Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

A conversation about fly-fishing had seen Prime Minister Campbell and President Mayora move ahead of the others, leaving President Harris alone with Mrs. Campbell. Cute and perky, she took the opportunity to ask him how he was doing personally, gently reminding him that he was quite a handsome man who had not been seen publicly with a woman since the death of his wife during his presidential campaign some two years earlier.

“Frankly, I haven’t had much time to think about it.” President Harris smiled graciously. “This is a big job.”

“That part I fully understand, Mr. President. Still, you do think about it. I saw the longing in your eyes as you spoke. For everything you do and have to do, you are lonely for companionship.”

This time John Henry Harris’s smile was more inward and delicate. “You’re very perceptive, Mrs. Campbell, I am lonely. But my longing is still for my wife. I miss her a great deal. I do my best not to think about it.”

“Mr. President,” a voice suddenly called from behind them.

Harris and Mrs. Campbell turned to see Lincoln Bright, the president’s chief of staff, press through the gaggle of Secret Service agents following them and come quickly forward.

“Excuse me, Mr. President, Madame Campbell.” Bright looked to the president. “Representative Ryder is calling from Qatar. It’s important.”

“I’ll take the call,” Harris turned to Lorraine Campbell. “Please excuse me for a few minutes. Tell the prime minister and President Mayora I’ll catch up with you all shortly.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

4:47 P.M.

President Harris took Joe Ryder’s call over a secure phone in the comfortably rustic guest quarters of the Harrington Lake estate.

“ You’ve heard what’s happened in Berlin? ” Ryder’s voice was filled with concern.

“The Theo Haas murder.”

“ Yes .”

“I know about it, that’s all. Did Marten reach him before it happened?”

“ Marten is wanted for his murder .”

“What?” Harris was astounded.

“ It’s all over TV. In the Washington Post, New York Times, and in about every other major paper as well as on the Internet. I realize you’ve been busy and probably not tuned in to this stuff, and certainly no one would advise you. There would be no reason to; they wouldn’t know the connection. ”

“My God, Joe, where the hell is he?”

“ As far as I know, on the run in Berlin. There’s a woman with him. So far they haven’t released her name, or his, for that matter .”

“Then how do you know it’s Marten?”

“ Someone took his picture with a cell phone. It’s not a very good likeness. But it’s him, or his double, without doubt. You showed me a photo of the two of you together when you suggested him for the job. ” Ryder hesitated. “ John, Mr. President. You can’t get involved. You can’t try to help him. Not even with your own people. You can’t risk the connection .”

President Harris stared off at nothing. “I know, dammit. He knows it, too.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing. Just wait and hope to hell he finds a way to get in touch with me.”

“ Then what? ”

“Something. I’m not sure. I’ll work on it.”

“What if he did kill Haas?”

“He didn’t.”

“ You’re certain?”

“Damned certain.”

“ I’m here for you, John. Whatever, whenever .”

“I know, Joe, we’ll work it out. And thanks. Thanks for being there in all this. I’ll call you when I have news.”

With that the president hung up and stared off, praying he was right, that Marten would find a way to get in touch with him. What he would do then, he truly didn’t know. At the same time, he knew he’d better have something to tell him.

4:52 P.M.

BERLIN. SATURDAY, JUNE 5. 1:27 A.M.

Marten slumped in the worn overstuffed chair watching Anne sleep on the bed across from him. A bottle of the Radeberger Pilsner in his hand, he wore boxer shorts and the light blue sport shirt he had on when he’d gone to meet Theo Haas in the park.

He took a sip of the beer and looked restlessly up at the ceiling. The apartment was warm, and Anne slept with only a sheet pulled up around her. She’d invited him to sleep beside her for no other reason than that the bed was the only place to rest. Instead he’d chosen the chair, chiefly because it gave him a clear view of the apartment’s front door. If anyone was coming through it, he wanted to see them before they saw him. Especially if they were police with orders to shoot.

1:32 A.M.

Marten took another drink of the Radeberger and looked at Anne across from him. He could just see her in the dark, sleeping on her side, her legs pulled up toward her chest in an almost fetal position. The CIA, he thought. Jesus, what department had she been in? Research, an operative, what? Whatever it was, it had certainly been important enough for her to still be connected to people who would shadow strangers for her, help her elude the police and provide a safe house and then somehow get them out, or at least try to get them out, of the city.

At forty-two, she was seven years older than he was, but looking at her now she might have been a child. She’d told him she’d been married, and he wondered if she had children herself. If so, how many? And how old? And where were they now? For all he knew they could be in high school or college or in their early twenties and out on their own.

1:40 A.M.

He finished the Radeberger and took the empty bottle into the kitchen. He was exhausted and wired tight at the same time. The idea of sleep seemed impossible. The murder of Theo Haas had been horror enough, but the combination of circumstances that made him a prime suspect was beyond imagination. That a top cop like Franck had been assigned to the case made it all the worse. His credentials aside, his physical bearing, his body language, and the intense look in his eyes as he’d addressed the television cameras had chillingly reminded Marten of his mentor on the Los Angeles Police Department, the late Commander Arnold McClatchy, who had been one of the most revered, relentless, and feared homicide detectives in California history. Like McClatchy, Franck had the entire department at his disposal, and like McClatchy, Marten was certain, once he’d taken on a case he wouldn’t let go until, one way or another, his man was brought to the ground.

Then there was the other thought. Poor as his photograph was, it was everywhere. What if the guys on the LAPD still hunting him saw it and got in touch with Franck? Then what? A little cop-to-cop talk and suddenly a couple of detectives show up from L.A. waiting for Franck to get him. And when he does, he keeps it quiet and hands him over to them. The next day his body is found in a ditch somewhere. Nobody knows who did it. It would save the Berlin PD a big noisy trial and a lot of expense. It made him want to kick himself for blurting to the jerk-off dope dealer on the street that he was an L.A. cop. What if the police caught the guy and he brought it up?

It had been a stupid thing to do.

Just plain stupid.

1:42 A.M.

Marten set the bottle on the kitchen counter and was starting toward the bedroom when he heard sirens approaching. He stopped and listened. What were they? Fire? Ambulance? No, police, he was certain. They grew nearer. He went into the front room and stood beside one of the narrow windows to peer out at the dimly lit alley below. The sirens were closer still. He counted one, two, and then three, all traveling close together. Instinctively he listened for the sound of a circling helicopter. What would he do if they pulled up outside?