He sat in the rear seat with the wooden crate they’d retrieved from the hall closet. He’d switched on one of the rear ceiling lights and was rummaging through. The glare was blocking her ability to see out the rearview mirror, but she knew better than to ask him to cut it off. The car with the two Secret Service agents followed closely. Dawn was less than an hour away. Strangely, she wasn’t tired, though she should be. She’d passed the fatigue threshold several hours ago and found the point where the body began to run on autopilot, sleep be damned.
“It’s full of old books,” he said. “Most of ’em are on George Mason. And then there’s this.”
He stretched his arm forward and displayed between the two front seats a copy of a thin, hardbound volume. Taxation: The People’s Business. Written by Andrew W. Mellon.
“I didn’t know he was an author,” she said.
The book disappeared back to the rear seat. “This one I know all about. Edwin gave me a rundown on it yesterday.”
“You two have been busy. Don’t you have a country to run?”
He chuckled. “Actually, the thing runs itself. Especially when you’re a lame duck. Nobody gives a crap what I have to say.”
She knew better. “Unless you want them to give a crap.”
“The copyright page says it was published by the MacMillan Company in 1924. Edwin tells me that David Finley, Mellon’s close associate, actually wrote it for him, but everything in it was pure Mellon.”
She heard him flipping through the pages.
Then he started reading out loud.
The problem of the Government is to fix rates which will bring in a maximum amount of revenue to the Treasury and at the same time bear not too heavily on the taxpayer or on business enterprises. A sound tax policy must take into consideration three factors. It must produce sufficient revenue for the Government; it must lessen, so far as possible, the burden of taxation on those least able to bear it; and it must also remove those influences which might retard the continued steady development of business and industry on which, in the last analysis, so much of our prosperity depends. Furthermore, a permanent tax system should be designed not merely for one or two years nor for the effect it may have on any given class of taxpayers, but should be worked out with regard to conditions over a long period and with a view to its ultimate effect on the prosperity of the country as a whole.
These are the principles on which the Treasury’s tax policy is based, and any revision of taxes which ignores these fundamental principles will prove merely a make-shift and must eventually be replaced by a system based on economic, rather than political, considerations.
There is no reason why the question of taxation should not be approached from a non-partisan and business viewpoint. Tax revision should never be made the football either of partisan or class politics but should be worked out by those who have made a careful study of the subject in its larger aspects and are prepared to recommend the course which, in the end, will prove for the country’s best interest.
I have never viewed taxation as a means of rewarding one class of taxpayers or punishing another. If such a point of view ever controls our public policy, the traditions of freedom, justice and equality of opportunity, which are the distinguishing characteristics of our American civilization, will have disappeared and in their place we shall have class legislation with all its attendant evils. The man who seeks to perpetuate prejudice and class hatred is doing America an ill service. In attempting to promote or to defeat legislation by arraying one class of taxpayers against another, he shows a complete misconception of those principles of equality on which the country was founded.
“Easy to see how Mellon and Roosevelt fought,” Danny said. “Class warfare was Roosevelt’s ticket to four terms. He played that card every chance he got. But it was a smart move. There were a whole lot more ‘have nots’ than ‘haves,’ and numbers win elections.”
She could tell something was still bothering him.
It had been all night.
“Mellon was right,” he said. “Raising tax rates does not raise revenues. In fact, just the opposite happens. The rich just find a way to legally shelter their money and avoid the higher taxes. And who could blame them. But every time we’ve lowered tax rates, revenues rose. Harding. Coolidge. Hoover. Kennedy. Reagan. Bush. They all got that.”
“What’s the problem?” she finally asked him.
“My Treasury secretary lied to me. Edwin found out that Larks may have stolen an original along with all of those copies. Joe Levy never said a word about that. I’d bet my ass Morgenthau classified that crumpled sheet of paper he got from Mark Tipton, the one Mellon gave to Roosevelt, and Larks swiped it from Treasury.”
“And now it’s out there, loose on the world, and could fall into the hands of people who might figure out how to solve the code. Ask the secretary of Treasury if he lied. Joe works for you. If he holds back, fire him.”
He switched off the interior light. “That’s just it. I don’t think he’s doing anything to hurt me. I actually think he’s tryin’ to protect me.”
“From what?”
She approached a ramp for the interstate and entered the highway, increasing speed, the two headlights staying right behind her.
“That crumpled sheet of paper,” he said.
And she agreed.
“I’m not going to fire the guy for falling on his sword. You need to read Howell’s entire book.”
She’d caught enough through her perusal at the courthouse to sense its overall gist. “He’s an income tax fanatic. Seems to have a lot of issues with the 16th Amendment.”
“Here’s the deal,” he said, his voice low and distant. “Our national debt is $16 trillion. The interest on that debt is right at $200 billion a year. I found a website the other day with a counter that clicks off the national debt, as it accrues by the second. I sat there and watched the damn thing. It’s like a million dollars every minute. Can you imagine? It’s friggin’ mind-blowing.”
