His own immediate family, though, remained benign. His children were all grown, all of them except Hana married. None to his knowledge had any interest in politics. His sons were businessmen, his daughters either mothers or teachers, living in North Korea. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since he’d left. It seemed that his fall from power had also included losing his children. Hana alone remained loyal, never judging, always there. She so reminded him of her mother. They’d not been married. Instead, she’d been one of many mistresses he once maintained. On that score he and his father and grandfather were much alike. He couldn’t help it. Women were a weakness. He’d met Hana’s mother twenty-five years ago when he was still in favor, drawn by her beauty. His wife had never minded his dalliances, content with the wealth and privilege that being married to the heir apparent had provided. But she, too, left him after the fall, remaining in North Korea when he fled to Macao. Which he hadn’t really minded. The marriage had turned depressing, draining from him much-needed talents and energy.
As he studied Howell and the woman Parks had said was named Jelena it was obvious they were connected. Their light touches and casual conversation seemed proof of a close relationship. They seemed utterly at ease with each other, content that everything had worked as planned. So what should he do next? He could proceed a number of ways.
But Jelena made the decision for him.
She stood, kissed Howell lightly on the lips, and walked away, leaving the satchel on the table. Perhaps she was visiting the restroom? Or headed somewhere else? Didn’t really matter. They were now separated and he caught Hana’s eyes with his own.
And he saw she knew exactly what to do.
*
Malone studied Kim Yong Jin, who was clearly interested in Howell and the woman. He had to assume Kim knew both his and Howell’s identity—as who else on board that cruise ship would have set him up for Paul Larks’ death.
So what now?
The answer came as the woman with the satchel left Howell and bounded off toward the restrooms.
Kim immediately walked to Howell’s table and sat in the empty chair.
*
“Mr. Howell, you and I have never met personally. But we do know each other. I am Peter From Europe.”
It took a moment, then Kim saw that Howell seemed to register the identity.
“We’ve emailed,” Howell said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Howell looked much like his photo on the website. Mid-thirties, trim build, thinning black hair. The bio from the site had also noted a degree in political science. No work experience had been referenced and Kim doubted this man had accomplished much, besides stumbling onto what may be the cleverest weapon of mass destruction ever devised.
“How did you find me?” Howell asked, concern in his voice.
“Paul Larks facilitated that. I assume from him you know me as the Korean.”
He caught the surprise on Howell’s face as the American reached for the satchel and started to leave.
“That would not be wise.”
“Go screw yourself.”
Howell lifted the bag.
“I have Jelena.”
Howell froze.
“She is my prisoner.”
Howell’s gaze raked the room in the direction the woman had gone.
“Quite right. She just left. But my associates have her hidden away. Her life is now in your hands.”
He kept his voice low, directing both his words and gaze straight at his intended audience. The use of Jelena’s name sent a further message that he was also informed. But he hadn’t forgotten about Malone, across the room, who was certainly watching.
Howell sat.
“Much better,” he said.
He allowed Howell a moment of composure.
“I have to say, I’m disappointed in both you and Larks. I paid for you and him to come here, the idea being that I wanted to meet with you both. I thought we shared the same ideals. But then I learn that you considered me untrustworthy. A foreigner.”
“This doesn’t concern you. I’m not a traitor.”
“You’re just a man who thinks the rules do not apply to him.”
“They don’t apply to anyone.”
“Are you right, Mr. Howell? Is what you say true? That’s what I came to find out. We do share the same ideals. I want to believe what you say.”
He thought appealing to this man’s ego might work. People like Howell, who’d convinced themselves of the righteousness of their cause, were easily swayed by sympathetic ears. That same tactic worked every day across North Korea.
“Are you an American citizen?” Howell asked. “Do you really pay taxes? Are you subject to our laws?”
He shook his head. “None of the above. I lied about my predicament. But only because I truly want to understand what it is you know.”
“Why does this concern you?”
“It seems that anyone who is willing to aid your cause should be viewed as a friend. I doubt you have many allies. From what I know, you are a convicted criminal, a fugitive from American justice. Yet you judge my motives?”
The younger man leaned forward and whispered, “I’m not telling you a damn thing.”
Howell had seemed to calm himself. His nerve had returned, along with the boldness that had surely guided him in exile.
He made his position clear. “Then she will die.”
“I’ll get help from the crew. Turn you in.”
“And I will do the same to you. Except that you will then be available for arrest and extradition back to the United States, and Jelena will be at the bottom of the Adriatic, her body weighted, sunk to the depths.”
He could see that Howell was beginning to realize this was serious.
“What do you want?”
He pointed to the satchel. “To read what’s in there. After that, you and I will speak again.”
The ferry continued its smooth path east across calm water.
He did not have the time for Howell’s obvious agony of indecision. So he made the call for him, reaching for the case and saying, “Wait here.”
THIRTY
VIRGINIA
Stephanie felt better now that her agents were apprised of the danger potential. She’d meant what she’d said to Joe Levy. Never had she taken unnecessary chances with her people’s lives. After ending the call to Cotton she’d called Luke, who’d just made contact with Treasury’s eyes and ears, a female agent named Isabella Schaefer.
“I should have Treasury recall her,” the president said.
They were still sitting alone in Ed Tipton’s den. Dawn was not far away. She was tired and needed sleep, but she knew how to run on adrenaline. The president was a notorious night owl.
“Let’s not,” she said. “That agent has a ten-day head start on us. We could use her knowledge.”
He did not argue or object. Instead he sat silent, as if weighing the emergence of a new idea. She’d made both of her calls using Tipton’s landline. Danny had assured her that their host had said it was okay. But she was beginning to get the idea. “The Chinese now know I’m in the game.”