Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

“Try the beginning.”

She watched him a beat longer, then relented. “Alright.” She went back to the bed and sat down cross-legged on it, still dressed only in the T-shirt and panties, the nipples of her breasts protruding smartly through the shirt’s soft cotton. If it was provocative, she didn’t seem to care.

“My father owned Striker Oil. He bought it when it was a small oil services company in West Texas in the 1970s. My mother died when I was thirteen. I was an only child. He raised me himself. Took me all over the world with him while he tried to build the business, which meant anywhere there was oil or oil companies who needed management or exploration services. We nearly went under more than once. Then it caught hold. He took Striker public and did very well. I went to college in Texas and then into business. I got married and divorced. Shortly afterward my father had a stroke and put me on Striker’s board of directors because he knew I would protect the company and because I knew more about it than anybody but him. Then he had a second stroke, and I left my job to take care of him. I stayed with him for four years until he died.” Suddenly she stopped. “Boring, isn’t it? Why the hell don’t we just leave it at that?”

Marten leaned back against the doorjamb. “What happened to the company then?”

She watched him for a long moment. He wanted to know everything and wasn’t about to back down until he had it. If she was going to keep him with her, she had no choice but to continue.

“The people he brought in to run it, namely Sy Wirth and his hand-picked executives, got Wirth elected chairman and chief executive, bought back its shares, and took it private, getting rid of most of the board in the process. Afterward Wirth started developing friendships in Washington, which is how he hooked up with Hadrian to protect our oil field businesses around the world. Then Iraq happened, and he and Hadrian were right there. Almost from the start they were manipulating State Department contracts, hiring all kinds of subcontractors, double billing, using creative bookkeeping, all of it in a way that was almost impossible to track. I didn’t like it and said so. The only reason they kept me on the board was because of my father’s reputation with our employees and suppliers and other companies we did business with. I could yell to the horizon about what they were doing, but I knew it would do no good. They were arrogant and making hundreds of millions, so why should they change, even when they were under the spotlight of Joe Ryder’s congressional committee. Conor White was-”

She stopped again, and he could see the anger rise in her, as if she suddenly realized she was telling too much. “I’m really tired. I want to go to sleep.”

“Not yet.”

She glared at him. “You’re a fucking prick.”

“Maybe. And maybe I just want to know what the hell I’m dealing with. Conor White what?”

“Conor White,” she said deliberately, “was hired to create SimCo as a replacement for Hadrian in Equatorial Guinea so that whatever happened with Ryder’s inquiry into what was going on in Iraq would in no way trigger an interest there.”

“And you knew about it.”

“I knew about it, but I had no idea he was involved in arming the rebels. The man you saw me with on the plane was an in de pen dent auditor I hired to go over our books in Malabo to make certain there was absolutely no connection between the Striker/Hadrian problem in Iraq and what we were doing in Equatorial Guinea. And as far as I know there wasn’t, everything was legitimate. He finished his audit on the same day I learned about the photographs and the death of the priest who took them. I asked Conor about them, and he said they had to have been phonied up, Photoshopped or something, because whatever was supposed to be in them wasn’t true. Still, phony or not, we had to get them back, quickly and quietly, before they became public.

“I didn’t trust him then and I don’t trust him now. I think the photos are real. Otherwise the priest wouldn’t have been killed and the country so violently turned upside-down looking for them. What’s more, I don’t know that what White is doing isn’t at the direct order of Sy Wirth and the people at Hadrian.”

Marten watched her closely; her eyes, the movement of her body, anything that would tell him she was lying. He didn’t find it. Still, she’d given him only part of it; he wanted the rest. “That takes care of the army, SimCo, and the top guns at Striker and Hadrian. Where do you fit in? We’re not here now because you suddenly decided to take a vacation.”

Anne took a deep breath. “I told you before, it was personal. I want the photographs to use against Wirth and Hadrian and Conor White. Threaten to turn them over to the Ryder Commission if they don’t cease arming the insurgency and stop provoking an already terrible war. Maybe even more important to me personally”-her eyes filled with emotion-“I want to save what’s left of the reputation of my father’s company for him. For his memory.

“My mother got very sick when I was three. She was in the hospital for a month. She didn’t recognize me or my father. Nobody knew what was wrong. Finally she came out of it. The experience scared the hell out of me. It did the same to him. I was very young, but I could see it. He was all but lost. I wanted so much to help him, but I couldn’t.

“As I told you, my mother died when I was thirteen. It was brain cancer. She didn’t live long, but it was awful for her and my dad. Like the first time, he tried to protect me from it while he was falling apart himself. How he kept everything together-me, himself, the company-I don’t know. When she died, he and I went on together. It was his life and my life at the same time, and we went on like that until I went to college. But we never lost the closeness, not even later when I got married. I loved him very much. I respected him even more. I was holding his hand when he died.” She paused, then let her eyes find his. “Is that enough explanation for you?”

“Almost.”

Suddenly her anger roared back. “What the hell else do you want to know?”

“Whose place this is. Who you’re relying on to get us out of Berlin. Who you had following me earlier so that you knew where I was and where I went when I left the hotel to meet Haas.”

These were questions from before that so far she’d managed not to answer. But she knew he’d keep asking now until he had an answer, either that or he would simply walk out as he’d threatened.

“Things were arranged through old friends,” she said quietly. “I lived in Berlin for eighteen months some years ago.”

“Doing what?”

She didn’t reply.

“Doing what?” he repeated.

“I was an employee of the U.S. government.”

“As?”

“My job was classified.”

“Classified?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning you were an operative of some kind.”

“I… worked for the CIA.”

10:30 P.M.

HARRINGTON LAKE, CANADA, THE OFFICIAL COUNTRY

RETREAT OF THE PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA.

STILL FRIDAY, JUNE 4. 4:35 P.M.

President Harris walked down a country path with Canadian prime minister Elliot Campbell, Campbell’s wife, Lorraine, and Emiliano Mayora, the president of Mexico. The weather was warm with puffy clouds that occasionally darkened, suggesting rain later in the day. All were dressed casually for the walk that was purposefully about nothing, an opportunity for the leaders of the Americas northern-most countries to chitchat and spend a little unofficial time in one another’s company before getting back to the formal discussions of trade and mutual security that brought them there.