He led them closer. “I know most of the secret places in the desk. But what you were able to decipher told me about a new one and how to open it. That was exciting.”
He removed a skeleton key from his pocket and inserted it into a slot in the central door. Once turned, it set in motion a multitude of springs and latches. A wooden panel slowly unfolded to create a writing surface. Above it a lectern formed, angled to accommodate a book or a sheet of paper. At the same time two compartments emerged on either side that held inks, sand, and writing utensils. The whole metamorphosis was swift and smooth, done to the tune of tinkling music.
“It’s like a Transformer today,” Stamm said. “It appears as one thing, then becomes another. And it’s all old-school technology. Levers, springs, weights, and pulleys.”
He pointed out a few of the secret compartments. Small ones in nests, long slender ones with mother-of-pearl, swivel drawers concealed behind other drawers, all of them gliding open without a sound and easily slid back into place.
“There are maybe fifty or so secret spaces,” Stamm said. “That was the whole idea. To have spots to hide things. I genuinely thought I knew them all.”
He pointed to a section above the lectern where she saw more gilt bronzes and festoons of leaves and grapes. A Corinthian capital sat between two portraits in marquetry, a man on the left, woman on the right, each peeking out at the other from a side curtain, adding a whimsical touch. Stamm lightly gripped the small column between the images and twisted. “I would have never done this before for fear of damage. But a quick turn of the column releases a latch.”
The image of the man on the left suddenly moved and the wooden panel upon which it appeared sprang open, revealing a secret compartment. Stamm gently hinged the panel out ninety degrees. She saw an envelope inside, brown with age.
“I’ll be damned,” Levy said.
She reached in and slid out the packet. Written on its face, in faded black ink, was
For a tyrannical aristocrat
She realized that they were standing in a public hall, though out of the main line of traffic, people moving back and forth, so she quickly slid the envelope into a coat pocket and thanked her friend.
“I need you to keep this to yourself,” she said.
The curator nodded. “I get it. National security.”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t suppose you could at least tell me who left that.”
“Andrew Mellon hid it for FDR to find. But that never happened. Thank goodness we’re the ones to actually discover it.”
“I’ll be interested to hear, one day, just what this is all about.”
“And I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Without going to prison.”
She and Levy left the hall as Stamm went about returning the desk to its more benign self. They avoided the entrance they’d used coming in, which led back to the street, and exited the Castle toward the National Mall. She wanted a quiet place where they could read what was inside the envelope.
They followed a wide graveled path toward the museums on the far side. People moved in all directions. An empty bench ahead, beneath trees devoid of summer foliage, beckoned and they sat.
She removed the envelope from her pocket, “It’s definitely from Mellon. FDR said he used these words, tyrannical aristocrat, when referring to him. It seemed to really piss him off.”
“You realize,” Levy said, “that what’s inside there could change the course of this country.”
“I get it. That’s why we have to make sure no one else sees this but us.”
She was about to open the envelope when she heard footsteps behind them. Before she could turn a voice said, “Just sit still and don’t move.”
She felt the distinctive press of a gun barrel at the base of her neck. The man who’d spoken stood close, another man pressed equally close to Levy, obviously trying to shield their weapons.
“We will shoot you both,” the voice said. “Two bullets through your head and be gone before anyone knows the difference.”
She assumed the weapons were sound-suppressed and that these men knew what they were doing. Levy seemed nervous. Who could blame him. Having a gun to your head was never good.
“You do realize that I am the secretary of Treasury,” Levy tried, his voice cracking from nerves.
“You bleed like anybody else,” the voice said.
To her right she caught sight of another man, walking down the graveled path, wearing a dark overcoat, dark trousers, and the same shiny Cordovan shoes that she remembered from last night.
He stopped before them.
The ambassador to the United States from China.
FIFTY-SEVEN
CROATIA
Kim left the first-class car and proceeded back to where Hana said the four men were waiting. He decided that the time to lead had come and fear was the last thing he would show. So far he’d acted decisively, never hesitating in ending Larks’, Jelena’s, and the man at the hotel’s lives. No one would be allowed to stand in his way, and that included the four Koreans he saw sitting together ahead. He cradled the black case to his chest, the gun with sound suppressor still inside, and entered the car. He approached the four and sat across the aisle in an empty row of seats, their faces all set in a frosty immobility. Only eight other people were in the car, all at the far end.
“Are you looking for me?” he asked quietly in Korean.
*
Isabella could see into the car ahead and spotted Kim, apparently confronting the four problems. Luke was facing her, his back to the action.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she whispered.
And she told him.
“Crazy fool is tryin’ to unnerve them,” he said.
“He’s carrying the black satchel.”