She saw that he understood her inquiry. She wasn’t referring to espionage and some potential assassins. Her question was more specific.
More American.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But first, make the call to Italy.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
ADRIATIC SEA Malone sat at a table beside one of the exterior windows, the long dining room crowded, the air reeking of scrambled eggs and bitter coffee. The ferry was more a liner with 300-plus cabins, salons, bars, lounges, even a theater. Room for more than a hundred trucks and cars occupied its lower decks. Outside, the blue Adriatic rolled by as they cruised east toward Croatia, the ride smooth and level. He’d stayed with Howell the whole way, boarding after him, keeping his distance. There were several hundred people on board across the many decks, plenty of places to disappear into, yet Howell had come straight here and filled a plate from the breakfast buffet.
Not a bad idea, actually. So he’d followed suit, having a bagel, banana, and orange juice. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. But that was nothing unusual. Back when he was a full-time agent, he’d go days without eating. The anxiety and stress of fieldwork seemed to clamp his stomach. The same had been true at JAG when he tried cases in court. Thankfully, once the pressure was relieved, his appetite always returned. At the moment, though, things were ratcheting up. He’d found Howell, so the woman with the satchel should not be far behind. In Venice she’d gone one way, Howell the other, the idea surely to throw anyone interested off track. Of course, he doubted if Howell realized that two separate factions—the Justice Department and Treasury—were now interested in him. Yet the ruse had partially worked, as they were here without anyone from Treasury in sight.
As if on cue the woman with the black Tumi bag entered on the far side, walked over, and sat with Howell.
They kissed.
Malone relaxed into the clamor of dishes, silverware, and conversation, eating his breakfast, acting disinterested in anything and everything, his actions no different from those of the hundred or so others around him. The noise, along with the din of the unabated engine became hypnotic and he resisted the urge to close his eyes.
His phone buzzed.
The display read UNKNOWN.
He decided to answer, which also made him no different from a multitude of others engrossed with their own mobile devices.
It was Stephanie.
“Your number didn’t appear,” he said.
“I’m at another location, on a landline.”
“I have Howell and the documents in sight,” he whispered to her.
“Tell me,” she said.
He gave her a quick report.
“You’re going to have company at some point,” she said.
He listened as she explained about Kim Yong Jin, a disgraced exile who had once been the next in line to lead North Korea, and his contacts with Howell and Larks. Then she told him about a conversation with the Chinese ambassador.
“We suspect the Chinese and North Koreans may be after Howell and the documents. How about you secure them both before anything bad happens.”
“This is turning into something far more than a part-time babysitting assignment.”
“Don’t worry,” a male voice said. “I’ll make sure she ups your pay.”
Danny Daniels.
“Are you two always together?” he asked. “It sure seems that way every time we’re on the phone.”
Daniels chuckled. “We need you to get those documents back. They’re actually more important than Howell. So if you have to choose—”
“Let’s hope I don’t have to.”
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on site,” the president said.
“Your nephew might take issue with that.”
“Experience over youth. That’s all.”
“Were the Chinese behind that money theft?” he whispered.
“No, that was Kim,” Daniels said. “He didn’t want his half brother getting the money this year. But that cash is no loss to us.”
His hunch had been right. All of it was related. “Do you want me to use the direct approach or a little finesse to get those documents back?”
“Your call,” Stephanie said. “But get them, and bring Howell home with you, if you can. You might tell him that the Chinese have far less regard for his physical safety than we do. He’s in their crosshairs. He’ll be a lot safer in a federal penitentiary.”
“Let’s sweeten the deal,” Daniels said. “Tell Howell he’ll get a presidential pardon if he plays ball with us.”
“That’s quite a prize,” he said.
“Cattle go to the slaughterhouse a lot faster when there’s food in the chute.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He ended the call and went back to eating his breakfast. The ferry provided free WiFi, so he connected and used his smartphone’s browser to gather more about Kim Yong Jin, keeping one eye on Howell and the woman.
The name was familiar, but he could recall few details. He read that Kim was now fifty-eight. From an old article he learned that when Kim had been caught trying to gain illegal entry into Japan he’d chosen an odd identity, passing himself off as a Dominican friar named Pang Xiong. Fat Bear. Which seemed to fit Kim physically. Every online image showed that weight had always been a problem. There were two other brothers. The current Dear Leader, who was the youngest. And a middle brother, never in serious contention for anything as their father had considered him too feminine to lead. Kim remained a North Korean citizen, though he lived in Macao. His only public comment about the current North Korean leadership came ten years ago and was not flattering. “The power elite that have ruled the country will continue to be in control. I have my doubts about whether a person with only a few years of grooming as a leader can govern.”