Another more recent article described how North Korea had long been actively engaged in both ballistic missile and nuclear warhead production. The country remained under international sanctions, pressure to end its nuclear development coming from all sides, including now from its chief ally, China.
He then found a fascinating New York Times piece from last summer describing a stage show that had been broadcast live throughout North Korea. A costumed Tigger, Minnie Mouse, Mickey, and other Disney characters had paraded before Dear Leader and a slew of clapping, uniformed generals. Mickey Mouse himself had conducted women in slinky black dresses playing violins. Scenes from Disney movies were shown on screens behind the performers. Disney songs were played and sung. A spokesman for Disney was quoted as saying that none of that proprietary use had been sanctioned or licensed by the company. The band on stage was said to have been organized by Dear Leader himself, who was noted as possessing a grandiose plan to bring a dramatic turn in the field of literature and arts.
He smiled. What irony.
One brother was chastised and stripped of power for his interest in Western entertainment. And the other used the same thing to seemingly bolster his popularity. He could see how Kim Yong Jin might resent his half brother. But none of that explained exactly what was happening here. Lots of tendrils and bits and pieces existed, but nothing as yet had come into focus.
He finished his food and downed the rest of his juice. Howell and the woman remained at their table. He was about to head that way and get this over with when a man entered the dining room. He had a round brow on a round, fleshy head, atop a heavy, doughy body. The face was wide and seedy, his hair cut short, the neck thick and chinless. Replace the designer shirt, slacks, and jacket—which surely hung better on their hangers—with a drab green uniform buttoned to the neck and he made for the perfect North Korean stereotype.
Kin Yong Jin.
TWENTY-EIGHT
VENICE
Isabella had changed clothes and dried her hair. Her luggage rested in the water taxi, beside the helmsman, along with two travel bags Luke Daniels had tossed on board. They were headed to the airport. Just before leaving the cruise ship terminal, Daniels had taken a short telephone call. He then informed her that not only Howell but also Kim and the woman with the documents were now on a ferry to Zadar, Croatia, scheduled to arrive there in three hours.
Exactly what she wanted to hear.
That cold trail just turned hot.
She was back positive, reassured, in command. So she’d arranged for a quick flight across the Adriatic on a charter plane, which would place them on the ground just before the ferry arrived. The only thing Daniels had not mentioned was how he’d come to know all that he did.
So she asked.
“Malone’s on the ferry,” he told her. “We tagged Howell after he clipped you into the water and followed him.”
They were alone inside an enclosed cabin that usually accommodated about ten passengers. The water taxi rode low to the water and the roar from its engines shielded their conversation.
“Maybe it’s a good thing Malone doesn’t follow orders,” she said.
Otherwise she’d be back to square one, three months’ worth of work truly wasted.
“This Haym Salomon,” Daniels said. “Was he really that important?”
Telling him more on that subject wouldn’t hurt a thing. “I’d say so. The Continental Congress was broke. It had no gold or silver, and in those days currency had to be backed up with real collateral. Each colony printed its own money, but hyperinflation had taken hold. Prices skyrocketed, shopkeepers quit taking Continental dollars. We desperately needed a loan from the French, but it never came. What did come was French money that flooded the American market. Scrip sent to pay soldiers who were here fighting with us.”
She explained how Salomon realized the usefulness of that French scrip and started buying those bills of exchange, the goal being to establish a standard value. But there was risk. If the American Revolution failed, the bills would be worthless and Salomon would lose everything. There’d be no way to recoup his investment.
“But he believed in the cause,” she said. “And what he did funded the Continental army. He invested his entire fortune in buying those French bills of exchange. Then he made loans to Congress, mainly from his own reserves. He expected those loans would be repaid once the fighting ended, but he died in 1785 before any of that could happen.”
“And his widow was cheated out of repayment?”
“Cheated is a strong word. She provided documentation for the debts and asked for repayment, but those papers disappeared. Without them, she had no evidence of the debts. That documentation has been missing since 1785.”
The boat continued to plow along, rounding Venice’s northwest corner and heading for the international airport.
“During the Revolutionary War Salomon and George Washington became close. Washington was grateful for all that Salomon was doing. When the war ended, he asked Salomon what he might like in return. The man was modest and said he wanted nothing for himself, but he would like something for American Jews. So years later, as president, after Salomon had died, Washington made sure there was a tribute added to the nation’s Great Seal. You have a dollar bill?”
He found one in his wallet and handed it over.
She flipped it over and pointed at the right side to the familiar eagle clasping thirteen arrows. “Look there, above the bird. Thirteen stars. Notice anything about them?”
She traced the outline of two triangles with her finger.
A six-pointed star.
“The Star of David,” she said. “Washington’s gift to Haym Salomon.”
He was amazed. “I’ve never noticed that before.”
“Few have. But once you see it, it’s hard to miss. Kind of like that arrow in the FedEx logo.”
She could see that he was fascinated. She had been, too, when first told. “I assume history was not one of your interests in school?”