The Hadrian Memorandum Part 46

Marten looked to the newspaper in White's hand, as if that might have had something to with it. It was a copy of that morning's copy of the International Herald Tribune. International Herald Tribune. He could see part of a headline about a suicide bombing in the Middle East, a column about the ongoing global financial crisis, and a few more everyday items. Nothing that would bring a man like Conor White to his knees. Whatever had happened had to have been something else. Something physical. A small stroke. Some kind of mild heart attack. Who knew? He could see part of a headline about a suicide bombing in the Middle East, a column about the ongoing global financial crisis, and a few more everyday items. Nothing that would bring a man like Conor White to his knees. Whatever had happened had to have been something else. Something physical. A small stroke. Some kind of mild heart attack. Who knew?

Kovalenko glanced at Carlos Branco. "One of White's men is dead inside the tunnel. The bodies on the platform. Several appear to be people caught in the crossfire. Another is from White's team. The last is Ryder's RSO guy."

"I know," Branco said.

"Marten and I are taking the train car out. When we get to where we're going, I'll send it back." He looked to Marten. "Give me the pistol."

Marten's eyes came up to Kovalenko's. "Why? What the h.e.l.l are you going to do?"

"Just give it to me."

Marten glanced at Branco and then at his men. Finally and reluctantly he did as Kovalenko asked. The Russian took it, pulled out a handkerchief, then wiped off Marten's fingerprints and put the gun down next to White. Still the Englishman didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge their presence.

"Get on the train, tovarich." Kovalenko gestured with the machine pistol. "I want to talk about my memory card."

Marten looked at White once more, then walked off toward the train car. Kovalenko followed him inside and pressed a b.u.t.ton. The doors closed and the car started back up the track the way it had come. Then they heard the boom of a single gunshot.

Marten looked at Kovalenko. "White. Branco shot him."

The Russian nodded. "White was CIA. Branco was freelancing for them."

"Then why did he kill him?"

"The chapter had to be ended, tovarich. They would be afraid of what might come out if he was put on trial."

"The police think I killed Franck and Theo Haas. They're going to have the same problem with me if I get caught. Branco would have known that. Why didn't he take care of me, too?"

"Because I paid him not to. He makes a lot of money not doing things."

"Anne got away, Ryder got away. And then he lets me go. What happens to him now?"

"He goes to his handler and says, 'We took care of White. His shooters are dead, too. Sorry, the rest didn't quite work out the way it was supposed to, but call me the next time you need me.' And they will. It's a dirty business all around."

Marten let out a sigh of disbelief, then looked back down the track toward the Rossio station. A tiny iris of bright at the end of a dark tunnel.

"Take off your clothes," Kovalenko said behind him.

"What?" Marten whirled around. The machine pistol was pointed at his chest.

"Strip search, tovarich. Take off your clothes! Socks, skivvies included. Turn everything inside out!"

"I don't have the memory card."

"Ms. Tidrow, no doubt, had the photographs, which would now be in the possession of Congressman Ryder. And very soon put into a diplomatic pouch. But you wouldn't have given her the memory card because you didn't really trust her. I saw that in Praia da Rocha. It means you kept it yourself."

"You're right, Yuri. I did have it. But I lost it. I'm not sure where."

Anger flashed across Kovalenko's face. "You plotted nicely to leave a trail I could follow, and you knew I would come once I realized you had made the switch. You counted on me helping you because you knew things were going to get tough. In doing that you would have also known such help would come with a price. I cannot go back to Moscow empty-handed, tovarich. If I do I will soon be out of a job. Maybe worse."

"You're not going empty-handed. You have a memory card. It shows any number of lovely young women sunbathing. Is it your fault Theo Haas had such a hobby?"

Suddenly Kovalenko stepped into the driver's cubicle and punched a b.u.t.ton. Immediately the car slowed, then stopped mid-tunnel. He turned back and gestured with the machine pistol. "Take off your f.u.c.king clothes, tovarich. If I have to I will even check your a.s.shole!"

124.

