The Hadrian Memorandum (46 page)

125

NEW HAMPSHIRE. THURSDAY, JUNE 10. 8:03 P.M.

Nicholas Marten watched the newly leafed-out trees fly past in the summer twilight. Sugar maples, he thought, with some conifers in between and here and there oaks. The driver slowed and turned the Lincoln Town Car down a gravel road and through a thick stand of birch. The evening was gray, and a chill hung in the air. There were puddles in the roadway, and the surrounding forest was soggy from rain. More was promised.

Three days had passed since Kovalenko put him on a British Airways flight out of Lisbon for Manchester. As he had been promised, there had been no interference from the police, at least none that he knew of. He’d boarded the flight without incident and six hours later was back in his top-floor loft on Water Street that overlooked the River Irwell.

Physically and mentally exhausted, the reality that he was finally home barely registering, he’d immediately picked up the phone to call Anne after having failed to reach her from Heathrow Airport in London during the layover for his connecting flight to Manchester. Each of his half-dozen calls then had been answered by her voice mail, and the same had happened again here. Consequently he’d left a message giving her his home number and saying he’d returned there safely. Frustrated and increasingly anxious about her fate and Ryder’s, he’d taken a shower, had a sandwich and a cold beer, then tried her once again with the same result. Afterward he’d gone to bed and slept without moving for ten hours.

The call had come early the following morning. Not from Anne but from President Harris. Ms. Tidrow and Congressman Ryder had, he’d said, arrived safely back in the country courtesy of a private jet she had arranged through an investment banker in Zurich. She was currently in the protective custody of federal marshals and being held at an undisclosed location. Congressman Ryder was in protective seclusion as well. Neither his family, his office, nor the media knew he was back in the country. Both were to be secretly debriefed by a special assistant appointed by U.S. Attorney General Julian Kotteras. Kotteras wanted Marten’s testimony as well, as did Harris. Was he prepared to come to the States to give it? His answer was “of course,” and he was asked to stand by for further directives. The president’s demeanor had been matter-of-fact, if not distant, and Marten hadn’t known why, because they’d never had anything but a warm, even brotherly relationship. The reason, he thought, was either the pressure of something else altogether, or because of what had happened to Raisa. He brought it up.

“You know about Raisa.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, thank you. We’ll talk about it later.”

And that had been the extent of it. Then the president had hung up, after saying he would get back to him when he had more information.

After that he’d gone back to work at Fitzsimmons and Justice, still terribly troubled by what had taken place in Portugal and by the ongoing war in Equatorial Guinea that seemed to have no end. Tiombe’s forces pushed hard against Abba’s one day, with Abba’s people countering the next. He was disturbed as well—perplexed was more the word—by what had happened to Conor White. That a man like White had simply given up without a fight and let himself be killed made no sense. Still, troubled as he was, he knew there was nothing he could do about any of it so he tried to shift his life back into everyday mode. Twenty-four hours later President Harris called instructing him to fly to Portland, Maine, the following morning. A Secret Service agent would pick him up at the airport and drive him to a place where they would meet. He should be prepared to spend several days.

The driver eased the Town Car over a wooden bridge and then up a heavily forested hill. Here and there Marten glimpsed armed men among the trees, a periphery guard of Secret Service agents. At the top of the hill the road evened out and the thick woods gave way to cleared meadow. At the end was a large Victorian farmhouse set in a grove of conifers. Several black SUVs were parked in front. As they neared, he saw a sniper, and then a second, take up positions on the building’s rooftop. Then they were there, and two men in Windbreakers and blue jeans stepped out from between the SUVs. One of them opened the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Marten,” he said. “The president is waiting for you.”

They were sitting around a large conference table in the home’s living room as he was ushered in. President Harris, Congressman Ryder, a man he recognized as Attorney General Kotteras, several others he didn’t know, lawyers, he assumed, and Anne. Most were dressed casually. Anne wasn’t. She wore a conservative business suit, her dark hair cut a little shorter than he remembered, expensive makeup done to perfection. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the room. He could almost read her thoughts.
“So this is your ‘old girlfriend,’ darling. You’ve been using me the whole fucking time, you cocksucker.”
On the other hand, there was the slightest hint of a sparkle in her eyes, as if beneath everything, she appreciated it all, even admired him for doing it.

