The Hadrian Memorandum (12 page)

29

7:42 P.M.

Two more motorcycle officers were waiting when they reached the top of the stairs at Weidendamm Bridge. Their machines were parked to one side, and they stood on the sidewalk chatting. Left was the way Anne wanted to go, but to do it they would either have to walk directly past the police or cross the street to the other side, which might well be interpreted as a deliberate move to avoid them. Instead Anne turned them right across the bridge.

As they went she leaned in and kissed Marten again, whispering as she did. “Ahead is the train station. As soon as we get there, go inside.”

They didn’t look back. If the police were following them, there was no way to know. Forty seconds later they were at the station and going inside.

“If they saw us go in and they’re onto us,” Marten said quickly, “they’ll have cops watching every train. They probably do anyway. We have to get out, and now, but without getting on a train or going back out on the street.”

“This way.” Anne led them past the ticketing booths to a down escalator.

At the bottom she turned them left and then right and along a corridor that took them to an exit door at the far end. From there they crossed to the banks of the Spree as it wound through the city. Seconds after that they were at the top of a landing, then walking down a gangplank with a large group of tourists to board a double-decked tour boat named the
Monbijou
. The lower deck was a restaurant and already full, so the upper deck was where they were instructed to go. The upper deck, open to the view of anyone watching from another boat, a bridge, or from the banks of the waterway itself.

HOTEL ADLON, ROOM 647. 8:05 P.M.

“Get a technical unit up here right away,” Hauptkommissar Emil Franck snapped at Detective Bohlen. Immediately the ghostly thin Bolen clicked on a police radio and left.

It had taken Franck and his colleagues Bohlen and Prosser—with the help of the white-haired taxi driver, Karl Zeller, and concierge Stonner’s excellent staff—little more than thirty minutes to determine the room number and identity of the woman Zeller had picked up from the Hotel Mozart Superior and dropped off at the Adlon’s rear entrance at 6:02 P.M. With her had been a man who clearly resembled the person wanted by the police in the murder of Theo Haas.

“Her full name as registered is Hannah Anne Tidrow,” Stonner read from a computer printout just handed to him by a young hotel employee in a navy business suit.

“Address: 2800 Post Oak Boulevard, Houston, Texas. She checked in at one ten this afternoon and requested an open departure date. She has stayed with us before. She used an American Express credit card in the name of the AG Striker Oil & Energy Company of Houston, Texas. The billing address and the address she gave are the same.”

“When was the last time she was here?” Franck walked carefully around the room, looking at everything, touching nothing.

“Two years ago. March twelve through fifteen.”

“Hauptkommissar.” Detective Gertrude Prosser came in through the open door to the marble and polished-wood bathroom. “One or both of them took a shower. The hotel robe is still damp, as are three towels.”

“Two pieces of luggage.” Franck’s eyes scanned the room. One of Anne’s suitcases was on a luggage rack near the door; another was on the floor next to it. A pair of dark slacks, a designer blazer, two business suits, a pair of black dress slacks, an evening jacket, and a pair of expensive, somewhat wrinkled white linen slacks with a matching short-sleeve top hung in the open closet.

“Technical unit is on the way.” Detective Bohlen came back in from the hallway.

Immediately Franck lifted a small police radio and spoke into it. “This is Franck. I want information on a Hannah Anne Tidrow of the AG Striker Oil and Energy Company of Houston, Texas. What she does there, her title, how she’s involved with the company. If there is a recent photograph of her.” He clicked off and looked to Bohlen. “Get a canine team up here as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and Prosser go to the Hotel Mozart Superior. Get the names and addresses of everyone who registered there in the last ten days. Then assemble the staff, give them a description of Hannah Anne Tidrow, and show them the suspect’s photograph. Maybe they were only passing through or using the hotel as a way to throw us off, but if he was a guest there somebody will recognize him, and then we’ll have a name, a room number, and an address.”

“Yes, sir.”

8:12 P.M.

