The Patriot Threat Read Free

were men in our past who knew that a man like you—a tyrannical aristocrat—would one day come along. So I thought it fitting that history”—Mellon pointed to the bill—“and that anomaly begin your quest. As you can see, the formation of the two triangles joins five letters. O S A M N. It’s an anagram.”
    Roosevelt studied bill. “Mason. They form the word Mason .”
    “That they do.”
    Against his better judgment he had to ask, “What does it mean?”
    “The end of you.”
    Mellon held a military bearing, standing tall, head still cocked down, as if openly mocking his commander in chief’s inability to stand. A hissing log from the fire burst from the flames and spat at them.
    “A strange coincidence, to use a phrase, by which such things are settled nowadays.” Mellon paused. “Lord Byron. I thought it apt here, also.”
    His guest moved toward the door.
    “I’m not through speaking with you,” Roosevelt called out.
    Mellon stopped and turned back. “I’ll be waiting for you— Mr. President.”
    And he left.

 
    ONE
    V ENICE, I TALY
    M ONDAY, N OVEMBER 10
    10:40 P.M.
    Cotton Malone dove to the floor as bullets peppered the glass wall. Thankfully the transparent panel, which separated one space from another floor-to-ceiling, did not shatter. He risked a look into the expansive secretarial area and spotted flashes of light through the semi-darkness, each burst emitted from the end of a short-barreled weapon. The glass between him and the assailant was obviously extra-resistant, and he silently thanked someone’s foresight.
    His options were limited.
    He knew little about the geography of the building’s eighth floor—after all, this was his first visit. He’d come expecting to covertly observe a massive financial transaction—$20 million U.S. being stuffed into two large sacks destined for North Korea. Instead the exchange had turned into a bloodbath, four men dead in an office not far away, their killer—an Asian man with short, dark hair and dressed as a security guard—now homing in on him.
    He needed to take cover.
    At least he was armed, toting his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta and two spare magazines. The ability to travel with a gun was one advantage that came with again carrying a badge for the United States Justice Department. He’d agreed to the temporary assignment as a way to take his mind off things in Copenhagen, and to earn some money since nowadays spy work paid well.
    Think.
    He was outgunned, but not outsmarted.
    Control what’s around you and you control the outcome.
    He darted left down the corridor, across gritty terrazzo, just as another volley finally obliterated the glass wall. He passed a nook with a restroom door on either side and kept going. Farther on a maid’s cart sat unattended. He caught sight of a propped-open door to a nearby office and spied a uniformed woman cowering in the dark interior.
    He whispered in Italian, “Crawl under the desk and stay quiet.”
    She did as he commanded.
    This civilian could be a problem. Collateral damage was the term used for them in Magellan Billet reports. He hated the description. More accurately they were somebody’s father, mother, brother, sister. Innocents, caught in the crossfire.
    It would be only a few moments before the Asian appeared.
    He noticed another office door and rushed inside the dark space. The usual furniture lay scattered. A second doorway led to an adjacent room, light spilling in through its half-open door. A quick glance inside that other space confirmed that the second room opened back to the hall.
    That would work.
    His nostrils detected the odor of cleaning solution, an open metal canister holding several gallons resting a few feet away. He also spotted a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the maid’s cart.
    Control what’s around you.
    He grabbed both, then tipped over the metal container.
    Clear fluid gurgled onto the hall floor, spreading across the tile in a river that flowed in the