The Hadrian Memorandum Part 44

That Marten had taken the bait was affirmed by the A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa laundry truck parked just up the hill from the street where White, Patrice, and Irish Jack now waited in the black UN-license-plated Mercedes. Branco and three of his former Portuguese army commandos were in the Alfa Romeo parked on the same street less than a hundred paces behind them. The plan was to wait for the Land Cruiser and Ford tail car to pa.s.s, then follow them in traffic around Rossio Square, past the Metro station, and up Avenida da Liberdade to where Rua Barata Salgueiro crossed it. It was there they would strike. Irish Jack would accelerate alongside the procession as if to pa.s.s it. At the last second he would abruptly turn in front of the Land Cruiser, cutting it off. In the meantime Branco's Alfa would pull in tight behind the tailing Ford. The GOE was a highly respected ant.i.terrorist SWAT-type organization whose members had been trained in the same manner as the British SAS, White's primary regiment, which meant he knew their tactics and mind-set. He also knew that the only way to defeat them was by striking hard and fast, with Branco's gunmen taking out the GOEs in the tail car while he, Patrice, and Irish Jack attacked the Land Cruiser. That a number of policemen would be killed meant little. Lisbon was a war zone, no different than if it were a city in Iraq or Afghanistan. As he had said-thirty seconds and it would be done. Then Branco and his men would be in the Alfa and gone, and they would be disappearing in the city's myriad of narrow, twisting streets, racing to the airport and the waiting Falcon 50 for the flight back to Bioko. laundry truck parked just up the hill from the street where White, Patrice, and Irish Jack now waited in the black UN-license-plated Mercedes. Branco and three of his former Portuguese army commandos were in the Alfa Romeo parked on the same street less than a hundred paces behind them. The plan was to wait for the Land Cruiser and Ford tail car to pa.s.s, then follow them in traffic around Rossio Square, past the Metro station, and up Avenida da Liberdade to where Rua Barata Salgueiro crossed it. It was there they would strike. Irish Jack would accelerate alongside the procession as if to pa.s.s it. At the last second he would abruptly turn in front of the Land Cruiser, cutting it off. In the meantime Branco's Alfa would pull in tight behind the tailing Ford. The GOE was a highly respected ant.i.terrorist SWAT-type organization whose members had been trained in the same manner as the British SAS, White's primary regiment, which meant he knew their tactics and mind-set. He also knew that the only way to defeat them was by striking hard and fast, with Branco's gunmen taking out the GOEs in the tail car while he, Patrice, and Irish Jack attacked the Land Cruiser. That a number of policemen would be killed meant little. Lisbon was a war zone, no different than if it were a city in Iraq or Afghanistan. As he had said-thirty seconds and it would be done. Then Branco and his men would be in the Alfa and gone, and they would be disappearing in the city's myriad of narrow, twisting streets, racing to the airport and the waiting Falcon 50 for the flight back to Bioko.

"Colonel," Patrice said quietly, his eyes on the street above them, his Quebecois accent as distinct as ever, "here they come."

12:30 P.M.

117.

The Land Cruiser came down the hill slowly, its windshield wipers beating a steady rhythm against the light rain. The white Ford was tight behind it.

The task of getting the congressman and his people from the accident scene to the U.S. Emba.s.sy was commanded by plainclothes GOE Sergeant Clemente Barbosa, a raw-boned man in his midthirties who rode in the shotgun seat. His driver, Eduardo, was several years younger and fully intent on the roadway ahead and the traffic, streets, and buildings around them. His world, like Barbosa's, was in the moment, nowhere else. The same was true for the four armed, uniformed GOEs in the tail car.

