The Hadrian Memorandum (24 page)

66

“I trust you got a car.” Marten took the initiative the moment he reached her. If she’d seen him talking on the phone or even sliding it into his jacket he didn’t want her asking who he was talking to and why. Better to keep the conversation on her and what was going on and hope she wouldn’t bring it up.

She nodded toward the rental agency. “It’s parked in front.”

“No questions about you? Who you were? How long you wanted the car? Where you planned to go?” He started them down the path and toward the street where the rental was.

“I said I was a tourist. I wanted it for a day or two, maybe more. That was it.” Suddenly her eyes flashed and she pressed him. Hotly. “Where the hell were you? I was looking all over. You were in this rush to get out of Faro, then you disappear into the woods. What were you doing, climbing trees?”

“I was looking for something.” Marten glanced around. The old men were still playing chess. Farther down a pair of young lovers lay in the grass, seemingly with no care in the world but themselves. A man of forty or so in jeans and a light sweater played with a small leashed monkey near the park’s entrance. For now, that was all.

“Looking for what?”

“Huh?” he brought his attention back to her.

“You said you were looking for something. What was it?”

“Garlic.”

“Garlic?”

“Ornamental garlic plants,
Tulbaghia violacea
. They’re growing here somewhere. I smelled them, I just couldn’t find them.”

Anne was incredulous. “We’re trying to get out of here and you’re looking for plants?”

“You may remember that flora interests me a great deal. It’s my profession. The reason I was in Bioko. It’s also a world I’d be very happy to get back to, and the sooner the better. So yes, garlic. You don’t believe me, take a deep breath, tell me what you smell.”

“You’re serious.”

“You act as if I’m making it up. Go ahead, sniff.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Sniff.”

“Fuck,” she said and then inhaled.

“What do you smell?”

“Garlic.”

Marten grinned. “Thank you.”

9:30 A.M.

The car was a silver Opel Astra with an automatic transmission. Marten took the N125 highway toward Portimão, some forty miles west. If Hauptkommissar Franck had put out an EU all points bulletin to apprehend Anne, or if her bank accounts were being electronically monitored, so far nothing had happened in the short time since she’d used a credit card at the car rental agency. And if whoever was following—CIA operatives or Conor White and maybe this Patrice—they hadn’t made themselves known either, at least that he was aware of. Still, he kept close watch on the rearview mirror.

“Okay. There’s just the two of us, we have a car, and we’re on our way,” Anne said abruptly, the light banter of before gone. “Where the hell are we going?”

Marten knew he had stalled as long as he could. “Rental agent give you a map?”

“Yes.”

“Open it and look for Praia da Rocha. It’s a beach town near Portimão.”

“Praia da Rocha.”

“You know it?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

9:35 A.M.

67

LEARJET 55, ON APPROACH TO FARO INTERNATIONAL

AIRPORT. AIRSPEED 190 MPH. ALTITUDE 2,420 FEET.

SAME TIME.

After thirty years of police work Hauptkommissar Emil Franck’s connections across Europe ran deep. Some were legitimate, some criminal, others somewhere in between. Marten’s Cessna had barely touched down at Faro when Franck learned about it from the Policia Judiciária at the airport, who quickly made several calls spreading the information. It worked like a charm.

A cousin of Judiciária police inspector Catarina Melo Tavares Santos was a desk employee of the Auto Europe branch in Faro’s Montenegro district. Santos’s physical description of Anne Tidrow fit perfectly with the woman who had rented a silver Opel Astra barely half an hour before. She’d had to wait fifteen minutes until her supervisor went on break before she could access the rental records and confirm the identity of the Opel’s renter. At the same time, she noted the car’s license number, then went outside, clicked on her cell phone, and spoke directly with her cousin. It was Inspector Santos who was on the phone with Hauptkommissar Franck now.

“New silver Opel Astra, four door, license number 93-AA-71,”
Santos said,
“rented in Montenegro at 8:57 A.M. by one Anne Tidrow of Houston, Texas. Marked down for an open-ended rental. Suggested time frame, twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

“Destination?”