30

MONTE DE EL PARDO, SPAIN. SAME TIME.

The soil under the ancient olive trees was soft from a recent, unseasonable rain and made the grave easy to dig. A few minutes with a shovel and the job was done. Conor White lifted the corpse himself. It was small and delicate in his large hands. For a moment he studied it—the two tiny feet at the end of spindly legs, the unruly fluff of feathers at its neck, the proud twist of its beak, its gray wings, looking as if they could still take flight, neatly tucked back against its body. What kind of bird it was, or had been, he didn’t know.

“I hope you had a good life, my little friend,” he said reverently. Then, turning the creature over so that it would be on its side in the earth, he placed it gently in the grave and covered it over with soil. “Farewell and safe journey,” he said with the same reverence. Then, shovel in hand, he walked off through the olive grove toward the farm house.

To his right he could see the A6, the main highway to Madrid, and the evening traffic on it leading to and from the city. A thick forest of conifers surrounded the house from behind and to the side, obscuring it from the roadway, while fallow, unplowed fields stretched out in front and to the right in an expansive fifty-acre semicircle. The farm was for sale and had been since its elderly owner had passed away more than two years earlier. So far there had been no offers to buy and no funds allotted for upkeep. As a result the olive trees had gone unattended. So had the mile-long dirt and gravel drive leading into the property, an ingress/egress that had been washed away in any number of places by winter rains and was mottled with rocks and overgrown with weeds. Yet, troublesome as it was, it had not deterred vandals from breaking into the house and taking anything and everything of value, leaving only the stove and toilets and a few pieces of unwanted furniture. The only other structure on the property was a dilapidated barn in a state of such disrepair that the only reasonable thing to do would be to knock it down and rebuild it from the ground up. Altogether, the location made an ideal setting for the interrogation that had been going on since he and his colleagues had arrived from Madrid via private jet from Malabo and then been driven here in a hired car some six hours earlier.

Six hours of questioning was a long time and had left the people being talked to both terrified and exhausted. Which was, perhaps, the reason he still had no answer to his queries, and why he’d walked out, to give them a rest and let them consider the gravity of their situation and to get some fresh air himself. It was then he’d found the dead bird in the shadows just outside the door.

8:18 P.M.

He was closer to the house now. Inside he could see the dull glow of a portable lantern one of his men had brought correctly assuming the property no longer had working electricity. He looked up at a sky filled with red streaks and wisps of clouds as the sun set in the west. If he were the smoking man he once had been, this would have been the time he would have brought out a cigarette. But not now. Smoking was in his past, so he had nothing to use as a crutch except his own thoughts and emotions, which at the moment were deeply troubling.

This was hardly the situation he’d imagined when he took the job creating SimCo for Striker and Hadrian more than a year before, resigning from his own company to take a position that would be a major step forward in the highly lucrative world of private security companies. Not just a step but a leap, one that had begun with a ten-year contract with Striker Oil to protect their workers in Equatorial Guinea and that was renewable every five years afterward for the next fifty years. It was a situation that had instantly put him on a level with major private security firms worldwide, and that included Hadrian. But in that heady rush of expectation, neither he nor anyone else had foreseen the bizarre, even obscene, minefield that he and SimCo were in now. How graphically simple and stupid the whole thing with the photographs was. Almost as graphically simple and stupid as the Watergate break-in that brought down the Nixon administration almost a half century earlier. Yet it was as real for him as it must have been for Richard Nixon. But he wasn’t a paranoid president locked up in the golden hell of the White House; he was a highly educated, seasoned warrior whose charge it was to bring the nightmare of the photographs to a fast and silent resolution before everything disintegrated because of it.