Ryder and Grant rode in the seats directly behind Barbosa and Eduardo. Marten and Anne were in the third row. The pa.s.senger compartment where they all were was shielded from outside view by the Toyota's dark-tinted windows. In the few moments before the GOE arrived, Marten, Anne, Ryder, and Grant had examined the situation. The consensus was that none wanted to chance going to the emba.s.sy, if for no other reason than that at some point they would have to leave it and, no matter how well guarded they were, White would know when they would be leaving and where they would be going. The same as he undoubtedly did now. The difference was that if they moved soon, meaning in the next few minutes, they would have an element of surprise they wouldn't have once they were in the confines of the emba.s.sy.

The idea of disappearing into a large crowd-as Marten and Grant had planned before the accident, when they would have abandoned the laundry truck and dashed into the heavily populated Baixa district to lose themselves in it-still seemed best. Even as the rain toyed with them, this was still the tourist season and crowds were everywhere, most especially where they were headed: Rossio Square, where Ryder and Agent Birns had stopped earlier that morning to change cabs. It was a place, Ryder was certain, that would be filled not only with tourists but also with readily available taxis.

So Rossio was the site where they would make their move. Grant would ask Barbosa to pull over and stop, saying that Ryder wasn't feeling well and needed some air. Barbosa would be reluctant but have no choice except to do as he had been asked. At that point they would simply open the doors and get out, with Ryder saying he needed a few minutes to walk the sensation off and Grant rea.s.suring Barbosa that he was armed and that the congressman was perfectly safe. Seconds later they would be in the crowd and quickly disappear into it, splitting up as they went-Grant staying with Ryder to guard him, Anne and Marten going off in a different direction altogether. After that each group would find a taxi, take it to the civil aviation terminal at Portela Airport, then go to directly Ryder's plane, where the pilots would be waiting and the aircraft cleared for takeoff.

Not a word was said as they reached the bottom of the hill and Eduardo turned the Land Cruiser onto Praca Dom Pedro IV, following the one-way streets around Rossio Square in a line of traffic. At that point the rain came down in earnest.

118.

Irish Jack changed the speed of the Mercedes's windshield wipers to keep up with the downpour and at the same time kept them a neat three vehicles behind the Ford tail car. Directly behind them was a silver Opel and then Branco and his men in the Alfa. He glanced at Patrice in the shotgun seat, then in the mirror at Conor White. Both men had their automatic weapons out and ready. His own M-4 Colt Commando rested in his lap. He looked back at the road in front of him just as the Toyota and Ford reached the far end of the square and began the run along its far side heading toward Avenida da Liberdade.

______.

Ryder glanced at Grant, then turned to look over his shoulder at Marten. "Now what?" he said quietly. Because of the rain, the crowds they were counting on for cover were gone. The big plaza was void of anything but pigeons.

Anne turned to look behind them. "Nicholas," she warned. "Gray Alfa Romeo, several cars back."

Marten looked. He saw the Alfa and the black Mercedes in front of it. "The Mercedes is Conor White's car." He turned back to Ryder and Grant. "They're right on our tail," he said sotto voce. "All due respect to the GOEs, we're not going to get anywhere near the emba.s.sy."

Immediately he looked at the barren square on his left, trying to decide what to do, find any avenue of escape. There was nothing but the open, rain-soaked plaza. He looked right, along the facade of shops and cafes they were pa.s.sing, but nothing jumped out at him. If they told Barbosa and they sped off, White would realize they had been seen, drop back, change cars, and wait for later. The same would happen if they called in more police, because he was certain White or his people would be monitoring the GOE radio frequencies. Then, in the distance, he saw it. A big red M M marking the entrance to a Metro station. He looked to Anne, then leaned forward to Ryder and Grant. "We're going underground," he said quietly, "now." marking the entrance to a Metro station. He looked to Anne, then leaned forward to Ryder and Grant. "We're going underground," he said quietly, "now."

Conor White sat forward, his black balaclava and MP5 submachine gun in his lap, preparing himself for the action that was to come in less than two minutes as they left the Rossio and started up Avenida da Liberdade toward the strike point at Rua Barata Salgueiro.

