Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

There was a screech of brakes and the train stopped. One man stood inside it, a machine pistol in his hand. The doors slid open and he stepped out.

Kovalenko.

“Get the hell out of the light,” Marten yelled. “You’re going to get killed!”

“Fuck you! Where’s my memory card?”

“I don’t have it!” Marten’s eyes darted over the area. Where was White? Where had he gone? He shifted the Glock to his left hand and raised his right, pushed the KEY TO TALK button, and spoke into the microphone in his sleeve.

“White,” he said softly. “I’m here, near the tunnel. Come get me.” Quickly he shifted the Glock back, holding it in a two-hand grip and slowly moving it back and forth over the area, his eyes alert, looking for any movement at all. He saw nothing but a faintly lit empty station with the bodies of Irish Jack and Agent Grant sprawled barely twenty feet apart and close at hand.

“Tovarich,” Kovalenko said quietly and nodded toward the newspaper kiosk.

Marten moved forward. If White was there, he couldn’t see him. Kovalenko came in from the side, the machine pistol up, his finger on the trigger. Suddenly Marten stopped.

There he was.

Inside the kiosk, his body in a sharp contrast of black and white, apparently sitting on a stool or something like it, staring blankly into the dark of the station.

Marten raised the Glock, unsure what was happening. Kovalenko eased closer. Slowly White turned his head toward Marten.

“He’s dead,” he said quietly. “He’s dead,” he repeated, then looked off once again.

Marten inched forward. What was going on? Was White playing some kind of trick?

“Careful, tovarich,” Kovalenko warned.

“Throw the gun out!” Marten barked.

White didn’t react.

“Throw the gun out! Now!”

Kovalenko looked to the left and saw Carlos Branco coming toward them in the dim light, a Beretta automatic in his hand. His men moved in from either side. All three carried Uzis.

Marten glanced at them, the Glock still trained on Conor White. “Stay back or I’ll shoot him right now!” he ordered.

Branco stopped. So did his men.

White sat motionless, staring into the distance.

Marten glanced at Kovalenko. “Cover me.”

Kovalenko nodded. Marten waited a half beat, then rushed the kiosk, fully expecting White to make a sudden move. But he didn’t. Then Marten was in the kiosk and on top of him. All he saw was a tableau-White sitting in the center of the kiosk, half his face in light, the rest in deep shadow, a newspaper in his hands, the MP5 and a 9 mm SIG SAUER semiautomatic resting on a stack of magazines next to him. It might as well have been a still photograph.

Marten pushed the Glock against White’s head, then eased over and carefully slid the weapons out of reach. He was still expecting a trick, a sudden move. None came. White just sat there staring at nothing, his chest rising and falling as he breathed. In a heartbeat the fight, the life, everything, seemed to have gone out of him. Marten lowered the Glock.

Kovalenko stepped in beside him. “What the hell happened?”

Marten shook his head. “Don’t know.”

“ ‘He’s dead.’ What was he talking about? The guy you shot in the tunnel?”

“Maybe.”

Marten looked to the newspaper in White’s hand, as if that might have had something to with it. It was a copy of that morning’s copy of the International Herald Tribune. He could see part of a headline about a suicide bombing in the Middle East, a column about the ongoing global financial crisis, and a few more everyday items. Nothing that would bring a man like Conor White to his knees. Whatever had happened had to have been something else. Something physical. A small stroke. Some kind of mild heart attack. Who knew?

Kovalenko glanced at Carlos Branco. “One of White’s men is dead inside the tunnel. The bodies on the platform. Several appear to be people caught in the crossfire. Another is from White’s team. The last is Ryder’s RSO guy.”

“I know,” Branco said.

“Marten and I are taking the train car out. When we get to where we’re going, I’ll send it back.” He looked to Marten. “Give me the pistol.”

Marten’s eyes came up to Kovalenko’s. “Why? What the hell are you going to do?”

“Just give it to me.”

Marten glanced at Branco and then at his men. Finally and reluctantly he did as Kovalenko asked. The Russian took it, pulled out a handkerchief, then wiped off Marten’s fingerprints and put the gun down next to White. Still the Englishman didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge their presence.

“Get on the train, tovarich.” Kovalenko gestured with the machine pistol. “I want to talk about my memory card.”

Marten looked at White once more, then walked off toward the train car. Kovalenko followed him inside and pressed a button. The doors closed and the car started back up the track the way it had come. Then they heard the boom of a single gunshot.

Marten looked at Kovalenko. “White. Branco shot him.”

The Russian nodded. “White was CIA. Branco was freelancing for them.”

“Then why did he kill him?”

“The chapter had to be ended, tovarich. They would be afraid of what might come out if he was put on trial.”

“The police think I killed Franck and Theo Haas. They’re going to have the same problem with me if I get caught. Branco would have known that. Why didn’t he take care of me, too?”

“Because I paid him not to. He makes a lot of money not doing things.”

“Anne got away, Ryder got away. And then he lets me go. What happens to him now?”

“He goes to his handler and says, ‘We took care of White. His shooters are dead, too. Sorry, the rest didn’t quite work out the way it was supposed to, but call me the next time you need me.’ And they will. It’s a dirty business all around.”

Marten let out a sigh of disbelief, then looked back down the track toward the Rossio station. A tiny iris of bright at the end of a dark tunnel.

“Take off your clothes,” Kovalenko said behind him.

“What?” Marten whirled around. The machine pistol was pointed at his chest.

“Strip search, tovarich. Take off your clothes! Socks, skivvies included. Turn everything inside out!”

“I don’t have the memory card.”

“Ms. Tidrow, no doubt, had the photographs, which would now be in the possession of Congressman Ryder. And very soon put into a diplomatic pouch. But you wouldn’t have given her the memory card because you didn’t really trust her. I saw that in Praia da Rocha. It means you kept it yourself.”

“You’re right, Yuri. I did have it. But I lost it. I’m not sure where.”

Anger flashed across Kovalenko’s face. “You plotted nicely to leave a trail I could follow, and you knew I would come once I realized you had made the switch. You counted on me helping you because you knew things were going to get tough. In doing that you would have also known such help would come with a price. I cannot go back to Moscow empty-handed, tovarich. If I do I will soon be out of a job. Maybe worse.”

“You’re not going empty-handed. You have a memory card. It shows any number of lovely young women sunbathing. Is it your fault Theo Haas had such a hobby?”

Suddenly Kovalenko stepped into the driver’s cubicle and punched a button. Immediately the car slowed, then stopped mid-tunnel. He turned back and gestured with the machine pistol. “Take off your fucking clothes, tovarich. If I have to I will even check your asshole!”

They came out of the Martim Moniz Metro station in bright sunshine, damp sidewalks and puddles the only suggestion that a rainstorm had passed. A silver Peugeot was parked at the curb across the street, and Kovalenko nodded toward it.