“None was given, sir.”

“Obrigado
, Inspector,” he said.
“Obrigado.”
Thank you.

Franck clicked off and looked at Kovalenko. “They are thirty minutes to an hour ahead of us,” he said with a quiet confidence that bordered on condescension. “A car will be waiting when we touch down. I suggest whatever call you need to make, you do it now. Moscow must be waiting to hear from you.”

“Yes, Hauptkommissar, they must be.” Kovalenko’s eyes zeroed in on Franck’s. “Breathlessly.”

9:43 A.M.

PORTIMÃO. 10:18 A.M.

Marten turned the Opel south, circumventing the city. He’d judiciously watched the rearview mirror for most of the trip. If they were being followed there was still no sign of it. Nor had there been any close-in air traffic, helicopters or civilian aircraft, to suggest they were being watched from above. Satellite tracking was always a possibility via the car’s GPS system, but satellite operators would have had to have been alerted, and that was something that took time and required several layers of authorization before it would be put into effect. The thing was, at this point, they seemed to be ahead of their pursuers, and so the complications almost didn’t matter. He was too close to the end to do anything but go for it and hope everything worked out. Still, he knew he had to be ever cautious of Anne and remember how much was at stake all the way around. If he could wish for anything now it would be a gun, the more powerful the better.

10:20 A.M.

The distance from Portimão to Praia da Rocha was short, two miles at best. They were traveling south under a high sun. Mist rolling in from the sea intensified the brightness and gave everything a dangerous glare, making it hard to see without squinting. To their left was the wide estuary of the Rio Arade that flowed from the inland mountains to Portimão and from there into the Atlantic between Praia da Rocha on the western shore and Ferragudo on the eastern. They were almost there, and Marten felt his pulse rise in anticipation. All they had to do now was drive into the city and, with luck, locate Avenida Tomás Cabreira and then this Jacob Cádiz at a
livros usados
, which Marten had roughly translated as a used-book store.

10:32 A.M.

Avenida Tomás Cabreira turned out to be Praia da Rocha’s main drag. It was jammed with hotels and shops and restaurants and overlooked jagged sea cliffs and a beach far below that was dotted with rows of bright umbrellas and an uncountable number of semi-dressed beachgoers.

10:50 A.M.

They had driven the avenue itself twice and now were doing it again. What they saw this time was what they had seen before. Traffic, tourists, the
Hotel da Rocha
, the
Hotel Jupiter
, restaurant
La Dolce Vita
, restaurant A
Portuguesa
, restaurant
Esplanada Oriental
, bars, outdoor cafés, curio shops, a bank, a pharmacy, and several bakeries. But no bookstores, new or used.

“Used books. You’re sure?” Anne asked.

“That’s what Theo Haas told me.”

“No name for it.”

“All he said was livros usados, Avenida Tomás Cabreira.’ ” Marten knew he couldn’t expect to just show up and go right to it. Still, it should have been easy enough to find on a main street like Tomás Cabreira. But clearly it wasn’t here. So where was it? Closed? Moved to another location? Or had it never been here? Had Haas wholly distrusted him and sent him on a road to nowhere? If so, had he come all this way for nothing? Were the photographs still somewhere in Berlin?

“Christ,” Marten swore under his breath. He glanced around. A group of teenagers waved cheerfully, no doubt tickled by what seemed to be lost tourists who were chugging down the street for the third time in less than ten minutes. The driver of a car behind them honked impatiently, then suddenly sped up, passed in traffic, and cut sharply in front of them. Still no used-book store. Marten looked at his watch: 10:55 A.M.

The longer it took to unravel the puzzle, the more important time itself became. Slowed as they were and with no goal in sight, they were giving whoever was following them every opportunity to find out where they had landed and then pick up their trail. If they were CIA they would have had assets on the ground to begin with. Assets who could easily tap into car rental agency records, find Anne’s name and what make of car she had rented and its license number. Once they had that, finding them would relatively easy; then all they had to do was lie back and watch until they recovered the photos. Then what? If one of them happened to be Conor White, they could look to the same fate that had befallen Marita and her medical students in Spain. More than ever he wished he had a gun.