Suddenly he felt a dark shadow descend from the car's ceiling and settle around him like some precursor of doom. What the h.e.l.l is this? he said to himself. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. He tried to shake it off, but the shadow remained. In the next instant he had a soul-chilling premonition that he was right, that things were about to go horribly wrong. The way they had gone wrong ever since Nicholas Marten arrived in Bioko. Until then everything had gone smoothly. Then, and almost immediately, the trouble with the photographs had begun and everything started to come apart.

"Jesus Christ!" Irish Jack shouted.

Fifty yards in front of them the big Toyota suddenly pulled to the curb. The tail car came in right behind it. In a blink the Land Cruiser's pa.s.senger doors opened. Ryder and Grant got out, followed by Marten and Anne. The driver and front-seat pa.s.senger got out at the same time. Marten looked at them, pointed toward the Mercedes, and said something. Then he, Anne, Ryder, and Grant dashed into the Metro.

"Take down the GOEs," White said coolly. "We're going in after them."

"Stay with Anne and Ryder," Marten yelled at Grant as they came into the station and headed toward a long flight of stairs that led to the Metro trains below. Immediately he turned back, lifting the Glock from his jacket and holding it tight against his side. The Metro entrance framed everything. The Mercedes pulled up behind the tail car as the uniformed GOEs piled out of it, their weapons coming into full view. The next happened in a millisecond. Three men wearing black balaclavas and business suits jumped from the Mercedes, their flame-and sound-suppressed automatic weapons already firing. Clemente Barbosa and Eduardo went down almost in silence. So did the four uniformed GOEs, their weapons never discharged. The horror didn't stop there. The three came running into the Metro station after them.

Glock in hand, his heart pounding, Marten reached the stairs and started down. He could see Anne, Ryder, and Grant mixed in with other travelers as they neared the bottom. He looked back to see Conor White reach the top of the stairs and start down after him. The balaclava gone, his suit jacket open, he was concealing something beneath it. An instant later he saw Patrice and Irish Jack come in behind him and follow him down. Like White, their balaclavas were gone and their suit jackets were open, and each was holding something out of sight beneath it. In between them and himself were probably twenty or more travelers.

Marten shoved the Glock into his belt and pulled the dark blue cell phone from his jacket. He hit the speed dial and prayed he'd entered the right number and that it was still in service. It rang once, then again, then once more. Finally a familiar voice answered.

"Ya," Kovalenko said in Russian. Kovalenko said in Russian.

"You here? In Lisbon?" Marten demanded.

"Where the h.e.l.l is my memory card?"

"I need your d.a.m.n help. Are you here or not?"

"I'm your guardian angel, always around when you need me. We Russians have big ears and wide eyes. I was going to meet you where you are going, the U.S. Emba.s.sy. Your friend Mr. Logan, with the books and dogs. It was kind of you to include his business card in the envelope you gave me when you switched the memory cards. Even then you were thinking you might need my a.s.sistance."

"I was and I do." Marten kept on down the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped around an attractive young woman and pushed past a large, overweight man, trying to put as many people between himself and Conor White and his killers as possible. "We're in the Rossio Metro. White and two of his mercenaries are coming after us. They just killed a half-dozen cops. We need help, and soon, or I'll be dead and your memory card will end up in White's trophy case."

Marten looked up. He saw Ryder, Anne, and Grant stop at a ticket kiosk. Grant bought tickets and motioned for him to join them. The backpack was tucked under his arm, the MP5K at the ready, and he was being very cool. No need to alarm the other people crowding the station. People they would keep between themselves and White and his men until they could board a train. He looked up at a large Metro station guide. The next station in one direction was Martim Moniz. Baixa/Chiado was in the other. That was the one he chose because he guessed it would be the most crowded.

"We're going to try to make the Baixa/Chiado station. "Look for us there." There was no reply. Only silence. "Kovalenko. Kovalenko! Jesus Christ, are you there?"

119.

