Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

And he had, telling her that an American politician had just flown in by private plane from Iraq, and they needed to meet with him as soon as possible and in a place that was private and out of the public eye. Further, there were people outside her building now waiting to follow them to wherever that place was. What they hoped she could do was provide them with that meeting place and a way that they could get to it, quickly and without being seen by those outside. Further, wherever that place was, they would all have to leave it soon afterward undetected for a trip to the airport and the politician’s plane. Complicating things even more was the fact that they had no way to contact their man without the people outside knowing. It was a big order, Marten understood, and made on very short notice. He ended his plea with a simple sentence. “I think you appreciate where this is coming from.”

“I appreciate very well where this is coming from,” Raisa said with a smile. “Old lovers die hard.”

If Anne had been caught up in the game of “what the hell’s going on?” she didn’t show it. Instead she gave Raisa a warning. “The people watching outside will have very sophisticated electronic listening equipment. Any conversation coming into or going out of the building will be heard, traced, and recorded, and that includes the line in this apartment that transfers out through your laundry company.”

“Then we’ll have to find another means.” Raisa walked off, lifting a BlackBerry from the pocket of her robe as she did. They saw her scan a list of names and numbers programmed into it. Immediately she put it away, turned, and came back.

“My laundry is called A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa, or Best Laundry of Lisbon. It’s not far from here. I go to my office there every morning, as I will do now. When I have something to tell you I will send a messenger. A teenage boy named Otavio. He will give you a slip of paper with instructions. Follow them exactly.”

“Raisa,” Marten said, “we can’t just walk out through the front door, or the back, either.”

It was then she’d told them about the network of passageways, warning of their age and probable condition but saying she thought they were still passable. “Look for a blue electrician’s van with white and gold lettering, Serviço Elétrico de Sete Dias-Seven Day Electrical Service. It will be parked at the end of the last house on the block. Go out the basement door and to it quickly. The driver will take you where you need to go. A truck from my laundry will get you to the airport.”

“You realize our man will have to know where to meet us and when,” Marten said quietly.

Raisa smiled again. “I will take care of it myself.” She looked at Anne. “Dirty little secrets, my dear. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Anne matched Raisa’s smile. “Old lovers, like old girlfriends, die hard.” Her eyes went to Marten. He didn’t respond.

9:45 A.M.

Marten moved the beam of his flashlight across an old, rough-hewn wooden barricade that closed off the passageway in front of them. He studied it for the briefest second, then looked over his shoulder at Anne.

“I don’t know what this is. Hold the light,” he said and handed the flashlight to her. They’d been less than twenty minutes in the underground corridors, passing from Raisa’s building and then through the next and the next. The smell of must and mold permeated the air, and the going had been frustratingly slow. Rubble from partially crumbled walls, pieces of old furniture, and plumbing and electrical fixtures stored for years and forgotten had had to be moved, climbed over, or squeezed around. At one point there had been what was left of the carcass of a long-dead dog.

Now the way into the last building at 9 Rua do Almada was completely blocked off and the clock was counting down. Marten had no idea how long it would take to break through the obstruction. Or if it was even possible. And then there were the other questions. How long could an electrician’s truck wait outside without drawing notice from the men watching number 17? And what about Ryder? Was he on his way to Rua Serpa Pinto and the Hospital da Universidade? Had he even received the directive of where to go and when to meet? Even if he had, had he been able to slip away from the main RSO detail? What if he reached the hospital and found they weren’t there? What if they got there and he never showed up? What if they had to revert to the backup plans, retrace their steps, and do the same thing all over again tomorrow? And if he still wasn’t there? What then? And what about the here and now? What if they couldn’t move the barricade and had to go back to the apartment?

“Christ,” he swore out loud, then put his shoulder against the heavy wood and pushed. Nothing happened. He shoved at it again. Still nothing. He looked at Anne. She, like himself, was coated with more than a half century of brick and mortar dust. It covered their clothes, was in their hair, smeared on their faces, inhaled into their lungs. The only thing that helped her even a little was the bucket hat that he’d worn the night before and had asked her to wear when they left, hopefully making her less recognizable to anyone watching outside when they made their break for the electrician’s van.

Marten hit the barricade again. There was a sudden rain of dirt and dust from above and the obstruction gave just a little.

“Okay!” he said and hit it again. More dust and rubble came down. One more time and it moved. Not much but more than before. Once again. And then again. Finally he had enough room for them to squirrel through.

“Give me the light,” he said. Anne did, and Marten inched his head and shoulders into the opening. As he did a rat the size of a small cat dropped down from above. It landed on his head and clung there.

He cried out and tried to shake it free. Instead the terrified animal dug its claws into his scalp and held on. “Get the fuck off me!” he yelled and managed to bring his arm up to swat at it. Finally the rodent let go, jumped to the floor, and scampered off into the darkness. Marten swung the light in time to see a dozen more rats scurry off after it.

He took a breath and turned the light back at Anne, then helped her past the barricade and into the passageway beside him, his eyes close on her purse that she’d slung crossways over her chest. The purse that carried the prized contraband-the photographs and the 35 mm film strips of the Memorandum.

He took a moment to look at her before moving on in an attempt to judge her psychological state. Her eyes were clear and intent, as they had been ever since she’d found him on the phone with the president. Hopefully, with sleep, the episode she’d suffered the night before had passed and the most he had to concern himself with now was the ticking clock of the present. She’d had a few changes of underwear, but she still wore the jean outfit she’d had on since Erlanger’s house in Potsdam. It was worn and dirty and in desperate need of washing, but under the circumstances it didn’t matter. That he was in the same clothes he’d worn since Berlin didn’t matter, either. At the moment they might well have been thrust back in time, as much refugees as anyone who had passed that way those many years before. The only difference now was the enemy. They were fleeing the agents not of Hitler’s death machine but of their own country.

“What are you looking at?” she said finally.

“Trying to make sure you weren’t afraid of rats.”

“Only the human kind.”

“Me, too.” He swung the light into the passageway ahead.

“Nicholas.”

“What?” He looked back.

“Thank you for last night. I kind of lost it.”

He smiled gently. “I cried in Berlin. You cried in Lisbon. Now we’re even, so forget it.”