“Pull over,” Anne said suddenly.

“Why?”

“Just pull over.”

Marten did, sliding to a stop in a bus zone. Without a word she got out and approached two elderly men chatting outside a bar. They looked at her and then at each other, then back to her. The first man, plump, with a wrinkled hat and a dark suit with even more wrinkles, smiled. Then a finger came up and he pointed behind them and up a narrow alley. Anne grinned and nodded, then patted him gently on the cheek and came back to the car.

“It’s called “Granada.” Up the alley in the back.”

“How the hell did you do that?”

“You may remember I was in El Salvador, darling.” She slid in next to him. “A little Spanish goes a long way in this world, even in Portugal. Besides, a good CIA op, retired or not, can sell almost anything to anyone. It’s in their blood.”

“What did you sell?”

“A smile . . . from a not so unattractive forty-two-year-old woman.”

10:59 A.M.

68

HOTEL LARGO, FARO, PORTUGAL. 11:02 A.M.

Ten minutes earlier Sy Wirth had checked in, gone to his room, and immediately put in a call to Dimitri Korostin only to get the Russian’s voice mail. It was the fourth call and voice mail response in the thirty-odd minutes since his Gulfstream had touched down at Faro International Airport. Each time he’d left word for Korostin to call him back immediately. So far he’d had no reply.

He called again. Once more he got the voice mail. This time he left no word, just clicked off. This was crazy. They’d been in contact ever since he’d left Berlin. Now, at the most crucial moment of all, there was nothing but silence.

Conor White’s Falcon had landed, and he and the others were at the airport waiting for word and ready to go. But to w here? Korostin’s men should have long ago been on the ground. By now, theoretically at least, they would know where Marten was. But theoretically was just that, nothing. He couldn’t send White after Marten if he didn’t know where he had gone. And he couldn’t know that without Korostin telling him. The whole thing was very nearly a replay of what had happened when Marten dodged them all at the airport in Málaga, disabling the hidden transmitter and flying off for parts unknown. Now he was on the ground somewhere here with all kinds of land routes open to him. If they’d lost him this time there was every chance he would recover the photographs and disappear into the countryside. Then what? Sit back and wait for the pictures to be made public?

Then, and maybe darker still, there was Korostin himself. He knew how important the pictures were. What if his people already had Marten? If they retrieved the photographs and looked at them out of sheer prurient interest expecting to see illicit sex, it wouldn’t take long for them to realize what they really had, and Wirth would never know until it was too late. By then Korostin would have not only the pictures but also the Santa Cruz–Tarija gas field. Depending on what he did with the photos—turning them over to the Russian government would be the worst—he might very well lose the Bioko field as well.

He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face, then stared at himself in the mirror. What had he done? The idea that Korostin might somehow double-cross him had never entered his mind. This was his own doing. His alone. Even his chief counsel, Arnold Moss, had no idea he’d made a deal with Korostin. Only Conor White knew someone else was involved, but he had no idea who it was.

Wirth cursed himself with every word he knew. Why he had so blindly trusted the Russian? Inviting him to secretly partake in the greatest triumph of his life had been insane. It was like taking a lover and trusting her with all kinds of intimate secrets only to have her destroy your marriage and family and afterward run off with the company.

Half panicked and full of rage, he went back into the other room and picked up the BlackBerry, determined to try Korostin again. No sooner was it in his hand than it rang.

“Yes,” he snapped.

“Josiah, you call me every five minutes. You’re giving me a headache. Where the hell are you?”
Dimitri Korostin’s voice rumbled through the receiver.

“Faro. Where the hell are your people?”

“There and gone.”

“To where? Do they know where Marten is?”

“They have rented a car and left the city. That’s all I know. When I have more I will tell you.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Josiah, it’s all I have. Trust me.”

“Trust you?”

“Yes, trust me.”
Korostin paused.
“I think maybe you are getting nervous again. Don’t, there is no need.”