Carlos Branco had seen the Toyota and the tail car suddenly pull over and stop. Had seen Marten and the others jump out and point at White's Mercedes, then run with the others into the Metro. Had seen the GOEs react as the Mercedes slid to a stop behind them. He knew what was going to happen and got out of there fast, racing the Alfa Romeo past the Metro entrance just as White and the others jumped from the car.

At the top of Rossio Square he stopped and looked back, then called Moyer on his cell phone. There was no time for clandestine meetings or secure phones. Moyer needed to know what was going on right then.

"The wheels have completely come off," he said. "White has taken down six GOEs in front of the Rossio Metro station and chased Marten, Ryder, and the others into it. There will be more people killed before it's over. What do you want me to do?"

For the briefest moment Moyer said nothing. Then he spoke, calmly and quietly. "Complete the project."

There had been no need to reply. Branco simply clicked off and looked at his men. They probably had sixty seconds at best before a GOE SWAT team arrived and closed off everything. They had to get to the Rossio station and inside it before that happened.

Patrice and Irish Jack caught up with White at the bottom of the stairs. They could see Grant hand Marten a rail ticket, and then the two followed Anne and Ryder through the gla.s.s-paneled entry gates into the station proper. Beyond them were the trains, and once they reached those and got on, everything would be lost. Moreover, he knew the GOE would respond to the killing of its officers with extreme prejudice and very fast. There was no time to finesse anything.

They moved fast toward the entry gates to the train platforms. "RSO's got a backpack," White said quietly, his eyes locked on their targeted foursome. "Anne's got a big purse. Ryder and Marten are carrying nothing. The photographs and the rest will be with the RSO or Anne. Take them down first and recover the goods. Then take out Ryder. I'm guessing Marten's still armed with whatever he used to kill Branco's men. I'll take him. Whatever happens, don't let any one of them get on a train. When we're done, split up and take the next train out. Either direction. We'll meet at the plane."

Two steps more and they were at the entry gates. A woman in front of them slid her ticket into a receptacle and went through. White, Patrice and Irish Jack followed, shoved past her, and started after their prey.

"Hey! Voce tres! Batente!" Hey! You three! Stop! A voice called out in Portuguese.

Irish Jack looked to the side. A uniformed Metro guard was coming toward them. Irish Jack smiled, opened his jacket, and took out the M-4 Colt Commando. The guard's eyes went wide with fear.

"No!" he yelled and tried to turn away. It was too late. Irish Jack fired a short, silent burst. The guard's body slammed backward into a wall behind him and dropped to the floor, his blood flung everywhere.

"Go!" White commanded, and they started for the platform area. Somewhere a woman screamed. Commuters watched in horror and puzzlement as the three well-dressed men raced past them.

"Here they come!" Grant yelled and shoved Ryder ahead of him toward a Metro car just entering the station. "Everybody back, please!" he yelled at the crowd of commuters. "Everybody back!"

Marten caught a glimpse of Conor White, then saw Patrice rush forward, an M-4 in his hands, shoving people aside. "Look out!" he yelled and raised the Glock to fire. An elderly couple were right in his sights and he had to step away. By then Patrice was gone in the swell of people on the platform-people who were beginning to panic. They'd heard the woman's scream and there were men rushing through them with guns.

The train stopped and the doors opened. Travelers started to get off. Grant shoved Ryder through them, the backpack tight under his arm, his finger on the MP5K's trigger.

Now Marten caught sight of Patrice: He was rushing forward toward Grant and Ryder. Then he saw Irish Jack shoving in from the side. He pushed Anne forward after Grant and Ryder, then swung the Glock at Irish Jack. The mercenary saw him and ducked into the crowd. At the same time, Patrice pulled up, raising the M-4. People shrieked. Grant whirled and lifted the backpack. The MP5K's red laser dot fell on Patrice's chest a split second too late. There was a burst of silenced M-4 fire and Grant's head blew apart, his body twisting around wildly to collapse among horrified pa.s.sengers.