They came out of the Martim Moniz Metro station in bright sunshine, damp sidewalks and puddles the only suggestion that a rainstorm had pa.s.sed. A silver Peugeot was parked at the curb across the street, and Kovalenko nodded toward it.

Marten looked at him in surprise, if not admiration. "The train could have been sent in from the other direction. How did you know which way it would come?"

"It's my business to know."

Five minutes later Kovalenko was driving them past the Intendente Metro station and away from the city center. Two ambulances were parked outside it with two police cars behind them.

"Waiting for Branco's delivery," Marten said quietly. "I feel bad about Ryder's RSO detail. They were good men, both of them."

"Like I said, it's a dirty business." Kovalenko kept his eyes on the road. Thirty seconds went by, and then he looked at Marten. "I want you to know I'm very upset about the memory card. You did something with it. And don't tell me again you lost it. Where the h.e.l.l is it?"

"What if I were to promise you the pictures will never be made public, nor will the CIA have them. None of them. 'The photographs and memory card you were after were either destroyed or never existed.' That's how the official record will read. The memory card you recovered is the only one there was. Knowing that, you can take it back to Moscow with a clear conscience and let your people examine it themselves. Soon everyone will smile and make jokes about what you're paid to do, but you'll be off the hook."

Kovalenko glared at him. "You design gardens in England. The photographs and most probably the memory card are now in the hands of a United States congressman. That means every security agency in Washington will know about them. So how can you promise such a thing?"

"Because I can. From me to you, Yuri."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"It's true."

Kovalenko looked off in disgust and then back at the road. They were traveling up a long tree-lined boulevard. Traffic was moving normally; people were chatting on street corners, going in and out of shops and offices, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The way life usually is in cities, people getting on with their own lives and for the most part wholly unaware of what murderous intrigues may be going on around them, or in the subways beneath their feet.

Suddenly Marten grew wary. "Where the h.e.l.l are we going?"

"To the airport. I'm sending you home and hope you stay there for many years. As I said to you a long time ago, tovarich, go back to your English gardens. This other kind of life does not suit you." Abruptly he looked at him. "I trust you haven't lost your pa.s.sport."

"Yuri." Marten was more than apprehensive. "I can't go to an airport, not to a commercial airline anyway. I try to check in, the police will have me in handcuffs before I can turn around."

"Why, for the murders of Franck and Theo Haas?"

"Yes."

Kovalenko smiled. "As much as I'd like to see you in jail for stealing my memory card, don't worry about the police. It's why we left the Glock with Conor White. It's the gun that killed the Hauptkommissar. The authorities know he was in Praia da Rocha that same day. It also happens to be the gun that killed two of Branco's gunmen here in Lisbon. Last night, I believe." He looked at Marten accusatively. "Correct?"

"What was I supposed to do, let them kill me? It's why you gave me the thing in the first place. Correct?" Correct?"

Kovalenko grinned. "If the police miss connecting the dots, Branco will help them, and rather quickly, I imagine, because he knows where I'm taking you. As for Theo Haas, his murderer was captured before Franck and I left Berlin."

"What?" Marten was flabbergasted.

"The killer was a young man."

"With curly hair. I know, I chased him."

"When he was caught he confessed right away. Franck ordered it kept quiet. He wanted the photographs. You knew where they were. At least that's what we thought, so better to keep the pressure on. With luck some police agency would spot you and follow you until we got there. Which is exactly what happened and how we found you."

"Did you ever think that maybe I could have been shot dead in the process?"

"Sure, that could have happened."

"Christ!" Marten looked off, burning. Almost immediately he looked back. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did the kid murder Theo Haas? He give a reason?"

"Yes." Kovalenko nodded. "He hated his writing."

125.

NEW HAMPSHIRE. THURSDAY, JUNE 10. 8:03 P.M.

Nicholas Marten watched the newly leafed-out trees fly past in the summer twilight. Sugar maples, he thought, with some conifers in between and here and there oaks. The driver slowed and turned the Lincoln Town Car down a gravel road and through a thick stand of birch. The evening was gray, and a chill hung in the air. There were puddles in the roadway, and the surrounding forest was soggy from rain. More was promised.

