Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

Marten hesitated, then began. The best thing, he knew, was to go along with them. Do just as they asked. “My name is Nicholas Marten,” he said, patiently telling them what he had moments earlier when they’d first brought him into the room, taken his photograph and searched him, then took away his still-damp passport and wallet and the neck pouch in which he carried it. Immediately afterward the major demanded he tell them his name and what he did and where he was from. “I am a landscape architect. I live in Manchester, in the north of England.”

Carefully, he went on with the rest, repeating the story he’d told Marita on the way there. It was a narrative, which, as he thought now, was something he must have quickly and subconsciously put together the day before when the soldiers were pursuing him through the rain forest and he had been certain he would be caught. A simple yet detailed explanation of who he was and why he was in Bioko.

“I came here on a five-day trip to study equatorial plants for possible inclusion in a tropical green house a client would like to build on his estate. You can verify the date I arrived in Bioko by the stamp on my passport. I took a room at the Hotel Malabo for the duration of my stay. My things are still there.”

Marten paused and casually looked around to see how the others were reacting. If they had relaxed. If they believed him. What might happen when he was finished. There was no response at all. The soldiers stared at him in silence, their focus and attitude unchanged.

Marten cleared his throat and went on. “While I was in the southern part of the island I met a priest who introduced himself as Father Willy Dorhn. He asked me about my travels, and when I explained my reason for being there he kindly offered to show me some rain forest vegetation I had not yet seen. Later, as we returned, we heard gunfire in his village. The father was very concerned about his people and left me to go to them. It was then the army trucks came. He looked back when he saw them, and I could tell he was frightened. He yelled at me to run for my life. Which I did. I had no idea what was going on, but the sound of his voice and the fear in his eyes was enough. I ran into the jungle with armed soldiers chasing me. Shortly afterward I slipped from a cliff and fell into a river. The water carried me a long way. Then it became night, and in the morning I found I had reached the sea. I was lost and thirsty and hungry. I had no choice but to start walking, and I did. Sometime later the Spanish doctor and her medical students found me.” Marten stopped and looked directly at the major. “You know the rest.”

“Why would you be afraid of the army?” he asked flatly.

“When you are a stranger in the backcountry like we were and there is a lot of gunfire and the priest you are with, a man who very recently told you he had been serving the people here for half a century, tells you to run for your life, I would think it best to do so. I don’t have to tell you that Africa is filled with bloody civil wars and untold massacres and incursions by armed men from neighboring countries. I had no idea who the uniformed men were. So I ran.”

The major glared at him and seemed about to reply when the door suddenly opened and a hawk-faced, gray-haired soldier wearing the same kind of jungle fatigues as the others entered. Immediately the men in the room snapped to attention. At the same time, two other uniformed men came in. One carried a folding chair, which he opened and placed near Marten. The hawk-faced soldier looked at him, then sat down on it.

Immediately the major turned to Marten. “I would ask you to state your name, your profession, and place of residence and then to tell your story once again.” This time it wasn’t a formal request as before, it was an order.

“Of course,” Marten said politely and patiently, wholly aware of the hawk-faced soldier and how completely his presence affected the others. Whoever he was, he was dark-skinned but clearly not a black African like the rest. He looked more than anything like a sharp-featured Hispanic and was older than he first appeared. Fifty at least, maybe even sixty. Moreover, his uniform bore no insignia other than that of the Equatorial Guinea army. There were no service ribbons, no oak leaf clusters or stars or bars, no indication of rank at all. Yet clearly he was a superior officer, a col o nel or even a general. Who he was or why he was here Marten had no way to know. But it didn’t matter. He had been ordered to tell his story once more, and he did, being careful to leave out nothing.

“My name is Nicholas Marten. I’m a landscape architect. I live in Manchester, in the north of England. I came here on a five-day trip to…”

The whole time Marten talked, the hawk-faced soldier studied him. Watched his eyes, his hands, his body language, even the placement of his feet, as if something Marten might inadvertently do would reveal more about him than the tale he was telling.

And the whole time Marten ignored him, just looked at the major and repeated what, by now, he knew by heart. When he was done he sat back, his eyes still on the major, praying that was all, that he had passed the test and they would believe him and let him go.

“Thank you.” The major smiled easily, and Marten relaxed. He had done everything they asked, genially and politely. Had cooperated at each step. Trouble was the microphone was still there, inches from his face. What else could they possibly want?

Suddenly the major’s smile vanished and he leaned close. “Where are the photographs the priest gave you?”

“What?” Marten was caught completely off guard. How could they know about Father Willy’s photos? It was impossible; there had been no one there but Father Willy and himself.

“The photographs Father Dorhn gave to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The photographs Father Dorhn gave to you,” the major repeated.

“The father gave me no photographs.”

The major stared at him for a long and very silent moment. Then, with a glance at the hawk-faced soldier, he looked back to Marten. “Stand up, please,” he said.

Marten didn’t move.

“Stand up. Remove your clothes.”

“My clothes?”

“I am becoming impatient.” The major’s bloodshot eyes bore into Marten’s. His face glistened with sweat. The tribal scar covering half of it looked more fearsome than ever.

Marten stood slowly. They’d searched him before and found nothing. What the hell were they going to do now?

He glanced around the room. Everyone in it, even the goat, was staring at him. Suddenly the heat felt unbearable, and for a moment he thought he might faint. Then he recovered. If he was going to convince them he knew nothing of the photographs, he had to do exactly as the major had ordered and do it without fear or insolence. He had to prove he was a man of conviction no matter what they had in mind.

“Alright,” he said finally. Immediately his hand went to his shirt. One by one he undid the buttons, then took off his shirt and dropped it by his side. Without hesitation he undid his belt, then opened his fly, unzipped his trousers, and dropped them.

The major stared at him impassively, then nodded at his under-shorts.

You want those, too, Marten thought. Okay, you got them. Quickly he lowered his shorts and dropped them on the floor.

Now he stood naked, his clothing scattered at his feet. A white man alone in a sweltering, ramshackle room in the middle of a sweltering, ramshackle city, surrounded by seven armed black African jungle fighters, one hawk-faced ranking military officer of unknown nationality, and a goat.

5:18 P.M.

“Where are the photographs the priest gave you?” the major said once again.