“Mr. President, Congressman, Anne,” he said formally.

“Please sit down,” the president said as formally, then introduced the attorney general. The distance was still there, more so in person, Marten thought, than when Harris had called him in Manchester. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

The president looked at him. “The people here are aware that I asked you to go to Bioko to meet with Father Dorhn because of his brother’s concern for him and for what he feared might be going on between the Striker Oil and Hadrian companies in Equatorial Guinea. In that regard you should know that President Tiombe resigned his office early this morning and has left the country. Abba and his people have taken over. The announcement will be made public tomorrow. We, the United Nations relief services, and a number of other countries are sending in humanitarian aid as we speak. The politics of it we will address after we see how Abba sets up his new government and determine if he is a man we want to trust and support, a consideration which, at the moment, seems to be running in his favor.

“I’m aware that you and Ms. Tidrow are greatly concerned about the welfare of the tribal people. As you know, I saw the CIA briefing video. Congressman Ryder and Mr. Kotteras have seen it, too. We’ve also looked over the photographs and have examined eight-by-ten prints made from the 35 mm negatives of the document known as The Hadrian Memorandum. The only thing missing seems to be the camera’s original memory card, which I believe at one point you told me contained even more controversial pictures and which you had in your possession.”

Suddenly Anne was looking at him. What was this? He’d given it to Kovalenko in Praia da Rocha. She’d seen him do it. He looked at her and smiled gently.

“I switched cards at the last minute,” he confessed gently, then looked back to the president. “Mr. President, if I may.”

The president nodded.

“Meeting here the way we are—by the way, I didn’t miss the guards in the woods or the snipers on the roof—seeing you and Attorney General Kotteras here personally, and knowing the way Ms. Tidrow and Congressman Ryder have been kept in protective seclusion, I think it’s safe to assume you’ve kept this whole thing very compartmented, an extremely close-to-the-vest, eyes-only investigation with just the people here and a few select others included on a need-to-know basis. With the exception of certain people in the Secret Service and the Marshals Service, neither the CIA nor any other agency has knowledge that this is taking place. Is that right?”

“The attorney general and I are old friends. We’re here on a brief fishing trip. This house belongs to his family. That’s all anyone knows.”

“Then”—Marten stood up—“I think we ought to be reasonably secure.” He reached into his jacket pocket, lifted out a handkerchief, and unwrapped a small square object from it, then handed it to the president. “The memory card from Father Willy’s camera. On it are at least two hundred more photographs of what was going on in Bioko, some of them, as I told you previously, far more damaging than those you’ve already seen.”

Anne glared at him.

“Insurance.” He smiled. “I kept it in case anything happened to the photographs, or to you. I put it in an envelope and addressed it to myself in Raisa’s apartment. I forgot I had until we were in the hospital, then I asked Mário to mail it for me. I was afraid maybe he hadn’t. It showed up in my mail a couple of days ago.”

“And Kovalenko got the card with the indecent pictures of sunbathing nubiles,” she said flatly.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know that they were all that indecent.”

“Mr. Marten,” the president cut in firmly. “You should know that Ms. Tidrow has agreed to tell us what she knows about the Striker/Hadrian arrangement in Iraq and the Striker/Hadrian/SimCo conspiracy to arm the rebels in Equatorial Guinea. You should also know that, aside from Mr. Ryder’s investigation into possible violations of State Department contracts, the heads of all three companies may be charged in the World Court with sponsoring war crimes and crimes against humanity. Of particular interest will be the photographs of Conor White with General Mariano in the Bioko jungle that Ms. Tidrow has described and that I trust are on the memory card.”

“Yes they are.”

“Mariano has already been convicted in absentia by that same judicial body for war crimes committed while he was a commander in the Chilean army under Augusto Pinochet. Attorney General Kotteras and Congressman Ryder believe members of the boards of directors of both Striker and Hadrian may be subject to prosecution as well, dependent on the depth of their involvement with company operations. Ms. Tidrow’s testimony, while extremely helpful, will not shield her from prosecution if evidence of her complicity should be found. It’s something she’s been made aware of.”