People ran screaming in every direction, some using cell phones trying to call for help. Marten grabbed Anne and rushed her toward the train, stopping only to pick up Grant's backpack and press it into her arms. "There's a machine pistol in there. Stay with Ryder. Get him to the plane."

"No!" she yelled, her eyes locked on his. Love. Fear. Horror. Everything. Before, in the hospital, it had been a parting with hope and without an end. They both knew that if Marten stayed behind now there was every chance he would be dead within seconds.

"f.u.c.k it, Anne! You know what to do! Get Ryder the h.e.l.l out of here! Now!"

Their eyes locked for the briefest instant; then she bolted into the car, trying to find Ryder. She saw him in the crush just as the doors closed and the train began to pull out. Through the window she glimpsed Irish Jack rushing toward them through the crowd. Then she saw Marten twenty feet away, the Glock up ready to fire. People shrieked, racing to get out of the way. Then Irish Jack disappeared in the melee and Marten was shoving through people trying to find him.

The train picked up speed. Suddenly Patrice stepped out of nowhere only feet from it, his finger closing on the M-4's trigger.

"Get down!" Anne yelled and shoved Ryder to the floor as a burst of silent automatic-weapon fire raked the windows, obliterating them. She grabbed the backpack and got up. Patrice was gone. A half-dozen or more people were on the floor. Some were dead, others moving. Ryder was trying to help a blood-splattered woman on the floor next to him. They were nearly to the tunnel. Outside she saw Marten looking for Patrice. He didn't see Irish Jack move in just feet behind him, his M-4 up, readying to fire. In one motion she turned the backpack and squeezed the MP5K's trigger. The 9 mm slugs ran across the Irishman's formidable chest; his body danced in a semicircle, then toppled onto the platform to the screams of the terrified people around him. She turned to look for Marten and saw him. Their eyes met. Then the train was in the tunnel and the station disappeared from view.

120.

Marten saw the train's lights vanish as it gained speed inside the tunnel. Glock in hand, he looked back. Faces stared out from every possible hiding place. Under benches, behind decorative sculptures, inside the lone newspaper kiosk. Most of them frozen in some kind of unbearable silence. Every expression raw and filled with fear and unimaginable horror. Each person questioning how much longer he or she had to live. Suddenly two young women rose up and bolted across the platform, dropping down onto the tracks and running into the tunnel after the train.

"Don't!" Marten yelled. They ignored him. Never mind the trains, there was a live electric third rail there. G.o.d only knew how many volts. Touch it with one foot on the ground and you were fried. He looked back. Where the h.e.l.l was Patrice? Where was Conor White?

In the next second the lights went out.

A universal cry of alarm went up, then everything went deathly silent. Here and there were the sounds of crying or mumbled prayers, but that was all. The only illumination came from battery-powered emergency lights. They lit the stairways, dimly washed the station walls, touched the newspaper kiosk and the entrances to the tunnels at either end of the station.

"THIS IS THE POLICE!" an amplified male voice echoed through the chamber, first in Portuguese, then in English. "EVERYONE FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR, HANDS SPREAD OUT IN FRONT OF YOU. ANYONE WHO TRIES TO STAND UP WILL BE SHOT!"

Marten could just make out the SWAT team as they fanned out from the stairs to form a line in front of it, a black-armor-suited, helmeted, visor-wearing a.s.sault force of about twenty to thirty men. Six of their own had been surprised and cut down only moments before. Whoever had done it was somewhere here, among the terrified commuters. There was no chance they were going to walk out alive.

He had still seen no sign of either Conor White or Patrice since the train had left the station. Things had happened with lightning speed, and there were probably forty or fifty people crowded on the platform, so they could easily be among them.

SWAT would have no idea how many gunmen had been involved in taking down their men. Marten was wanted for murder. If they found him with the Glock, they might very well shoot him on the spot. On the other hand, he wasn't about to get rid of the pistol and then have Conor White and Patrice find him before the police did. Third rail or not, orders to lie facedown or not, he crept to the edge of the platform in the semidarkness and eased over the side and onto the tracks.