In the last hours he had heard from Loyal Truex—twice—and from Josiah Wirth, who, at this moment, was on his way to Europe from Texas on an AG Striker corporate jet. Coming, he was sure, for one reason alone, to look over White’s shoulder and direct his every move. Both men had demanded to know where he was and how he was progressing and when, exactly, the problem would be resolved, as if he were a plumber called in to repair a broken toilet while a wedding party waited outside to use it. Both wanted it done yesterday, yet neither understood the complexity of finding the ghost he was chasing. Truex was trouble enough, but at least he and White spoke the same language. Wirth was entirely different, a man too driven, too egotistical, too rich, and too single-minded to view the world from any other perspective but his own. People like that easily became reckless, even foolhardy, especially when they began to lose confidence and feel things were slipping out of their control. As a result they left themselves wide open to their own brand of panic, one that easily led to judgments that could be hugely damaging and sometimes dangerous or even deadly, and not just to themselves but to people around them. And that was the last thing Conor White wanted.

Now or ever.

8:20 P.M.

In the growing twilight he could see the black Mercedes limousine that had brought the captives to the farm house parked under an overhang of trees. Its liveried driver and a similarly dressed local gunman, who had met White and the two SimCo mercenaries he’d brought with him from Bioko to Madrid and driven them there, were standing nearby smoking and chatting. Fourth and fifth hands if a problem arose inside the house. As if it would with the men stationed there: Irish Jack Hanahan, a former member of Sciathán Fianóglach an Airm, the Ranger Wing of the Irish army, with massive thirty-two-inch thighs, lightning reflexes, and fists like hams; and the wiry, almost too handsome French-Canadian with piercing green eyes, Patrice Sennac, at one time the CIA’s top Central American counterinsurgent, a veteran jungle fighter, who had a long scar at the side of his mouth to prove it. Depending on the situation, either man could be absurdly polite or grimly lethal to anyone, friend, enemy, or whoever fell in between. Like those waiting for him to come back inside and begin the questioning once more—the young Spanish doctor and her four medical students. Five people who might very well know what the Equatorial Guinean army interrogators had failed to find out—the location of the photographs. Might very well know because Nicholas Marten would have had every opportunity to tell them: on the road to Malabo from where they had first met on the beach in Bioko South, or in Malabo itself at the hotel over drinks, or, last and most likely of all, on the long overnight plane ride to Paris.

White would have much preferred to have gone after Marten himself and left the doctor and her students to others, but that assignment had gone to Anne, who Truex, Sy Wirth, and Anne herself felt could get closer to Marten than he could. So instead he was given the secondary target, the five now inside the house.

The thing driving it all was urgency. Find the photographs and destroy them before they fell into what could only be referred to as “public hands.” For White the pressure was all the greater because he was a prominent figure in any number of the pictures, and if they were made public everything he’d worked for all his life would be gone.

Everything.

Colin Conor White had been born in London, the only child of a young barmaid and George Winston White, a London railway worker who died of a heart attack several weeks after his son was born. Soon afterward Conor’s mother, in grief and despair, left the city and went to live near her sister in a small two-room flat in Birmingham in west central England, where he grew up street-tough and all but impoverished. When he was eleven, and quite by accident, he discovered a farewell note tucked away in a cabinet above the kitchen sink in a long-forgotten box of memorabilia. In it, he learned that his father had not been a railway worker at all but instead a very married man. His name, what he did, and even the truth of the note were things his mother refused to discuss during an anger-filled confrontation, telling him in no uncertain terms that the idea was preposterous and that she had no idea who had written the note or where it had come from and warning him not to bring up the subject again.

Her heated denial only sent him digging for more. A careful examination of the London Transport Executive records, the railway authority at the time, determined that no worker named George Winston White had been employed there within two years of his birth. Eighteen months later and after considerable snooping, he discovered the man to be Sir Edward Raines, a handsome, silver-haired, longtime member of Parliament and former decorated officer in the British army who had lost an arm in the Battle of Crater during the Aden Emergency on the Arabian Peninsula in 1963. Raines, it seemed, was not only his father but was paying his mother a yearly stipend to keep silent about it.

