He stepped close and listened, hearing nothing. He gently knocked and waited for a response. None came. He rapped his knuckles again, this time loud and insistent. Still no reply. He pushed the door inward and stepped inside. The suite was dark, some ambient light spilling past the glass doors to the balcony and more from the hall outside.

“Mr. Larks,” he said, his voice low.

A short entranceway led into the main salon, an open doorway to his left into what was most likely the bedroom. He saw the outline of someone lying down. One arm was draped over the mattress edge, the hand angled askew.

He checked for a pulse.

None.

Paul Larks was dead.

He wondered about the Tumi satchel and stepped out into the salon, making a quick search and finding nothing. Back in the bedroom he scanned the bathroom and closet, switching the lights on, then off.

No satchel.

He left the bathroom light on and came back close to the bed. No evidence of violence was anywhere to be seen. He wondered if Larks had simply died of natural causes. But if so, how coincidental would that be? On the bedside table he spotted an insulin kit with syringes. He was about to reach for the phone and call for assistance when something pricked his right leg.

Sharp.

Stabbing.

Like a needle.

He recoiled.

The room spun. His mind fogged. Muscles throughout his body began to surrender their strength. His legs buckled. Stunned and dizzy he fought for balance. His knees found the carpet. The world blinked in and out and he saw a figure emerge from the other side of the bed. Someone had been beneath the mattress. That sight made him think of another night, from a few years ago, in southern France. Dark and windy, when someone had been shooting at him.

Cassiopeia Vitt.

Their first encounter.

And then before he blacked out, like in France, this time he also thought he saw the outline of a woman.

ELEVEN

Kim switched on his laptop and settled down in the chair. His suite came with several rooms, including a dining area with a polished mahogany table. He’d ordered dinner—some gazpacho, braised pheasant, and an array of cheeses, complemented by a Loire wine and aged claret. Most of his meals had been enjoyed right here, which had allowed him to keep a low profile. His only ventures out had been to the spa for several delightful treatments. He’d hoped that a jovial European atmosphere aboard ship might open the lines of congeniality among himself, Howell, and Larks. But none of that had occurred, and the presence of a former American agent had changed things even further. Now Hana would deal with Malone. He was fortunate to have her. North Korea was indeed a man’s world, but that did not mean a woman could not be useful.

The laptop announced that it was ready to work.

He’d first written while in college, and quickly discovered that he liked the experience. An English professor told him that all writers had a little voice in their head, one that didn’t say write a bestseller or sell lots of books, it simply whispered for them to write every day. If listened to, the voice went silent. If ignored, the urge never relented. He’d long ago learned to listen to the voice. Writing freed his soul and allowed his imagination to wander. When his father had stripped him of his birthright, writing had been what saved him. And where reality had seemed always defined by others, his creative life could be shaped exactly as he wanted.

His rereading of The Patriot Threat and his visit with Paul Larks had sent his thoughts reeling.

He needed to soar.

The envisioned scene became clear.

The day his father disowned him.

“You will not succeed me.”

He’d expected a rebuke, maybe even some discipline, but never those words.

“Your actions have caused me disgrace and embarrassment. My advisers have concluded that you must be replaced.”

“I was unaware that you listened to advisers. You are our Great Leader. Only your word matters. Why do we care what others think?”

“And that is why you cannot succeed me. You have no understanding of what it takes to rule this nation. My father led this country and tried hard to reunify it. He invaded the south and fought the great war and would have prevailed, if not for American intervention. His leadership is still remembered. Five hundred statues are erected in his honor. After every wedding newlyweds find the nearest likeness of him and lay flowers at his feet. His body rests in a glass coffin where hundreds of thousands come each year to pay their respects. You could never garner such feelings from the people.”

He did not agree, but he stayed silent.

“What were you thinking?” his father asked. “Going to Japan and an amusement park? What possessed you?”

“The love of my children.”

“You show love for your children by not dishonoring your parents. That way they see in you what you expect from them. You have shown your children nothing but disgrace.”

He’d had enough of the insults. “I am a patriot.”

His father laughed. “You are a fool.”

“Who will take my place as Great Successor?”

“One of your brothers will assume the role.”

“You’re making a mistake. I’m not incompetent. Quite the contrary, I am my father’s son.”

“If you were my son, your judgment would be far better.”

“And what is

yours, Father? You continue to prod the south, threatening war, causing nothing but discontent. You spend all of our money on weapons and bombs, while the people starve. You constantly threaten the Americans with disaster, yet never do a thing to assert yourself. And why? Because you can never allow our soldiers to invade the south. Once there, they would see how well fed the people are. How good they live. They’ll realize immediately the lies you have told them. You forget, Father. I have seen the world. I know the truth. So what are you, but a paper tiger.”

“I am the leader of this nation.”

“Which means nothing outside this nation. I was educated far from here, at your insistence. I know what the world thinks of us. We are laughed at—thought of as idiots. We are regarded like naughty children who require discipline. You say I have brought disgrace to you. What disgrace have you brought to us all?”

“I see that my decision is the right one. Your brothers would never speak to me like this. One of them will be worthy.”

He felt empowered, not afraid to say, “They will be you. Another paper tiger, threatening everyone, doing nothing, being laughed at. That is your legacy, Father. It will not be mine.”

“You are a dreamer. You have been all your life. You stay lost in your self-centered world. Your mother was the same. Neither of you will ever accomplish a thing.”

“My mother taught me to actually do something. That is why she lives in Russia. She could no longer take your insults and indiscretions. Her marriage meant something to her. So she acted. Now one of your bastards will rule? Fitting. Some say you were a bastard child, too.”

Anger flooded his father’s face. “You and I will never speak again. Do not come in my sight.”

“That will be my pleasure. But I want you to remember something.”

He stared hard into his father’s eyes.

“I am no paper tiger.”

He reread the scene and liked the approach, though it was not entirely accurate as to the real confrontation with his father after the Tokyo Disney incident. He’d actually been beaten, his father watching as underlings pummeled him. And as he lay on the floor with broken ribs and blood gushing from his nose, his father had coldly told him that he would be disinherited.

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