Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

Brigitte aside, it was Anne who had kept the silence, sitting back, hands in her lap, staring blankly out the window. When Marten had asked her if she wanted something to eat or drink she’d not even looked at him, simply shook her head in reply. His first thought was that now they were finally up and away and out of the immediate grasp of the police she was troubled by her promise to meet with Joe Ryder, show him the photographs-presuming they found them-and reveal the clandestine business workings of Striker Oil, Hadrian, and SimCo. To promise it was one thing because it was nothing more than a pledge written in air. To actually carry through and do it was something else because she not only risked publicly damning her father’s reputation but might well face a federal indictment herself. Both were cause enough for her to withdraw while she tried to find a way out of her commitment, yet for some reason he didn’t believe that was what was troubling her. It was something else entirely.

Then he realized what it was-Erlanger’s cold warning before they got on the plane and the silent, stony way he’d walked away afterward and driven off.

“Stay away from the old contacts , he’d said. You got away with it this once. For your sake, don’t try it again.”

From Marten’s view it was hard to tell what it had meant to her. Maybe she’d been in love with him once, or still was, and had expected some kind of romantic good-bye. A kiss or an affectionate hug, or something in between, a physical gesture that would confirm that he still had feelings for her. On the other hand, there could have been more to it, something left unsaid that Marten didn’t understand, something that frightened her more than it upset her. Which, as he thought about it now, was more likely because the look in her eyes had been more fear than hurt.

“Mind if I ask you something personal?” he smiled gently.

For the first time she looked at him. “It depends what it is.”

“What Erlanger said at the airstrip just before he left. It affected you a great deal.”

“The Erlanger thing is past,” she said coldly. “Let’s drop it.”

Marten watched her. The Erlanger thing wasn’t past at all. Moreover, the abrupt way she’d answered and the look in her eyes when she’d done it told him he’d touched a nerve she didn’t want touched. And he’d been right-whatever it was, the heart of it had been fear. Of what, he didn’t know, but clearly it was important. It didn’t surprise him that she didn’t want to discuss it, but maybe there was another way to come at it, especially if he could learn a little more about her.

“What if we just talk about something else?”

“Why?”

Marten grinned. “Well, it’s going to be a long night, and I don’t think Brigitte brought along a stack of magazines.”

Anne leaned back in her seat and studied him. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Don’t know.” He said with a shrug. “You said you’d been married. How’s that for starters?”

“Twice.”

“Twice?”

“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve got friends who would think that’s nothing more than spring training.”

“I’m not shocked, just surprised.”

“At what?”

“Your lifestyle doesn’t seem to reflect home, hearth, and motherhood once, let alone twice.”

“If you’re asking if I have a home, yes, I do. As for children, no, I don’t. Neither husband was suited to be a father, and I don’t think I’d have made much of a mother, either. Besides, I couldn’t have them.”

“That’s more than I needed to know.”

“So now you do. And now it’s your turn. How many times have you been married?”

“Never.”

“Why is that? You’re not a bad-looking guy.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment, it was a question.”

“The only two women I ever really cared enough about to go down that road with did other things.”

“Like what?”

“One I met in England. She suddenly ran off and married the British ambassador to Japan.”

“The other?”

Marten hesitated, then stared into some private distance that was his own.

“Well?” Anne pushed him a little, hoping to hear some kind of colorful, lurid gossip. She got something else entirely.

“She died a little more than a year ago. She was young and married. Her husband and son had been killed in a plane crash a few weeks earlier. We grew up together. We were childhood sweethearts. I loved her very much.”

“I’m sorry.” Anne was taken aback, embarrassed by what she had done. “I didn’t mean to intrude like that.” Suddenly she became gentle and very human. It was a side of her he hadn’t seen before.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“She was…” Marten looked off again, the pain and loss and anger still there. “Murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“She was purposely given an incurable staph infection. It’s a long, complicated story. Thankfully for her it’s over.”

“But it’s not for you.”

“No.”

For a long moment Anne said nothing, just let him sit there in the privacy of his thoughts that she knew were millennia away. The only sound was the hum of the Cessna’s engines.

“What was her name?” she said finally.

“Caroline.”

“She must have been beautiful.”

“She was.”

10:02 P.M.

BERLIN. THE APARTMENT AT 11 GIESEBRECHTSTRASSE.

10:47 P.M.

“We’re leaving now, Mr. Wirth. I’ll confirm when we’re airborne.” Conor White clicked off his BlackBerry, then clicked back on and punched in a number.

Across from him, Patrice and Irish Jack were already on their feet, putting away the cards they’d been playing, packing up, getting ready to leave.

“This is White.” He spoke into his BlackBerry. “File a flight plan for Málaga, Spain, and get clearance for takeoff. Wheels up in forty minutes.”

“Málaga?” Sennac said, his eyebrows raised, his Quebecois accent pronounced as always.

“Oui,” Conor White nodded as he clicked off.

Irish Jack grinned. “Good pubs, good babes, good beaches. Merrily we roll along.”

“Jack,” White cautioned, “we’re not on holiday.”

“Aw, don’t spoil the fucker for us, Colonel.” He winked at Patrice. “What we got to do won’t take but a short few minutes. Will it now?”

“It shouldn’t,” White said deliberately and with none of the Irishman’s humor. “And won’t.”

“You’re right, Col o nel, it won’t.” Patrice glanced at Irish Jack, a warning to back off the levity. They’d known White’s obsession with recovering the photographs from the beginning. If they needed a reminder they needed only to remember what happened in the farm house outside Madrid. The grilling of the young Spanish doctor and her medical students had gone on to the point where White had had enough. Removing his balaclava and telling them to remove theirs had been a signal that they would give them one last chance to cooperate and that would be it. Killing one captive in front of others was an age-old means of attempting to terrify those left into divulging information when they had so far refused to provide. It hadn’t worked, and White ended it on the spot. Afterward he’d sincerely apologized to the three horrified students who remained, saying he had taken up too much of their time, and told the limo driver to take them back to their homes and parents in Madrid, knowing full well Patrice had rigged the limousine to explode twelve minutes after the engine was started. Seconds after they’d gone, White went into the barn where the Spanish gunman who’d brought him there waited with the car, and shot him where he stood.