“And you just sat there and watched?”
He chuckled. “It’s kind of hypnotizing.”
She smiled. Sometimes he truly was like a big kid.
“Ninety percent of the revenue used to pay that debt comes from one source,” he said.
And she knew where. Income tax.
“Imagine if that tax was illegal?” He snapped his fingers. “No more 90 percent. Gone. Just like that.”
She caught the implications, but had to say, “It could be replaced?”
“Really? Congress would have to pass a new amendment, then thirty-eight states would have to ratify it. That would take a lot of time, all while that debt keeps growing at the rate of a million dollars every minute. And by the way, we couldn’t borrow a dime to cover any deficits since our credit wouldn’t be worth spit. Even if you passed a new income tax, we’d never catch up. The trillions in accrued debt would bankrupt us. Even worse, what if we knew the 16th Amendment was illegal all along, but declared it valid and kept collecting it. That’s fraud, making us liable for all those trillions of dollars we stole from folks.”
“A bit far-fetched, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m not so sure. I got a bad feeling here, Stephanie, one I’ve learned to trust. I keep thinking about the Chinese and the North Koreans. And Kim. What’s he after? Then I remember that our number one creditor is China. We owe it $1.2 trillion, growing by the minute, too. What do you think would happen if we defaulted on that debt?”
She knew. It could collapse China’s economy. “You think Kim is after the ammunition to take down our income tax?”
“You heard the ambassador. Unlike Dear Leader, Kim doesn’t owe China a thing. He’d just as soon stick it up their ass as not. That ambassador back there was scared. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice. He tried to hide it, but he was afraid.”
She’d also felt the apprehension, noting a few phrases hidden in the conversation, and a hesitation where there should have been none.
They kept speeding north down the interstate, the beginnings of the day’s rush hour not yet upon them. The sky overhead was fading from black to salmon. To the east, the sharp edge of a brilliant sunrise had already begun to illuminate the gray light of dawn.
“This dirty laundry of ours,” he muttered, “has a real stink to it. But thanks to Paul Larks it may be about to get an airing. You’ve known something’s bothering me. I saw it in your eyes at Treasury. This is it. Our Achilles’ heel.”
They rode in silence for a little while, both of them in thought.
“We can’t let this happen,” Danny finally said.
“I’ll check in with Luke and Cotton, after I leave you at the White House.”
“Do that. I need to know what they’ve learned on that end.”
The lights of the Capitol loomed ahead. A few minutes more and they would be at the White House.
“Before we get there,” Danny said from the rear seat, “there’s a couple of other things you have to know. Things I couldn’t say in front of Harriett.”
THIRTY-SIX
CROATIA
Isabella ran through the rain after Luke Daniels, the cobbles gleaming with moisture. She wondered what he meant when he told Malone, We’ll be right with you. The answer to her inquiry came as Daniels flagged down a taxi then, when the car stopped to retrieve him, flung open the driver’s door, yanked the man out, and shoved him to the wet concrete.
He motioned for her to climb inside.
She hesitated.
“Fine, stay here. You’re a pain in the ass anyway,” he yelled.
Dammit. She had to go. So she rushed to the front passenger-side door, opened it, and slid in. He settled behind the wheel, slammed the gearshift into drive, and off they went, tires spinning in the swishing rain.
“You never stole a car before?” he asked her.
“Hardly.”
He shook his head. “Welcome to my world.”
“You realize that driver is going to call the police,” she said.
“Hopefully we’ll be long gone before they can find us.”
He was following a road that rimmed the peninsula, outside the town walls along a quay, heading for the causeway to the mainland and, she assumed, the road that ran against the shoreline in the direction of where Kim and Malone had headed by boat. They were playing catch-up, but he was making time, passing cars, bursting through intersections, ignoring every traffic law.
And drawing lots of attention.
Horns blared and brakes squealed.
“You’ve apparently done this before?” she asked, trying to stay calm and holding on.
He twisted the wheel hard left and they turned north, now along the bay road. “I’ve had a little practice.”
The taxi was a dirty and dented Audi coup. Its interior reeked of nicotine and she cracked the window enough to allow in some fresh air.
“Keep an eye out in the bay,” he told her.
The rain continued to slap the car like pellets, splattering the windshield in drenching waves. She stared through the wipers and saw the ferry. The two orange lifeboats were nowhere in sight, but a spit of land jutting out into the bay, near the marina they’d spotted earlier, blocked their view. They’d need to be farther along on the road, past the outcropping, to be able to see anything.
Daniels seemed to realize that, too.
And the engine surged.
* * *
Kim stood beside Hana.
She piloted the boat away from the ferry and toward shore. Rain was now falling in thick sheets, which was good and bad. The storm provided excellent cover, but it had also stirred the bay into a boiling frenzy. Their hostage still lay on one of the benches, not moving. The black satchel rested on his shoulder, the travel bag at his feet. They needed to find a place to disembark, preferably with few to no people around. From there, a taxi or some type of ground transportation could surely be arranged to the airport or train station.