Three days had pa.s.sed since Kovalenko put him on a British Airways flight out of Lisbon for Manchester. As he had been promised, there had been no interference from the police, at least none that he knew of. He'd boarded the flight without incident and six hours later was back in his top-floor loft on Water Street that overlooked the River Irwell.

Physically and mentally exhausted, the reality that he was finally home barely registering, he'd immediately picked up the phone to call Anne after having failed to reach her from Heathrow Airport in London during the layover for his connecting flight to Manchester. Each of his half-dozen calls then had been answered by her voice mail, and the same had happened again here. Consequently he'd left a message giving her his home number and saying he'd returned there safely. Frustrated and increasingly anxious about her fate and Ryder's, he'd taken a shower, had a sandwich and a cold beer, then tried her once again with the same result. Afterward he'd gone to bed and slept without moving for ten hours.

The call had come early the following morning. Not from Anne but from President Harris. Ms. Tidrow and Congressman Ryder had, he'd said, arrived safely back in the country courtesy of a private jet she had arranged through an investment banker in Zurich. She was currently in the protective custody of federal marshals and being held at an undisclosed location. Congressman Ryder was in protective seclusion as well. Neither his family, his office, nor the media knew he was back in the country. Both were to be secretly debriefed by a special a.s.sistant appointed by U.S. Attorney General Julian Kotteras. Kotteras wanted Marten's testimony as well, as did Harris. Was he prepared to come to the States to give it? His answer was "of course," and he was asked to stand by for further directives. The president's demeanor had been matter-of-fact, if not distant, and Marten hadn't known why, because they'd never had anything but a warm, even brotherly relationship. The reason, he thought, was either the pressure of something else altogether, or because of what had happened to Raisa. He brought it up.

"You know about Raisa."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I, thank you. We'll talk about it later."

And that had been the extent of it. Then the president had hung up, after saying he would get back to him when he had more information.

After that he'd gone back to work at Fitzsimmons and Justice, still terribly troubled by what had taken place in Portugal and by the ongoing war in Equatorial Guinea that seemed to have no end. Tiombe's forces pushed hard against Abba's one day, with Abba's people countering the next. He was disturbed as well-perplexed was more the word-by what had happened to Conor White. That a man like White had simply given up without a fight and let himself be killed made no sense. Still, troubled as he was, he knew there was nothing he could do about any of it so he tried to shift his life back into everyday mode. Twenty-four hours later President Harris called instructing him to fly to Portland, Maine, the following morning. A Secret Service agent would pick him up at the airport and drive him to a place where they would meet. He should be prepared to spend several days.

The driver eased the Town Car over a wooden bridge and then up a heavily forested hill. Here and there Marten glimpsed armed men among the trees, a periphery guard of Secret Service agents. At the top of the hill the road evened out and the thick woods gave way to cleared meadow. At the end was a large Victorian farmhouse set in a grove of conifers. Several black SUVs were parked in front. As they neared, he saw a sniper, and then a second, take up positions on the building's rooftop. Then they were there, and two men in Windbreakers and blue jeans stepped out from between the SUVs. One of them opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Marten," he said. "The president is waiting for you."

They were sitting around a large conference table in the home's living room as he was ushered in. President Harris, Congressman Ryder, a man he recognized as Attorney General Kotteras, several others he didn't know, lawyers, he a.s.sumed, and Anne. Most were dressed casually. Anne wasn't. She wore a conservative business suit, her dark hair cut a little shorter than he remembered, expensive makeup done to perfection. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the room. He could almost read her thoughts. "So this is your 'old girlfriend,' darling. You've been using me the whole f.u.c.king time, you c.o.c.ksucker." "So this is your 'old girlfriend,' darling. You've been using me the whole f.u.c.king time, you c.o.c.ksucker." On the other hand, there was the slightest hint of a sparkle in her eyes, as if beneath everything, she appreciated it all, even admired him for doing it. On the other hand, there was the slightest hint of a sparkle in her eyes, as if beneath everything, she appreciated it all, even admired him for doing it.

