Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

“Anne,” he said quickly over his shoulder.

“I know. The Hauptkommissar.” Her reply was sharp and close by.

Marten turned to see her standing near the door, her purse over one shoulder, one of the room keys in her hand. He stood up in surprise and alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I took down the phone number here. I’ll call you later.” Immediately she twisted the lock, pulled open the door, and was gone.

“Jesus Christ!” Marten blurted and went after her.

He came out into the hallway on the run expecting to hear the whir of the elevator. He didn’t. It was silent. Then he heard sounds in the stairwell beside it. Abruptly he looked over the side. She was already two flights down and moving fast.

He took the stairs two at a time. Down three flights, then four. He caught up to her on the ground floor in the entryway near Raisa’s apartment just as she reached the front door. He grabbed her and pulled her back.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Going out.” She wrenched free of his grip.

“To where?”

“To think. To be alone.”

“You can do that in the apartment. Go in the bedroom. Shut the door. I won’t bother you.”

She said nothing, just stood there staring at him, breathing heavily. He saw fire and fear and uncertainty in her eyes. At the same time, there was a deep, almost animal-like resolve. She was going to do whatever it was she had set out for, and he knew keeping her from it would be next to impossible. Still, he had to try. He couldn’t have her going out in the streets, not now. Not after Franck’s body had been found.

“Want to talk about it?” he said quietly.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Give me a chance.”

Her eyes fixed on his. All the emotions were still there. “I have something to do. Please don’t interfere.”

“You get caught by the police, we’re both done. Joe Ryder won’t try to help. He wouldn’t dare even acknowledge us. If Conor White and his friends get you, you won’t live an hour.”

“Then I better not get caught,” she said coldly. In an instant she was past him and out the door and into what was now twilight. Marten watched her cross quickly into the park and then she was gone, swallowed up in the shadows.

“Quarrels and misunderstandings.” A familiar voice rang out from behind him. Startled, he whirled around.

Raisa stood in the doorway of her apartment, her arms folded over her chest. The navy suit was gone. In its place she wore a rose-colored silk robe and red slippers that nearly matched her hair. “The thing I warned you about a short while ago. At some point she’ll come back. And when she does, she’ll want to fuck you. You can be sure of it.”

Marten cocked his head. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, my love.”

Of course he had, but it surprised him nonetheless. What she had said and the way she’d said it-easily and without embarrassment-as if she were one of those people who just knew things. Suddenly he saw her not so much as the provider of a safe house, or the professional madam she’d turned out to be, but rather some kind of diminutive French-born earth mother. One who might or might not be more than a little crazy but who understood life and human behavior in ways others might not and wasn’t above verbalizing it.

“I saw her face,” Raisa continued, “her eyes, her demeanor. Something troubles her a great deal. It’s why she left, to try and resolve it. When she does, or even if she fails, she will come back completely drained by whatever has happened and be looking for a release of the most profound kind. In my experience nothing does that better than a good fuck, especially when it’s done with someone you like and trust.” Raisa Amaro smiled tenderly. “Be gentle with her. But not too gentle. For a little while at least she will want to forget everything. Good night, Mr. Marten.”

With that she gathered her robe, went back into her apartment, and closed the door.

Marten stood frozen. Whatever Raisa said about Anne coming back and what would happen when she did hadn’t fully registered. Nor had whatever reason had caused her to leave. What overrode everything was the danger out there on the street. He damned himself for having let her go. Instinct told him to go after her right then. Find her quickly. Fight with her if he had to but bring her back before the police or Conor White and his people found her. The trouble was, if he rushed out after her he would have to guess where she’d gone and in doing so would have no choice but to ask strangers if they’d seen her. Something that multiplied the risk to himself a hundredfold. It was a gamble he didn’t dare take. Joe Ryder was counting on him to deliver the photographs; so was the president.

He went to the door and looked out toward the park. The evening lights had come on, and he could see a few people still mingling there. Anne was not among them. He watched for a moment longer, then finally turned and went back up the stairs to the apartment.

9:18 P.M.

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL RITZ, THE RITZ BAR. 9:20 P.M.

Sy Wirth sat alone finishing his second Johnnie Walker Blue over ice. An attractive woman in a green dress walked up to the bar, ordered a Black Russian, and smiled seductively at him. He didn’t respond. Instead he signed his tab, then got up and made his way through the bustling lounge area toward the elevators in the lobby. It was nearly nine thirty at night local time, almost three thirty in the afternoon in Houston.

9:24 P.M.

The elevator door opened; Wirth stepped out and walked down the hallway toward his tenth-floor room. His electronic key unlocked the door, and he went in. A hallway light was on. So was one on the nightstand beside the bed. The maid had turned down the sheets. A writing desk was in front of a large sliding glass door that opened onto an outdoor terrace overlooking the dark expanse of Eduardo VII Park.

He sat down at the desk and turned on the lamp, then slid the two BlackBerrys from his jacket pocket, put the one with the blue tape aside, and picked up the other. A deep breath and he punched in a number in England that automatically forwarded the call to Striker general counsel Arnold Moss’s personal BlackBerry in Houston. It rang three times before Moss picked up.

“I thought I’d be hearing from you,” Moss said immediately.

“Where are you?”

“In the office, where else?”

“You alone?”

“Yes.”

Wirth ran a hand through his hair. “Truex has gotten Washington involved. I’m in Lisbon. So is Conor White. Anne and this Nicholas Marten are either on their way or have already arrived. They’re going to meet with Joe Ryder somewhere here tomorrow. Most probably to give him the photographs and have Anne tell him what she knows about our operations. White’s already got an Agency freelancer on board to help stop them.”

“Carlos Branco.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Wirth was startled. “Truex tell you?”

“Newhan Black.”

“Black called you?”

“He wants us out, Sy. He didn’t want to talk to you. Thought I should deliver the news. It only happened a little while ago. It’s why I didn’t call. I wanted to think.”

“Stop thinking.” Wirth shoved back from the desk and stood up. “This is what we’re going to do.”

“You didn’t tell me the Russians were in this.”

“They aren’t anymore.”

“How the hell did they get involved in the-”

“I tried an end run. It didn’t work.” Wirth crossed the room, reached the far side, then turned back. He was angry. At the world. “Not everything pans out, Arnie. In the end you hope you come out a step ahead of even.”