Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

“Get out of the fucking way!” Irish Jack slammed on the brakes, then jumped on the accelerator and fishtailed around it, barely missing an oncoming taxi, its driver leaning on his horn and throwing a fist up in rage.

Santos turned the laundry truck onto Rua Nova do Almada. As quickly he swung right, and they were into the heart of the Baxia.

Marten looked in the mirror. Two blocks back he saw the Mercedes round a corner and race after them.

“Santos, next block pull over. Tell me which way to go afterward.”

“Right turn, then left,” Santos told Marten, “then two streets and-”

“Control, 6-4. We’ve got the ambulance. 6-2’s on their tail.” Marten heard the quick rasp of Branco’s voice. “ We’re right behind them. Copy .”

“Control. 6-4. Where are you? Can you take them down now?” Marten felt a stabbing chill as Conor White’s distinctive British accent spat through his earpiece. In the same instant he flashed on the memory of the first time he had seen him as he accompanied Anne across the floor of the Hotel Malabo. A strong, proud, seemingly sane military man in a well-cut suit.

“We’re on Calçada do Carmo heading toward Rossio Square. Streets are too narrow to make any kind of takedown move.”

Suddenly the piercing scream of a siren followed by the thundering blare of an air horn shot through Marten’s earpiece. A split second later he heard what sounded like a horrendous crash.

For a moment there was absolute silence. Then-

“6-4. Control. 6-4! Copy,” he heard Conor White bark. There was no reply. Then, “6-2. 6-2. Control. 6-2! Do you read me? Copy!”

“This is 6-4, Control. Fire truck went through an intersection. Hit the ambulance and the 6-2 car. Ambulance is on its side. 6-2 car not drivable.”

“Control, 6-4. How bad is it? Anybody killed?”

“Can’t tell. Firemen are on it. My guys seem banged up but okay, don’t know the extent of it. Firemen have the ambulance’s rear doors open. I can’t-Wait. I see Ryder. He’s being helped out. Looks stunned. Don’t know about the others.”

“Get your men out of the 6-2 car.” White was calm but emphatic. “If they can’t walk, carry them. Then get the hell out of there. You’ll have emergency personnel including police all over the place before you can piss. You don’t want them talking to your guys. Copy.”

“6-4, roger, copy.”

“Control, 6-4. Imperative we meet close to accident scene. Our vehicle has GPS. Give me street coordinates. Copy.”

“Roger, Control. Ah, Calçada do Duque at Rua da Condessa. Copy.”

“Calçada do Duque at Rua da Condessa. Five minutes tops. Copy.”

“Roger, Control. Five minutes.”

For an instant Marten sat stunned. It wasn’t just the unexpectedness of the accident and the acute fear that Anne and Ryder might be seriously hurt or worse; what struck him was how quickly White had read the situation and decided on what action to take next. Whatever that was, whoever his 6-4 and 6-2 people were, clearly none of them were running away.

As quickly, real time caught up. He glanced in the mirror looking for the trailing black Mercedes. He saw it several cars behind just as the driver did an abrupt U-turn in traffic, then accelerated off in the opposite direction. Immediately he turned to Grant.

“Fire truck hit the ambulance. It’s on its side. Ryder seems okay. That’s the most we know. White had two cars tailing it. One of them got caught up in the accident. He’s regrouping to meet near the scene.” He looked to Santos. “Your brother may have been hurt, I don’t know. Get us to Calçada do Carmo near Rossio Square. Fast as you can!”

“Yes, sir.” Santos glanced in his mirror, waited for a man on a bicycle to pass, then took an abrupt left and stepped hard on the truck’s accelerator.

12:02 P.M.

Anne was on her knees. A young fireman with red hair poking out from under his helmet was with her, trying to help her stand up on what was once a sidewall but was now the floor of the overturned ambulance. She was a little woozy from the impact and rollover, and blood oozed from a gash above her right eye, but other than that she seemed alright. At least that was what she told the fireman. In the distance she heard the singsong of approaching sirens. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Then she saw Ryder sitting on the sidewalk partway up a hill on the far side of the street. Two firemen were attending to him.

“Easy,” the fireman helping her said calmly in English. “Can you put weight on your legs?”

She tried, then nodded.

“Good. There’s a fuel leak. We have to get out and away from the vehicle now.” He started to lead her toward the door that by now had been propped open. As he did, her mind cleared and she turned back, looking crazily around in the upside-down confusion. Nothing was where it should have been.

“What are you doing?”

“I need my bag.”

“ Senhora . Leave it. We have to get out!”

He took her by the arm and was moving her toward the door when she saw it, thrown into the corner by the force of the crash. Abruptly she pulled away to retrieve it. He swore out loud and scrambled after her.

“ Senhora , the vehicle is going to explode. Leave your purse, it’s not important!”

“That’s what you think.” She lunged and grabbed it just as he caught her. A second later they were out and under an increasingly cloudy sky, rushing back, away from the stricken ambulance. The smell of raw fuel was everywhere. Feet away was the wreckage of a dark blue Peugeot, its front end all but torn off. Two men in jeans and Windbreakers, one with a hand to his head, stood next to it talking with a fireman. Behind them, up the hill they had been coming down when the collision happened, she could see a gray Alfa Romeo sedan stopped in the middle of the roadway just opposite a narrow side street. A slim, bearded man in a black suit had gotten out of it and was walking down the hill toward them. Now the memory came back. The Alfa and the Peugeot were the cars that had been following them just moments after they left the hospital. Ryder had remarked about them; so had Agent Birns.

“Over here.” The redheaded fireman led her toward the area where Ryder was. The approaching sirens were closer. Everywhere she saw faces of onlookers. People gathered on the sidewalks. Faces peering from shops and apartment buildings. She looked toward Ryder and saw him get to his feet. To his left, two firefighters were lifting Mário onto some kind of gurney. Suddenly there was an ear-shattering blast of sirens. Immediately they shut down. Two fire trucks had arrived at the same time, adding to the chaos. Firemen jumped from them carrying large canisters and rushed toward the ambulance to lay a carpet of gray-white foam over the leaking fuel. A police car came in from a side street and stopped. Another followed. Uniformed officers got out and began herding the onlookers back. Then more police arrived. It was all happening in seconds. Then an ambulance came, and then one more. The sound and confusion magnified. She looked back and saw the bearded man in black gesture to the men who had been in the Peugeot. The fireman guiding her told her to watch her step and again asked if she was alright and after that asked what her name was and why she had been in the ambulance.

She told him her first name, then murmured something about not remembering where they were going or why. She stepped up on the curb near Ryder and looked around for Agent Birns. She didn’t see him. She looked to Ryder. He understood and shook his head. Then she saw two ambulance attendants run forward with a gurney. A body lay on the far sidewalk, a white sheet covering it.