Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

“Faro, Portugal,” Dimitri Korostin’s voice spat at him. “They landed about five minutes ago.”

“Your people are there?”

“We have an agreement, Josiah. I deliver as promised, no matter what you may think.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Fuck you, too!”

Dimitri clicked off; so did Wirth. A moment later he picked up the blue-tape BlackBerry and speed-dialed Conor White’s number.

“Yes, sir.” White’s voice came back. “I’m still on the ground in Málaga. No update on Marten as yet.”

“Call me back. The connection’s breaking up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eight seconds later Sy Wirth’s everyday BlackBerry chimed and he picked up, the one with blue tape silent at his elbow.

“Conor, they’ve landed in Faro, Portugal,” he snapped quickly and with urgency. “You get off the ground now, you can be there in less than an hour. Call me when you touch down. I should have more for you by then.”

“Faro. Yes, sir.”

Wirth clicked off, and a smile crept over his face. At long last the game was coming to an end.

7:47 A.M.

SIMCO FALCON, MÁLAGA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

SAME TIME.

“Faro.” White stood in the cockpit doorway, the BlackBerry still in his hand. “Fast as this thing will go. Give me a wheels-down ETA as soon as you have it.”

Abruptly he turned and went back into the cabin. Patrice and Irish Jack were waiting for him.

“Faro,” he said again, then slid past them and into his seat and buckled in. Seconds later the first, then the second and then the third of the Falcon’s turbofan jet engines came to life. Almost immediately the plane started to move.

White clipped on his headset, listening to the conversation between his pilot and the tower; then he looked to Patrice. “Get in touch with Spitfire/Madrid. Tell them we want an SUV waiting on the Faro tarmac when we get there.”

“Yes, sir.” Patrice nodded and slid a cell phone from his pocket.

“Where’d you get the info, Col o nel?” Irish Jack grinned with the kind of enthusiasm he always had when he knew action was near. “Same little bird that’s been feeding us all along?”

“Same little bird, Jack. Same little bird.” White sat back as the Falcon banged over the tarmac toward the runway. Irish Jack liked to use playful, almost childlike descriptions of people or things. Where that came from he didn’t know, probably his youth. That aside, White was well aware that both Irish Jack and Patrice knew it was Sy Wirth who had been communicating with him all along.

That was alright for them, but for White the bigger question was, where was Wirth getting his information? Just who was this third party he’d brought into the picture, and how was he keeping tabs on Marten and Anne with such speed and accuracy? Whoever it was was either extremely sophisticated or highly connected, or both. He didn’t like it, and it made him think once again that Wirth, with his blind, self-confident arrogance, had blundered into something far over his head. If so, he was being dragged face-first into it as well. But at this point there was nothing he could do about it because whoever it was held all the cards. Right now he was the tail on the dog.

7:53 A.M. SPANISH TIME

PORTUGAL, FARO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. 6:55 A.M.

Marten and Anne entered the terminal separately, mingling with the passengers from arriving commercial flights he’d hoped would be there. He looked behind him. Through the glass doors he could see Brigitte move the Cessna off to refuel for her return flight to Germany. Whether she had alerted anyone on the ground was impossible to know.

6:57 A.M.

Marten was a dozen paces behind Anne with travelers in between as they approached the green nothing to declare archway and the exit door beyond it leading to the arrivals hall. Here and there armed Portuguese Airport Authority police stood in pairs watching the flow of travelers. Marten kept moving, paying them no attention. Ahead, he could see Anne doing the same. Then she was there, passing under the archway and walking into the arrivals hall. Seconds later he passed through it himself unchallenged. Simple as that, just as Brigitte had said.

7:00 A.M.

Marten caught up to Anne near the main entrance, blending in with the controlled chaos of morning travelers coming and going and keeping a watchful eye on another pair of airport police standing just inside the doors, one of them with his hand on the leash of a large black Labrador. Sniffer dog, Marten thought, looking for travelers carrying drugs or explosives.

They had no luggage at all; everything was carried on their person, the same as it had been after they’d left the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. Anne had her basics-toiletries, change of underwear and sleeping T-shirt, passport, credit cards, money, BlackBerry and phone charger-in her shoulder bag. Marten’s passport, his toothbrush, the dark blue throwaway cell phone, and his wallet with his British driver’s license, credit cards, and cash were neatly distributed between his jeans and his summer-weight sport coat.

“Where do we go from here?” Anne said quietly and with a furtive glance toward the police and their dog.

Marten steered her toward the main entrance. “Out the front door, then look for a bus into the city.”

“Bus?”

He looked at her sardonically. “Don’t tell me you’re above using public transportation.”

She shot him an indignant glance. “My father and I rode buses for years when we were traveling and trying to build the business. There was no money for anything else. But in case you’ve forgotten, buses are narrow enclosed places filled with people who just might watch TV or surf the Net or read newspapers. I have to think that by now your friend the Hauptkommissar will have spread your name and picture all over the EU. Maybe mine, too.”

Marten ignored her protest. “After the bus we’re going to need a car.”

“Are you going to rent it or steal it?”

“You are going to rent it.”

“Me?”

Marten glanced at her. “I can’t risk using a credit card and having my name show up in some kind of commercial data bank,” he said quietly. “Anyone looking for me would know exactly where I am.”

“What about anyone looking for me?”

“We’ll have to take that chance.”

Again came the indignant look. “We will?”

“Unless you want to walk. Where we’re going isn’t exactly around the corner.”

They were still in the crowd when they moved past the police and the sniffer dog and out into bright sunshine. Two police cars were parked on the far side of a center island directly across from them, with three uniformed officers standing nearby chatting and keeping their eyes on the terminal entrance.

“There are car rental agencies here at the airport.” Anne moved a step ahead of Marten. “It’s crazy to risk being seen on a bus.”

“True. But not so crazy when one considers that airport rental agencies and taxicabs are the first place anyone following us will look.” Marten nodded toward a city bus as it pulled to the curb not twenty yards in front of them. “They’ll look but they won’t find. By the time they think to check the agencies in the city we’ll be long gone.” He glanced back at the police. “I hope.”

“To where?”

Marten shook his head. “Not yet, darling.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“No.”

7:10 A.M.

FARO, MONTENEGRO DISTRICT. STILL SUNDAY, JUNE 6. 8:12 A.M.

Nicholas Marten stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked across the street to a small tree-lined park and sat down on a bench. In the distance church bells tolled for Sunday Mass. Somewhere nearby was the faint odor of cultivated garlic. Marten looked around for the decorative plant, curious as to what variety it was and where it was. Farther down two elderly men played chess under a large almond tree that he estimated was at least forty years old.