Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

Tomás hesitated, then stood upright and closed the hood. As he did, he hesitated, looking back down the street toward the motorcycle rider.

“Tomás, get in!”

“He’s scared to death,” Anne whispered.

“I don’t blame him, but we can’t sit here waiting to see what happens next.” Marten slid the Glock free of his waistband. “Give me your professional opinion. Is our pal one of White’s men or does he work for the Agency?”

“Take your choice.”

“Not just somebody curious.”

“No.”

Tomás opened the door and got in behind the wheel. Immediately Marten climbed into the seat beside him. “How do I get to Rua Serpa Pinto from here? You said it was close.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just tell me how to get there.”

“Up this street, past the fancy restaurant on the left. Then turn down Rua Capelo. At the end is the street you want. Number 25 is right there.”

“Thank you.” Marten looked over his shoulder at Anne. “Go with Tomás. I’ll meet you at the hospital. If I’m late, if something happens, follow up with Ryder yourself. Give him everything you have and go with him. His people will protect you.”

“What the hell are you going to do?”

Marten smiled. “Not quite sure.”

With that he opened the passenger door and stepped onto the street. “Get out of here, Tomás. Now!”

Marten slammed the door and stepped into the shadows between parked cars. Tomás glanced at him and then drove off. Marten looked back down the street. The motorcycle rider was watching either him or the van, it was hard to tell which. Suddenly he moved his head animatedly, as if he were either receiving orders or replying to them over a radio-microphone in his helmet. A split second later he set himself and revved the machine. There was a vicious scream of engine and the street racer shot toward him. Its speed alone told Marten all he needed to know. The rider had been ordered to ignore him and follow the van.

By his estimation a bike like that would accelerate from 0 to 150 miles per hour in about ten seconds. Meaning it would be going close to a hundred by the time it reached him. He counted, one, two; then stepped into the middle of the street and directly into its path. He waited a half second, then raised the Glock with both hands, pointing it at the rider’s chest and giving him three choices to make in less than a heartbeat. Swerve out of the way, hit him at full speed, or get shot. The distance between them was closing at warp speed. The machine and rider were little more than a blur. A bullet coming straight at him. Marten stood his ground, his finger closing on the trigger. Then it was right there. Marten saw the rider touch his brakes and veer sharply to the left in an attempt to go around him. Instantly the laws of physics took over. The machine slid out from under him and he was airborne. A split second later he slammed headfirst into the windshield of a parked car. His head snapped back and he bounced off it, his body twisting high in the air and then disappearing from sight on the far side of the car with a sickening thud. In the next instant the riderless motorcycle hit another car and exploded in an enormous fireball.

Marten watched for a moment, then slipped the Glock back into his waistband and turned and walked off toward Rua Capelo, the way Tomás had told him to go. Behind him traffic came to a standstill as flames and black smoke bellowed skyward.

10:21 A.M.

10:22 A.M.

“Stop here, please,” Joe Ryder said abruptly as the cabdriver took them along a large tree-lined plaza called the Rossio. One of the city’s main squares, it was alive with tourists peopling the shops and cafés surrounding it.

“We are not yet close to the Alfama district, senhor .”

“It’s alright. I just realized this is my wedding anniversary. I want to get my wife a present.”

“You’re American, yes?” The driver slowed, then pulled to the curb near a large flower stand.

“Yes.”

The driver grinned. “Then you mean you have to get your wife a present.”

Ryder smiled in return. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I will wait for you, senhor .”

“Not necessary, thank you. We’ll find another cab when we’ve finished shopping.”

Agent Birns got out first, briefcase in hand, his eyes sweeping the area. Ryder paid the driver, then followed Birns, and the cab drove off. Immediately they turned down a side street and went into a store selling brightly colored ceramics. Thirty seconds later they exited, walked to the end of the next block, and hailed another taxi.

“Rua Serpa Pinto,” Ryder said as they got in.

The driver nodded, put his cab in gear, and pulled into traffic.

10:24 A.M.

10:25 A.M.

Conor White left Moses and the others in the Mercedes, then crossed a dusty parking area, climbed a short flight of stairs, and entered the side door of the large, one-story white stucco building that was A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa, Avenida de Brasilia, 22. In the distance was the 25th of April Bridge. Behind him, as Carlos Branco had said, was a large stretch of Lisbon’s waterfront where vessels from hand-rowed dories to ferries to cruise ships plied the midmorning waters of the Tagus River. A world within a world chugging innocently on, a heartbeat away.

The door closed behind White, and he entered a loading dock area with space for two good-sized laundry trucks. One was there. The other, assuming there was another, would be out making pickups or deliveries. Across the way was a battered work desk where a dark-haired man in white trousers and white T-shirt talked on the phone. To the left was a large room filled with industrial-sized washers and dryers, tended by two men in white. If there were other employees he didn’t see them.

White approached the desk. “Are you the supervisor?” he said politely.

The man nodded, then finished his phone conversation and hung up. “I am,” he said, his English thickly colored with Portuguese. “What can I do for you?”

“Raisa Amaro, please. I have an appointment.”

The supervisor studied him. “I am afraid she’s not here, sir. If you would leave your name and a number where you could be reached, I-”

“You don’t understand,” White cut him off. “I have an appointment.”

“I’m sorry, but-”

“I spoke to her on the phone not five minutes ago.”

Again the man studied him. Finally he reached for the phone on his desk. “I’ll have to check.”

Abruptly White put his hand on the man’s hand, stopping him. “Just take me to her.” Gone was the politeness. In its stead was a cold, deadly resolve. “It would be in your best interests.”

The man stared at him unafraid; then his eyes abruptly shifted as the outside door opened and two men in business suits came in. Patrice and Irish Jack. In the distance came the deep-throated blast of a boat whistle, a tugboat, or maybe a ferry.

Conor White stared at the supervisor. “Raisa Amaro, please,” he said quietly.

10:30 A.M.

10:31 A.M.

Marten walked quickly along Rua Capelo, the sirens of emergency vehicles hanging in the air behind him, black smoke from the still-burning motorcycle clearly visible as it drifted upward.

Fifty feet ahead the street ended at Rua Serpa Pinto. He kept on, stepping around a woman pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair, then dodging two young teenage boys running to investigate the smoke and sirens. Finally he reached the corner and stopped. To the left, partway down the block and across the street, was Hospital da Universidade. In appearance, a small, all-purpose hospital.

The building itself was tasteful and well kept, if unimpressive. Four stories tall, concrete and plaster covering its facade, it was connected, like almost every other structure in the city, to its neighboring buildings. As on its adjoining buildings wrought-iron balconies decorated the second-floor windows. To the right of its doorway was a simple call box.