The lifeboat churned along at a steady but slow pace. Wipers barely kept the forward windshield clear of rain. He stepped to the windows on the port side and saw the outline of one of the many islands that protected the bay. Through the starboard windows he caught the Croatian shore, lined with buildings and trees. From the rear window he spotted another lifeboat headed their way.
The American.
Who else?
* * *
Malone kept the wheel steady through the rough sea. The lifeboat was more like a floating cork with a motor, designed to stay upright but not necessarily stable. Its engines were likewise engineered for durability, speed sacrificed for distance. His and Kim’s escape vehicles were identical, so unless the boat ahead slowed there was no way he could close the mile-or-so gap between them. But he could keep pace, and that’s what he intended on doing. He could only hope that Luke would be there when Kim made landfall.
His sea legs returned quickly, motion sickness never a problem. But it was obvious Howell was no sailor. The bobbing up and down and side-to-side had taken a toll.
“Hang your head out the hatch,” he said. “Get some air, and keep a watch on Kim at the same time.”
The wind’s howl grew louder as the side hatch opened. Cold rain sprayed inside. He knew nothing about the local geography, only that they were headed north, in a bay protected on two sides by land. Normally this would be calm, clear water.
But not today.
He heard Howell retching up his guts.
The throttle was full ahead and they were moving as fast as they could, which wasn’t anything to take note about.
But at least they were headed in the right direction.
* * *
Kim stepped back to Hana and made a decision.
“We need to slow down the boat pursuing us,” he said. “It almost certainly contains Mr. Malone, but regardless, whoever it is needs to be occupied. Luckily, we have something that might accomplish that.”
His gaze drifted to the semi-conscious woman.
“It’s time we lose her,” he said.
He opened the side hatch, then lifted the dazed woman from the bench and helped her to the portal. He doubted she’d be able to swim, the effects of the drug on her muscles and nerves too pronounced.
But her drowning would make for an even better distraction.
He shoved the woman out, headfirst.
* * *
Malone saw a body fall from the boat ahead. He yelled at Howell, “You see that?”
“Somebody’s in the water and they’re not moving.”
He was hoping Howell did not connect the dots.
But he did.
“It’s Jelena, Malone. It’s her. She’s disappearing in the swells.”
He realized that Kim had made him choose, which was no choice, actually, and Kim knew that. He angled the bow to port.
“More left,” Howell screamed. “The current’s got her.”
“Come here,” he screamed.
Howell rushed to his side.
“Take the wheel and work the throttle. Keep us close to her.”
He rushed to the hatch.
And leaped into the water.
* * *
Kim kept an eye behind them and saw a man jump into the surf, the other boat veering away and slowing to a stop.
“That should occupy them long enough for us to make shore,” he said.
The land to their right had steadily leveled, with fewer buildings and more pinewoods and deserted beach. Then solid earth ended and he spotted a forested point that formed another peninsula, more water and the Croatian shoreline beyond to their right.
“There. Avoid that barren stretch and head for the mainland.”
* * *
Isabella could see the two boats, out in the bay, one way ahead of the other. Then she saw something emerge from the lead boat and splash into the water. A person. The second craft had now slowed, someone leaping from it into the choppy sea. The first lifeboat kept going, never hesitating. They??
?d rounded all the coastal obstructions and could now see the entire bay. The first lifeboat was chugging away from another peninsula toward the main coastline.
“We can get him,” Daniels said. “He’s coming our way.”
They were still moving fast, the road here devoid of traffic in either direction. Fog kept clouding the windshield and windows, the defroster churning out more noise than heat. Brief glimpses of the chaos came when the gusts relaxed. Then a new sensation caught her eye. Red lights flashing. And a siren that wailed and howled. She whipped her head around and saw a police car behind them.
“We’ve got no time for them,” Daniels said.
“They might not see it your way.”
“They’ve got to catch me first.”
He gave the engine more gas, which surged them forward along a straightaway. Then, up ahead, she saw more lights flashing and cars blocking the road. She counted six. That explained the lack of traffic in the other lane. They were closing fast on a barricade, less than a mile away. Uniformed men stood ready. Several had guns aimed.
“Are you going to ram them?” she asked.
Half a mile.
She waited to see what Daniels would do.
Quarter mile.
Suddenly the windshield burst to life with a spiderweb of a thousand glittering opaque lines. Someone had fired at them and now it was impossible to see ahead. Daniels seemed to sense the futility and lifted his foot from the accelerator, jamming the brakes and turning the wheel sharp right. The car’s rear end swung around, perpendicular to the road, and they slid for a hundred yards on the soaked pavement before grinding to a stop.
Then, quiet.
Only the rain peppering the roof disturbed the silence.
Men encircled the car and screamed words in a language she did not understand.
But she didn’t have to.
“This ain’t good,” Daniels muttered.
And for once she agreed with him.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, DC