Conor White was just inside the mouth of the tunnel with Patrice directly across. What should have been an easy takedown of the princ.i.p.als and recovery of the photographs and other evidence-most importantly whatever sort of copy of The Memorandum Anne had made in those few minutes when she was alone in the hotel room-had been anything but. In reality it should have been they who were on the train that left the station, not Anne and Ryder. He thought of the dark shadow in the car. Everything that could have gone wrong had. It was Murphy's Law personified. He had never been superst.i.tious in his life, but he was now, and Marten was at the core of it, the bearer of some kind of demon curse meant to destroy him. In that same moment he realized something else-that no matter how much he had convinced himself that his mission to protect the ma.s.sive Bioko oil field for the West was singularly patriotic, in truth it was the same as it had been from the beginning, to recover the photographs and preserve his dignified place in British history. And by doing so keep alive the soul-wrenching hope that one day Sir Edward Raines, the father who had refused to recognize him for so long, that he so hated and so desperately loved at the same time, might yet step forth and acknowledge him.

White looked back into the dark of the station, a cavernous s.p.a.ce lit here and there by the beam and wash of the emergency lights as if it were the set of an abstract play. The police were there in ma.s.s, hidden among the terrified, trapped commuters waiting for them to make their move. Marten was somewhere there, too. Destroy him and the shadow would disappear and the curse would be lifted. Afterward he and Patrice would retreat into the Metro tunnels to maneuver and hide and wait for as long as it took-an hour, a day, a month-until the police finally left and they walked out free and alive. They had done it before.

They could do it again.

121.

Carlos Branco and the three who had been with him in the Alfa Romeo, the best of his freelance former members of the Batalho de Comandos, moved quickly down the darkened stairs toward the train platform where the GOE SWAT team had the area sealed off. Branco still wore the tailored black suit he'd begun the day in. The other three were dressed in loose-fitting, lightweight jackets over blue jeans with 9 mm Uzi submachine guns held out of sight under the jackets.

They'd arrived at the Rossio station less than a minute before the GOE force, immediately gone inside, then waited for them to come in. When they did Branco raised his hands and went to meet them. He identified himself and said he knew why they were there and who they were after, and asked to see the brigade commander. Seconds later the man was at his side.

Branco was well known to the GOE command. He'd worked Lisbon's underground for years and had been instrumental in collecting and pa.s.sing on information about organized crime, terrorist cells, the African drug trade and more frequently following up with what was required-the dirty, illegal things that had to be done and that law enforcement agencies couldn't become involved with for fear of political or social blowback. In other words, he did what was viewed in higher circles as "necessary business." Consequently, when he showed up in instances like these, more often than not he was deferred to.

"His name is Conor White. Former SAS colonel. Victoria Cross," Branco told the brigade commander directly. "Now a professional mercenary working out of Equatorial Guinea and involved with the civil war there. He's the one you're looking for in the murders outside of Madrid. He followed a U.S. congressman here in an attempt to kill him, the man your people were escorting to the U.S. Emba.s.sy when they were shot down. If you kill him it will raise all sorts of questions as to why he was here and what he was doing. The inquiry will be public and potentially embarra.s.sing to a number of countries. If we do it, the government can say he was caught by unknown gunmen who shadowed him to Lisbon, killed him, and then disappeared, apparently an act of reprisal that had to do with the situation in Equatorial Guinea. Then it becomes an incident having to do with that country and not Portugal, Spain, or the U.S."

The commander said he understood but that there were many citizens in harm's way and he couldn't stand by while more were killed.

Branco shared his concern then said the public might be better served by a four-man plainclothes team than an overwhelming force of uniformed GOE. "Cut off the power and secure the area," he said. "Then let me contact White and let us go in."

"You can get in touch with him now?"

"Yes."

The commander had studied him and walked off. Branco saw him speak into a microphone at his collar. Thirty seconds later he came back.

"Alright" had been the commander's one-word response.