Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

Slowly his eyes went to hers. “I grabbed you by the throat and shoved you against the wall. Hard. And held you there.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t say. I asked.”

“Asked what?”

“Why them?”

“And what did I say?”

“Who are you talking about?” Marten could feel his jaw tighten in anger. “You knew exactly who I was talking about.”

“No. I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tell me.”

“You want me to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“The Spanish doctor and her medical students. I’ll name them for you. Marita, Ernesto, Rosa, Luis, Gilberto. Marita wasn’t even thirty. None of the students were more than twenty-three. They’re all dead! Murdered! Somewhere outside Madrid. God only knows what happened before they were killed.”

“Nicholas, I didn’t know. Believe me. How could I?”

“I said-fuck you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Jesus God.” Marten walked over to the window and stood beside it staring out. He felt like putting his foot through it and yelling at the people below that there was a real live murderer in here and they should call the police.

“You might have killed me,” she said.

Marten’s head came around like a bullet, his eyes filled with hatred. “I should have killed you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I should have.”

“What did you do?”

“I took my hands away and let you go.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No.”

“You cried.”

For a long moment Marten said nothing, just glared at her. “Yeah, well, fuck it,” he said finally. “One way or another Conor White and your damned AG Striker Company killed them. Whether you helped him plan what to do and how to do it, I don’t know. You do, but I don’t.”

“Nicholas,” she said quietly, “I’m terribly sorry about your friends, I really am, but I don’t know why you would think that I or Striker or Conor White had anything to do with it.”

“Why? I’ll tell you why. You thought I told them where the photographs were. You came after me, White went after them.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“As far as I know, still in Malabo.”

“You have his cell number?”

Anne nodded.

Deliberately Marten walked over and picked up her purse, then fished out her BlackBerry and dropped it in her lap. “Call him. Ask him where he is.”

“Alright.” Anne picked up the BlackBerry and punched in a number. She waited a few seconds; then they both heard a male voice on the other end. It was sharp and curt, the British accent unmistakable.

“ Yes .”

“It’s Anne. Where are you?” She paused as he said something, then, “I just wanted to know where you were if I needed you.” Another pause, then, “I’m still in Berlin. But don’t come here. I’m alright. Never mind what you see in the media.” There was a long pause as White said something more, then, “Yes, I think so. What?” Another pause, then, “No, I don’t think, Conor, I know,” she said testily, then finished. “I’ll be in touch.”

Marten watched her click off, then get up and put the Black-Berry away. “Where is he?” he said.

Anne hesitated.

“Where?”

“Madrid, Barajas Airport.”

“Madrid?”

“Yes.”

Marten leaned in so that his face was inches from hers. “The next time you talk to him, tell him from me that it was all for nothing. The people he killed didn’t know a damn thing about the photographs. I never said a word.”

Anne looked at him genuinely, even vulnerably. “Think whatever you want. But I didn’t know. Whatever Conor White did, he did on his own, or maybe, as I said before, at the urging of Sy Wirth or the people at Hadrian.”

Marten glared at her hatefully, then took a breath and crossed the room to again stare out the window. “When the hell are we getting out of here?”

“A van is picking us up”-she looked at her watch-“in five minutes.”

“Where?”

“Outside, on Ziegelstrasse.”

“A van is coming here?”

“Yes.”

“To do what, run us right past the noses of the five thousand cops looking for us?”

“Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?”

“The Hauptkommissar is getting closer. He must have interviewed people on the tour boat. Police are starting to put up roadblocks near the dock where we got off. If what I’ve put together doesn’t work, we can both look forward to spending the next thirty years in a German prison.”

Marten’s eyes fixed on hers. “God damn you. Your company. Hadrian. Conor White. All of you.”

“I’m sorry.”

8:50 A.M.

9:12 A.M.

The van had been there right on time, parked at the curb at the end of the alley where it met Ziegelstrasse. It was white and reasonably new. A man introduced by Anne as Hartmann Erlanger was at the wheel. He was probably in his late fifties and slim with thinning gray hair. He wore frameless glasses and a light brown cardigan over dark brown slacks, all of which gave him the appearance of a retired professor or antiques dealer, the role he seemed to be playing. Or at least that was what Marten remembered before he was ushered into the vehicle’s rear compartment and past a collection of a dozen or so straight-backed antique chairs. Immediately Erlanger removed an interior panel to reveal a tiny, cramped space over the left rear wheel.

“Get in, please,” he said in heavily accented English. “The police are stopping traffic at intersections, checking identification. I was lucky to get through. If we are stopped, please do not move, make no sound at all. Hold your breath if you can.”

Marten climbed in and twisted around, trying to make his six-foot-tall body somehow conform to the microscopic area. Then Erlanger put the panel back in place. Marten heard him lock it, and like that he was alone in the pitch black.

He remembered hearing Erlanger speak to Anne in English seconds later. “How is your German? There is every chance we will be stopped on the way out.”

He heard Anne begin to say something in German, and then the driver’s door slammed closed and Erlanger started the engine. Seconds later the van moved off.

Whatever else Anne had done, or hadn’t, or was involved with, there was no question that she had balls. Apparently she was going to sit up front with Erlanger as they attempted to pass through Franck’s roadblocks. Probably play Erlanger’s wife or sister or niece. There was every chance she’d get away with it, too. Not just because of her attitude and determination and her ability to speak German but because of the way she looked-the reason she’d gone out early and the reason for the garment bag she carried when she came back. In the minutes before they went out to meet Erlanger she’d put her dark hair up under a blond shoulder-length wig and replaced her jeans outfit and running shoes with a dowdy beige pantsuit and ugly orthopedic sandals. Her old clothes she stuffed back into the garment bag and brought with them.

Marten moved gingerly, trying to find some sort of comfort in his cramped, traveling prison. For a time he thought he had managed it and relaxed as best he could. Then the van hit a pothole in the roadway and he shot straight up, banging his head against the top of the enclosure. Seconds later they slowed and came to a stop. He heard a mix of voices and then that of a sharp-edged, authoritative male speaking German. Erlanger’s voice came next. They were at a police checkpoint.

Now what?

Suddenly he heard the van’s rear doors open. Then someone climbed inside. He held his breath as Erlanger had asked. There was the scrape of the antique chairs as they were moved aside. Immediately there was a thump on the van’s far wall, as if someone had hit it with a fist. Then came more. The vehicle’s interior paneling was being checked. Seconds later there was a bang on the outside of the panel just above his head. In the next instant he heard Anne say something in German, her voice calm and accommodating. Several seconds passed, and then he heard footsteps retreating and the sound of the rear doors closing. There was another exchange between Erlanger and the authoritative male. A silence followed, and then the van moved off.