“Mr. President.” Marten looked around the room. “I respectfully suggest that all of it was done under the accord and agreement presented in this Hadrian Memorandum that was drawn up by the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency. I don’t think you would want that to come out in The Hague. And it would have to come out if Ms. Tidrow or myself, for that matter, were subpoenaed to appear, simply because we are both aware of the memorandum and what it contains. Also, Ms. Tidrow was at one time a CIA operative and would have knowledge of how these things work. Legally, I don’t know how that would affect you or Congressman Ryder or Mr. Kotteras or the deputy director. Or if any or all of you might be called upon to publicly testify. The other principals—aside from Loyal Truex, headman at Hadrian, and probably one or two others at Striker—are dead, Conor White and Sy Wirth.” Again Marten looked around the room; then his eyes came back to the president. “Could I see you alone for a few moments, Mr. President?”

They entered a large, wood-paneled library at the back of the house. The president closed the door, then went to a small bar and poured them each three solid fingers of Scotch. He handed a glass to Marten and they both sat down in worn leather chairs in front of a crackling fire that lessened the chill and dampness caused by the summer rain.

Marten took a sip of the Scotch and then looked to the president. “You’re on edge, and I don’t blame you.”

“Yes, and I apologize.” President Harris took a drink, then let his eyes find Marten’s. “This has all gotten to me in a way it probably shouldn’t have but did anyway. I should be thanking you, both as a close friend and as president, for what you did and had to go through. And I do thank you. But Raisa’s death, how she was killed, made it deeply personal, maybe even more so than my concern for you. I set you up with her, I know. I apologize to you both. One day we’ll get properly drunk and I’ll tell you about her. But there’s more to it than my own feelings. I’m going to tell you something you probably don’t want to hear, but I sit in a chair that you don’t, nor does anyone else, the attorney general and Congressman Ryder included.”

The president got up and crossed the room to stare out at the damp, forested land surrounding them, as if just being in its presence gave him a moment of peace away from the overwhelming weight of the presidency. He watched for a few seconds more and then turned back to Marten. “At the risk of sounding parochial or corny—that comes with the job, too.” He smiled warmly. “It’s my responsibility and sworn oath to protect the people and the Constitution of United States of America to the best of my ability and at the same time, and to one degree or another, keep a clear eye on what else is going on in the world. That said, what the deputy director authorized in the memorandum, I would very likely have done myself, but with, God help me, God help us all, a much softer touch. Having that much oil under our control is a guarantee we can’t be blackmailed over petroleum for decades even as we work toward finding other sources of energy. It’s insurance against something going catastrophically wrong, like having our entire oil supply shut down overnight by some cabal or unforeseen circumstance. The deputy director learned about the Bioko field and that the leases were owned by an American company and recognized how strategically important it was for us to control it. That the company and its partner were having legal problems in Iraq was beside the point. There was a very unstable political climate and it was his job to see that the oil was protected. He did it the way he thought it should be done, by supporting the side most likely to prevail that held the leases without overtly involving the United States government.”

The president came back to his chair, picked up his glass, and sat down.

“As you know, the position of the director of the Central Intelligence Agency is a political appointment. The deputy director’s chair is a career position, and the person occupying it is the one who in fact runs the Agency. He or she is where they are because they’ve worked their way up through the ranks and know how things work and where the all the skeletons are, and the skeletons behind them. I can tell the director what I want done and he can pass it on to the deputy director, but that directive doesn’t stop that person from covertly doing what they think is right or see fit. The trouble is, I can’t have that person making our foreign policy and in effect hiring gunslingers where the result is the kind of human ruin we’ve seen in Equatorial Guinea. It’s one thing to quietly back an insurrection that has merit and benefits, especially against a dictator like Tiombe, but you can’t bring in mass murderers like Mariano and give them carte blanche to pump up the music and burn people alive. There’s something terribly wrong in that kind of thinking. It’s got to change, and it will change, I assure you. It’s one of the reasons the attorney general is here, to get as much firsthand information as he can to help us find a way to bring the situation under control.”