Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

He looked at her for a long moment, judging her, deciding the next step. “We’ll need a plane,” he said finally. “Twin engine, civil aviation. Preferably a jet, a turboprop will do. Fifteen-hundred-mile range.”

“The pilot will have to file a flight plan. He’ll need to know where we’re going.”

“Tell him Málaga, on the south coast of Spain.”

“Málaga?”

“Yes,” he lied.

11:12 A.M.

BERLIN, 11 GIESEBRECHTSTRASSE. 12:55 P.M.

The meeting place was an expensive third-floor apartment in a building in the western part of the city near Kurfürstendamm. History books would reveal that in the 1930s it had been a high-class brothel called Salon Kitty. In the Second World War it was still a brothel but used by the SD-the Sicherheitsdienst, the Nazi security service-for espionage, primarily the secret recording of private conversations between chic prostitutes, foreign diplomats, and German dignitaries who might become traitors. At the moment the space was being used for a conversation between two people unconcerned with that distant past-Sy Wirth and Conor White.

“How many men do you have with you?” Wirth sat back from a small table where coffee and an arrangement of fresh fruit had been laid out.

“Two,” White said.

“Skilled?”

“The best.”

“Are two enough?”

“For now.”

“Where are they?”

“Outside, in the rental car.”

Wirth reached over and lifted a silver coffee urn and poured himself a cup, gesturing to White to do the same.

“No thanks.”

“Spain went poorly,” Wirth said.

“You mean that we learned nothing about the photographs.”

“Yes.”

“We did as you asked. They had no idea what we were talking about. They and those we employed, a limousine driver and a local gunman, took the truth of what happened there into eternity.” White looked to the Striker chairman for any sign of remorse, or sense that he’d made a mistake ordering the operation. As he expected he saw none.

“Then this Nicholas Marten is the only one who knows.”

“Ask Anne.”

Sy Wirth glared at him, clearly not happy being talked back to. “Anne’s not here. I’m asking you.”

“If the pictures exist, Marten knows where they are. That’s what she said. Otherwise she wouldn’t still be with him.”

Suddenly Wirth shifted gears. “What went wrong at the airport in Paris when they arrived from Malabo? Anne had him in sight when the others lost him. Then she lost him, too. Except several hours later she found him here in Berlin.”

“Apparently she lost him on purpose so she could go after him herself.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she doesn’t think the rest of us are capable. Maybe some other reason. I don’t know.”

Sy Wirth took a sip of coffee and held the liquid in his mouth, as if he were using the moment to think; then he set the cup down. “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“This morning.”

“What did she say?”

“Essentially what she sent in her text message yesterday-that she was in Berlin with Marten and not to come after her, and not to believe anything we saw in the media. As far as I know she’s not been publicly identified. Or has she?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Not yet.”

“Then the police must be on to both of them or they would have had her picture all across the German media, the way Marten’s is.” White kept his manner purposely calm. He was still upset with himself for telling Wirth to “ask Anne.” His profound dislike of the Texan had ruled for the moment, and he didn’t like it. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Wirth glanced at his watch and then stood. “I have to go. Bring your men here and wait for my call. Hopefully I’ll have some idea where Anne is and if Marten is still with her.”

“You will,” White said flatly.

“Yes.”

For the next few seconds White said nothing; then he stood as well, all six feet four of him. “Where will this information come from?” he said respectfully.

“That’s my business.”

“You’ve hired a third party.”

“No, Mr. White. I’ve simply made an arrangement.”

“I see.”

Now they were back to the beginning and White’s deepest fear: that a man too rich, too powerful, and too single-minded, who was used to micromanaging everything, had suddenly distrusted everyone around him and turned elsewhere for solutions. That might be alright in a business deal; all you could lose was money. But in a situation like this he would be venturing into very cold and dangerous waters, and in doing so trusting people far more experienced, self-serving, and ruthless than he. It was a blueprint for disaster, and he was risking everything because of it.

You stupid bastard , White wanted to say. He didn’t.

“I’ll wait for your call, Mr. Wirth,” he said politely.

Sy Wirth nodded curtly and without a further word left.

1:05 P.M.

POTSDAM, 1:10 P.M.

Hartmann Erlanger opened a cabinet near the window in his study, pulled a laptop from it, then set it down on his desk. He glanced at Anne and Marten sitting in chairs across from him, then opened it, touched the POWER button, and waited for the screen to come up. When it did he punched in several codes, then twisted it around so that it faced them and looked at Anne.

“This is what I downloaded yesterday after your call. It’s two days old, so I don’t know how much help it will be, but it’s something. I’ll leave it to you and Mr. Marten to decide the importance of it. I’m going out to try to resolve your situation. Arranging for a specific type of aircraft and someone to pilot it is difficult at best. More so under the circumstances and that the request was made at the last minute.”

“Unfortunately, Hartmann, I didn’t have the information until the last minute.” Anne didn’t need to glance at Marten; the barb was clear enough. “You know how appreciative I am for everything you’ve done and are doing. And the chances you’ve been taking all along.”

Erlanger looked at her in a way that was very personal. “That’s what friends and colleagues are for. I’ll be back when I have more information. My wife is upstairs if you need anything.” He held her eyes a moment longer and then left, closing the door behind him.

For a moment Anne sat there motionless, fully aware that Marten had seen the exchange between them. Then, without a word, she leaned forward and pressed a key on the laptop. In the next instant the screen came to life. They saw a graphic of the world globe, then a slow zoom in on West Africa.

“This is a classified CIA regional video briefing,” she said. “Sometimes they come out daily. Other times less often, depending on urgency or need-to-know for handlers or assets in the field. Be warned, this stuff you won’t see on television.”

The video cut to a satellite view of Equatorial Guinea, taking in both the mainland and the island of Bioko. A narrator’s voice was heard.

“The situation in Rio Muni, the nation’s continental mainland, and on the island of Bioko, where the capital city of Malabo lies, is in increasing turmoil. Rebel forces are led by Alfonso Bitui Ada. Popularly known as Abba, he is a schoolteacher and member of the Liberal Party, the PL. Fifteen months ago he was released after serving a ten-year prison sentence for membership in the banned Popular People’s Party. Since then he has worked openly to unite disparate tribes to protest against poverty, political corruption, and acts of physical violence by the administration of President Tiombe.”

Abruptly the video cut to greenish night-vision footage of a poised, handsome, middle-aged man with short graying hair, dressed in jungle fatigues and addressing twenty or more rebel soldiers in a jungle clearing.