“The terms of our contract, Dimitri. I am to be there when the pictures are recovered. They are to be brought directly to me unopened.”

“I think I was right about the pictures compromising you. Very personal, yes? You and a woman. Or several women. Or men? Doing what, Josiah? We’re all human. We do things. We aren’t perfect. What makes these photographs so special you can’t live another hour without them?”

“That’s my business.”

“Josiah, you will be there when the pictures are recovered. They will be delivered to you right away. The terms of the contract. You have my word.”

There was a click and Wirth’s BlackBerry went dead.

11:15 A.M.

Sy Wirth sat at a corner table in the hotel’s Santo Antonio restaurant staring blankly out over the harbor. The two BlackBerrys were on the table in front of him, the one with the blue-tape closest. A waiter came and took his order—coffee and fresh fruit. Maybe he was being crazy. Maybe Dimitri had been right when he told him to calm down. There was a big payoff for him, so why would he double-cross Wirth, especially as he had promised during their meeting in London that the Santa Cruz–Tarija gas field could be the first of many deals they might work on together. Why would he do something stupid and jeopardize the future? Moreover, the photographs would have to be in some kind of package, meaning that he and his men might not even look at them. Just deliver them as promised. They would know what they were because Marten would have them in his possession.

So take it easy, he told himself. Calm down. So far everything they had plotted from Berlin to here, even with the delays, had worked. Now came the waiting game; it happened in almost every business transaction, and as anxiety-provoking as it was, it wasn’t unreasonable.

He glanced at the blue-tape BlackBerry. Conor White was nearby and waiting. He could wait a few minutes longer.

Wirth picked up the other BlackBerry, hit the speed dial, and called Arnold Moss’s personal cell phone. It was almost five twenty in the morning in Houston. Whether Moss was up or not made little difference. If things were going to come off as planned, at some point soon White would go into action, and Wirth needed to officially cover the state of affairs. It was something his general counsel would understand immediately and afterward dictate for transcription to be included in the Striker corporate record under MINUTES OF THE DAY.

“Good morning, Sy.”
Moss picked up at once. If he’d woken from sleep it wasn’t evident.
“Where are you?”

“Faro, Portugal.”

“I thought you were headed to Barcelona.”

“I was. Conor White called several hours ago telling me he was on his way here and asked me to meet him. I’ve only just arrived. He said it was urgent but didn’t say why or what it was. From the sound of his voice I’d say it was more than urgent, it was critical. Frankly I’m hesitant to call him because I don’t know what’s going on. I’d rather have him come to me and explain it.”

“You think Hadrian should be advised?”

“Probably. But again I don’t know. Hadrian and SimCo have their own arrangements. If what’s going on here has to do with Striker, I’m completely in the dark about it.”

“Have you heard from him since you arrived?”

“No. Not yet.”

“If he asked you to meet him the way he did, I’d say Hadrian should be advised right away. Let them get in the middle of it, or at the least advise us as to what’s going on. Want me to call Loyal Truex?”

“No, I’ll do it. He still with Joe Ryder in Iraq?”

“Yes.”

“Go back to whatever you were doing, Arnie. I’ll be in touch later.”

“Good luck.”

“Indeed.”

Wirth clicked off just as his breakfast came.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” his waiter asked.

Wirth looked up. “Not just now, thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wirth watched him go, then picked up the BlackBerry, looked at it, and set it back down. Loyal Truex was in Iraq. Wirth’s story would be that he had tried to get through to him but couldn’t get a connection and so would try again later. Meaning no call would be made to Truex until the photographs had been recovered and Nicholas Marten and Anne Tidrow were dead, with Conor White and his men in the custody of Portuguese authorities charged with their killing and the suspicion of their involvement in the Madrid farmhouse murders. All of it topped, as Wirth would put it to Truex, by the chilling sense that because White had asked him to meet him there and because of what had happened to Anne, he’d meant to kill him, too. That way, and quite clearly, Truex would have been informed of the extent of Conor White’s derangement.

11:09 A.M.