Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

Franck held up the official photograph of Nicholas Marten. “This is the man you served on the Monbijou last night.”

“Not served, exactly, Hauptkommissar.” Betz tried to smile through his uneasiness. “Actually he helped me serve. Along with his wife, that is. Or someone I took for his wife. They passed along a couple of glasses of beer to passengers seated next to them.”

“But it was him, you’re certain?” Franck pressed him impassively.

“He’s the one you’re looking for? The murderer of Theo Haas?”

“Is it the same man or is it not?”

“Yes, Hauptkommissar. It is the same man.”

“And the woman with him was the one described to you by Kommissar Prosser?”

“Yes, Hauptkommissar.”

“You said he was wearing something in particular.”

“A Dallas Cowboys baseball cap.” Betz smiled proudly. “I’ve been to Dallas. Dallas, Texas. I nearly bought a cap like that myself, but we were on a strict budget.”

“Where did they board the Monbijou ?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Lustgarten dock, I think.”

“Where did they get off?”

“Weidendamm Bridge, the Friedrichstrasse crossing.”

“At what time?”

Betz suddenly looked at the floor.

“At what time, Herr Betz?” Franck pressed him.

The waiter looked back, more nervous than before. “We did nothing illegal. It was a special tour for foreign travel agents. It ran later than usual. We had a special permit; you can look it up. The boat was crowded. I don’t know how they got on, but they did.”

“Herr Betz, I am not the waterway police.” Franck was beginning to lose patience. “What time did they leave the boat?”

“Close to nine forty, Hauptkommissar. I looked at my watch as we docked.”

“Nine forty.”

“Yes, Hauptkommissar.”

“Thank you.”

8:24 A.M.

8:26 A.M.

Marten stood at the edge of the window looking down at the alley. Light rain still fell. The line of umbrella-huddling students inching forward seemed longer than ever.

Once, then twice he’d gone back to the television, turning the sound up, watching. Occasionally there had been repeats of the news story from Spain. If the Spanish police had more information on what had taken place there, they weren’t making it public. The same was true of the news from Berlin. The investigation into the savage murder of Theo Haas was ongoing. The police were asking the cooperation of the public in locating the man “wanted for questioning” in the killing. Again the fuzzy cell phone photograph of Marten had been shown, and with it a call in-number and e-mail address for contacting the police if he were seen. After that came the announcement that a media blackout had been imposed. That part Marten found even more troubling than the continued exposure of his picture. From his experience on the LAPD, a media blackout meant the police were on to a number of leads that were potentially significant and that they weren’t about to disclose. Often that meant an arrest was imminent.

He looked back to the front door.

Where was Anne? What was she doing that was taking so long? What if-his heart caught in his throat at the idea-something had happened and the police had her? She had his passport with her. How long would it be before they forced her to tell them where he was? Maybe that was the reason for the media blackout.

He felt sweat bead up on his forehead. Once again he thought of Spain and the two people still unaccounted for in the car bombing. He had to trust that the Spanish police knew what they were doing and that those missing would soon be found. Then again, maybe not. Who knew how far the limousine had traveled before it blew up? Maybe other police agencies were involved and there was a jurisdiction problem. Politics might figure in as well. Immediately the thought struck that the remaining two were still alive somewhere else in the countryside and at that moment were being tortured in order to get information about the photographs. It was something the police would have no way of knowing. How could they? Christ, he had to alert someone. But how?

Just then the television crackled with more breaking news. He crossed the room quickly to watch it. The report was live from Madrid, where the police were about to make an announcement concerning their investigation of the limousine explosion.

An icy feeling of dread crept through him as he watched a police spokesman approach a bank of microphones, then address the waiting media in Spanish. A studio announcer provided a voice-over English translation. Two bodies, he said, had been found in a shallow grave at an abandoned farm house less than five miles from the car bombing. Another body had been found in a ramshackle barn nearby. All three had been shot in the head. The first two victims were women; the third was a man. Identification of the dead was pending.

Marten stared at the screen, numb and transfixed. Slowly he looked off to the window and the gray sky and drizzle and vague buildings beyond it. His memory was vivid. He saw the faces of Marita and Ernesto, Rosa, Luis, and Gilberto as they sat at the table with him at the Hotel Malabo during the howling storm; slept across from and beside him on the night plane from Malabo to Paris; remembered clearly his exchange with Marita when they all said farewell at the airport in Paris and she pressed a page torn from a notebook into his hand and smiled her impish smile.

“ My address and telephone number if you get to Spain. My e-mail if you don’t. Please call me if you have time. I want to know what happens to you .”

“ Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m going home and back to work and grow old, nothing else .”

“ You’re not a ‘nothing else’ person, Mr. Marten. I think you’re one of those people trouble follows around. We have to go. Please call me .”

As if from far away he heard the sound of the television. A commercial for skin cream. Suddenly his head felt light. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and the room began to spin. In the next second he felt his heart start to race. Almost immediately he struggled to get his breath. Sweat seemed to engulf him. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He didn’t know what was happening. He put a hand out against the wall to steady himself, gasping for air as he did. He felt trapped, as if the walls were closing in. He wanted to get out of there. Be outdoors in the open. Then the sound of his own voice rose above that of the television and the deep rasp of his labored breathing. It came from far inside and was powerful and intense and filled with rage and chanting a litany of names over and over like some demonic mantra.

Striker, Hadrian, Conor White, Anne Tidrow .

Striker, Hadrian, Conor White, Anne Tidrow .

Striker, Hadrian, Conor -

Suddenly there was another sound. That of a key being put into the front door. He pushed back against the wall and froze. A half second later the door opened.

“Nicholas?” a familiar voice called out. “Nicholas?”

Anne Tidrow.

He remembered seeing her close the door and lock it, then turn toward him. She had her purse and a garment bag over one arm and was pulling a cheap plastic rain cover from her hair. The rest he had little recollection of. All he knew now was that she was sitting in a chair by the television staring at him, her hair disheveled, the garment bag and her purse on the floor. And that he was leaning against the wall breathing deeply, his arms across his chest, trying not to look at her.

“Tell me what happened,” she said quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I-”

“Tell me.”