks, talking riddles, dodging questions. I’ve got no choice. I have to go to the White House.”
Stephanie checked her watch and knew what was happening in Venice. “That cruise ship is emptying its passengers right about now.”
“Call your people,” Harriet said. “Advise them of the situation.”
The door to the conference room burst open.
A man entered.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with thick graying hair, dressed in a shirt, no tie, wearing a distinctive blue nylon jacket. Embroidered above the left breast was the seal for the president of the United States.
“Evening,” Danny Daniels said.
NINETEEN
VENICE
Malone felt better. A shower, shave, and change of clothes had made all the difference. His time unconscious had actually helped with fatigue. He was rested, ready to go. He’d packed light for the cruise, bringing only one shoulder bag, and had not deposited it outside his door last night, as required. So he’d carry it off himself.
But first he intended to play a hunch.
He left his cabin and headed toward the ship’s center, staying one deck above the main foyer where passengers would be leaving. The atrium was several floors high, three stylish, glass-enclosed elevators available to shuttle people up and down. A few of the ship’s many lounges could be seen along the foyer’s perimeter and all of the administrative desks were there, convenient and accessible. On their first day aboard he’d watched as Larks switched dollars for euros at one of them.
He wondered what Cassiopeia was doing. He missed seeing her. She was one of the few people he’d ever actually become comfortable with. He had friends and associates, but few close ones. Part of that was his former job, part his personality. He just always stuck to himself. Some of that could have been the result of being an only child. Who knew? His ex-wife had hated his constant withdrawing. Cassiopeia had been different. She, too, cherished alone-time. They were actually far more alike than either of them had ever admitted. It was a shame the relationship was over. He had no intention of making further contact. He’d tried, and she’d made her position clear. Any move from this point on would be hers. Stubborn? Maybe. Prideful? Sure. But he’d never begged anyone for attention and wasn’t about to start now. He’d done nothing wrong. The problem was hers. But he still missed her.
He checked his watch. 7:45 A.M.
Sunshine rained down outside, softened by the ship’s bronze-tinted windows. People were debarking through the main gangway into an enclosed walk that led into the cruise terminal, where luggage and Italian customs awaited. Past that were land buses, taxis, and a concrete wharf where boats would shuttle guests into town or to the airport. Most would leave by water. The cruise terminal sat at Venice’s extreme west end, just before the only causeway that led across the lagoon to the mainland. In and around the terminal was the only place vehicles were allowed on the island. If this hunch played out, he’d have to be ready to move in an instant to who-knew-where.
Announcements called for passengers in predesignated categories to make their way off. He found an observation spot one deck above, near a semicircular stairway that led down to all the activity. People streamed off the ship, mostly folks in their sixties and seventies. The time of year and price of the trip cut down on families and children. Mainly professionals populated the cabins—people who cruised several times a year all over the world, enjoying their retirement. He doubted he would ever retire. What would he do? As much as he hated to admit it, he missed being a field agent. Three years ago, the idea of quitting the Magellan Billet, resigning his naval commission, and moving to Denmark had seemed like a good one. Leave the past behind and head forward. But things had not worked out that way. He’d stayed in trouble, with one crisis after another. Some he had no choice but to be a part of, others were optional. Now he was again being paid for his time.