Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

Suddenly he remembered Kovalenko’s Glock automatic in his waistband. He slid it out and kept running. A hundred yards farther down was the bottom of the hill. There, it flattened out and went straight into the heart of the Baixa. If he could reach it, with its traffic and its myriad of streets and cross streets, he might still have a chance.

Then the Jaguar was alongside him. It flew past, then abruptly slid to a stop. The passenger door was wrenched open and a man stepped out, a machine pistol in his hand.

“Freeze right there!” he commanded in English.

“Freeze this!” Marten yelled and raised the Glock.

Boom! Boom!

He fired two quick shots. The man was blown backward, bounced off the passenger door, and dropped to the pavement like concrete. In the next instant the driver’s door slammed open. Marten dove behind a parked car as a salvo of machine-pistol fire cut across it, showering him with pieces of metal and windshield glass. For a seemingly endless moment there was quiet. Then, the machine pistol up, the driver came forward in the rain and dark looking for him.

Marten let him come. Thirty steps, then twenty. He could see him now in the glow of the streetlights. Short hair, medium height, slim build. Thirty, thirty-five. The rain continued to fall. Ten steps away. Then five. Then two.

Marten calmly stood up. Almost in his face. “Right here,” he said. The driver cried out in surprise and swung the machine pistol.

Boom!

Marten’s lone shot caught him between the eyes. His head snapped back, taking his body with it. He tottered for a moment, defying gravity, and then his legs gave out and he collapsed on the pavement.

Instantly Marten shifted his stance and looked past him for the gray BMW. He didn’t see it. Suddenly lights in the apartments on either side of the street were coming on and he could hear voices. He debated whether to chance retrieving the driver’s machine pistol, then decided against it and quickly walked away. Down the hill. In the rain. And into the heart of the Baixa.

11:11 P.M.

11:17 P.M.

Irish Jack opened the left rear door of the gray BMW and climbed in next to Conor White. Carlos Branco was at the wheel, Patrice beside him.

“We’re not dealing with your everyday landscape architect.” Irish Jack was rain-soaked, his hair and suit jacket especially. Branco had parked the car at the top of the hill, and the Irishman had gone down to the stopped Jaguar to see what had happened even as residents began coming out of their apartments and the singsong of approaching sirens echoed in the distance.

“My guess is he took three shots and they all hit their mark. Got the driver smack-fuck between the eyes. He knows what the hell he’s doing.”

Carlos Branco’s eyes went to the mirror, and he looked at Conor White.

“Who is he?”

White stared back at him. He wasn’t happy. “The question is, who are you, Mr. Freelance Accomplished Resource? We knew where Anne was and she got away. We had Marten and he got away. Two of your people are dead. Coincidentally, if I’m not mistaken, he got a good look at you in the hotel. You’re supposed to be part of Congressman Ryder’s RSO team that sets all three of them up tomorrow. What are you going to do about that?”

“What I look like tomorrow. He’ll never make the connection.”

“You fucked up everything. You tell me why should I keep you on.”

The scream of sirens drew closer.

“Because it would be a mistake not to.”

Just then two police cars, their light bars flashing, turned the corner at the bottom of the hill, started up, then came to an abrupt stop in front of the Jaguar.

White looked at his watch: 11:22 p.m.

“What time does the Ritz bar close?” he asked quietly.

“One,” Branco replied.

“Good.”

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL RITZ, THE RITZ BAR. 11:52 P.M.

Sy Wirth came in and looked around. The bar area where he’d been earlier was nearly as busy as before, but the fashionable seating area back from it where small round tables with plush chairs or couches were nestled intimately close, was not. A man sitting at a corner table raised his hand. Wirth went over and sat down. He was dressed in a dark suit coat over a hastily thrown-on white dress shirt and jeans.

“You’re Patrice,” he said tersely.

“Yes.”

“Where’s Conor White?”

“He’s been delayed. He apologizes. He should be here shortly,” Patrice said easily.

“That’s what he said when he called and asked me to meet you. Where the fuck is he? What happened with Anne Tidrow?”

Patrice signaled for a waitress. “Ms. Tidrow had apparently been in the hotel for a short time and then left without being seen. Nicholas Marten showed up about the same time we did.”

“Marten?”

“He saw us and ran. We went after him. He killed two of our people.”

“What?”

“Afterward he got away.” Patrice looked up as the waitress arrived. “Mineral water for me.” He looked at Wirth. “You?”

“Nothing.”

“Please, Mr. Wirth.” Patrice smiled. “It’s been a long day, it may get longer. What do you drink?”

“Walker Blue,” Wirth said irritably.

The waitress left, and Wirth leaned in close. “What the good fuck is going on?”

“There’s been a new development. It has to do with Ms. Tidrow. Carlos Branco, you know him?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been in touch with Conor. It’s why the delay, why Conor asked me to see you and fill you in on what happened before he got here.”

“Your drinks, gentlemen.” The waitress smiled, put down cocktail napkins and then set each man’s drink in front of him.

“Cheers.” Patrice lifted his glass. Wirth took his and downed the whisky in one swallow.

Patrice looked to the waitress and grinned. “I think he might want another.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and left.

Wirth glared at him. “Get on your cell phone and call Conor White. Tell him I want him here. I want him here, now.”

“He doesn’t have to, Mr. Wirth.” Conor White slid into a chair next to him.

12:08 A.M. NOW MONDAY, JUNE 7.

12:12 A.M.

Banco Espirito Santo. Marten passed the bank building for the second time in the last twenty minutes and realized he was getting nowhere. He’d walked up and down the Baixa-Rua do Áurea, Rua Augusta, Rua dos Correeiros, Rua dos Fanqueiros, with others in between-to no avail. All he’d seen were several taxis, here and there a pedestrian, and darkened shops. Wherever Anne had gone after she’d left the Hotel Lisboa Chiado only she knew. The few other hotels he’d passed, the only public buildings still open and that she might have gone into, he’d ruled out because of the credit card situation and the risk of being seen himself.

Moreover, the police presence was heavy, which he knew it would be following the shootings. More than once he’d ducked into a doorway or around a corner as a patrol car passed. Luckily the rain kept the motorcycle units to a minimum, and there had been no foot patrol at all, at least that he’d seen. Meaning so far he’d been lucky, but how long that fortune would hold was, he knew, mostly up to him.

Finally he decided there was nothing more he could do about Anne. Her fate, like his, was in her own hands. The thing now was to try to get back to Raisa’s apartment and wait for Joe Ryder’s call. That meant a thirty-minute walk-through the Baixa, then up into the Chiado, and finally the Bairro Alto. A thirty-minute walk if he didn’t get lost. A lot more if he did. The longer he was out, the greater the chance of being stopped and questioned by the police. If that happened he was done, especially since he was still carrying the Glock automatic that had killed Hauptkommissar Franck and the two men in the Jaguar. A gun he could throw into any sewer opening or storm drain but didn’t dare in the event Conor White and his men showed up.