Challenged again, his mother, quite irritably, kept to her original story, refusing to acknowledge any such person or arrangement. Moreover, the confrontation caused her to sink deeper into her own increasingly apparent mood of base self-pity. How dare he think a “somebody” such as Sir Edward Raines would even consider paying attention to a woman who barely had a grade school education and no breeding whatsoever? He could still hear the shrill, anger-filled ring of her voice:

“You should get it permanently through your head, Mr. Conor White, that neither me nor you will ever have that kind of social status and that you had best prepare yourself for a working man’s life and not be making up silly fantasies about who you might prefer your father to have been. They will get you no further than the two-room flat we live in, if you’re that lucky.”

Maybe so. But fantasies or not, he had other ideas and had gone directly to Sir Edward himself demanding a confirmation of his paternity. Or rather he’d tried to. Each time he’d been rebuffed by an intermediary, Sir Edward refusing to even see him.

Powerfully built, sullen and angry, and little more than a street tough, Conor White’s salvation had come through a determination to be as celebrated and socially acceptable as his father. Through a love of reading and the physical escape of rugby, which he’d played with a ferocity aimed directly at Sir Edward, he won a full scholarship to Eton College, where he excelled in English and was captain of the rugby team. Success there provided him entry and a scholarship to Oxford; upon graduation, he joined the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst determined to become an officer in the British Army. Not long afterward he managed an invitation to join the elite special forces unit known as the SAS. It was an invitation he jumped at because it promised the opportunity to become a frontline soldier in highly dangerous combat situations and, not so coincidentally, offered a playing field where, with luck and extreme courage he could become a military hero. The same as his father had been.

And for most of the last quarter century he had followed that path, building a stellar reputation as a top line operator in extremely high-risk situations across the globe. His SAS career alone, with an extraordinary run of decorations, was proof enough. Distinguished Service Order, or DSO, presented for meritorious service, valor in the face of the enemy, Iraq, 1991. DSO, Iraq, 1998. DSO, Bosnia, 2000. DSO, Sierra Leone, 2002. Victoria Cross, the United Kingdom’s highest award for bravery, presented by the queen for duty in Af ghan i stan, 2003. DSO, Iraq, 2004. Then he’d moved into the private sector, where, even now, he remained a poster-boy hero with plans to one day run for parliamentary office. So to have it all come to a thundering end—his face smeared across the Internet and worldwide television, to be seen staring out from the covers of newspapers and tabloids everywhere as a lackey for an oil company intent on overthrowing the government of a third world country for its own gain, no matter how tyrannical the regime—was a humiliation he could and would not suffer.

8:22 P.M.

He reached the house and set the shovel alongside the front door, giving it a second glance as he did, wondering if more graves would have to be dug that night. A deep breath of resolve and he took a black balaclava from his jacket pocket, pulled it on, then opened the door and went inside.

The five “guests” were as he had left them, sitting in the glow of lantern light on a rustic wooden bench in the room that was once part kitchen, part dining area. By now he knew them by name—Marita, Gilberto, Rosa with the big glasses, Luis, the red-haired Ernesto. All were as pale, terrified, and silent as they’d been when he’d gone out. Except for Marita, they all stared at the floor. Her eyes had been on him the moment he stepped through the door. They were filled with defiance and hatred.

Irish Jack stood at the end of the bench, his arms crossed over his chest. Patrice was in front of them, feet apart, his arms behind him. Both wore the jeans and pullover sweaters he did. Both had automatic pistols in Kevlar holsters strapped to their thighs. Both wore the same kind of black balaclava he did.

“Who is ready to talk about the photographs?” White said in his crisp British accent.

“For the hundredth time, we cannot tell you what we don’t know,” Marita spat angrily.

Conor White looked at the frightened, sullen faces and scratched his head. “Maybe we’re making this too hard,” he said evenly and with that reached up and pulled off his balaclava. This was the first time he had been without it, and he could see their surprise as they recognized him from the bar in the Hotel Malabo. “Gentlemen”—he looked to Patrice and Irish Jack and nodded—“a little politeness, please. No reason to alarm these people any further.”