"Mr. President, Congressman, Anne," he said formally.

"Please sit down," the president said as formally, then introduced the attorney general. The distance was still there, more so in person, Marten thought, than when Harris had called him in Manchester. "Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"No, thank you, sir."

The president looked at him. "The people here are aware that I asked you to go to Bioko to meet with Father Dorhn because of his brother's concern for him and for what he feared might be going on between the Striker Oil and Hadrian companies in Equatorial Guinea. In that regard you should know that President Tiombe resigned his office early this morning and has left the country. Abba and his people have taken over. The announcement will be made public tomorrow. We, the United Nations relief services, and a number of other countries are sending in humanitarian aid as we speak. The politics of it we will address after we see how Abba sets up his new government and determine if he is a man we want to trust and support, a consideration which, at the moment, seems to be running in his favor.

"I'm aware that you and Ms. Tidrow are greatly concerned about the welfare of the tribal people. As you know, I saw the CIA briefing video. Congressman Ryder and Mr. Kotteras have seen it, too. We've also looked over the photographs and have examined eight-by-ten prints made from the 35 mm negatives of the doc.u.ment known as The Hadrian Memorandum. The only thing missing seems to be the camera's original memory card, which I believe at one point you told me contained even more controversial pictures and which you had in your possession."

Suddenly Anne was looking at him. What was this? He'd given it to Kovalenko in Praia da Rocha. She'd seen him do it. He looked at her and smiled gently.

"I switched cards at the last minute," he confessed gently, then looked back to the president. "Mr. President, if I may."

The president nodded.

"Meeting here the way we are-by the way, I didn't miss the guards in the woods or the snipers on the roof-seeing you and Attorney General Kotteras here personally, and knowing the way Ms. Tidrow and Congressman Ryder have been kept in protective seclusion, I think it's safe to a.s.sume you've kept this whole thing very compartmented, an extremely close-to-the-vest, eyes-only investigation with just the people here and a few select others included on a need-to-know basis. With the exception of certain people in the Secret Service and the Marshals Service, neither the CIA nor any other agency has knowledge that this is taking place. Is that right?"

"The attorney general and I are old friends. We're here on a brief fishing trip. This house belongs to his family. That's all anyone knows."

"Then"-Marten stood up-"I think we ought to be reasonably secure." He reached into his jacket pocket, lifted out a handkerchief, and unwrapped a small square object from it, then handed it to the president. "The memory card from Father w.i.l.l.y's camera. On it are at least two hundred more photographs of what was going on in Bioko, some of them, as I told you previously, far more damaging than those you've already seen."

Anne glared at him.

"Insurance." He smiled. "I kept it in case anything happened to the photographs, or to you. I put it in an envelope and addressed it to myself in Raisa's apartment. I forgot I had until we were in the hospital, then I asked Mario to mail it for me. I was afraid maybe he hadn't. It showed up in my mail a couple of days ago."

"And Kovalenko got the card with the indecent pictures of sunbathing nubiles," she said flatly.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I don't know that they were all that indecent."

"Mr. Marten," the president cut in firmly. "You should know that Ms. Tidrow has agreed to tell us what she knows about the Striker/Hadrian arrangement in Iraq and the Striker/Hadrian/SimCo conspiracy to arm the rebels in Equatorial Guinea. You should also know that, aside from Mr. Ryder's investigation into possible violations of State Department contracts, the heads of all three companies may be charged in the World Court with sponsoring war crimes and crimes against humanity. Of particular interest will be the photographs of Conor White with General Mariano in the Bioko jungle that Ms. Tidrow has described and that I trust are on the memory card."

"Yes they are."

"Mariano has already been convicted in absentia by that same judicial body for war crimes committed while he was a commander in the Chilean army under Augusto Pinochet. Attorney General Kotteras and Congressman Ryder believe members of the boards of directors of both Striker and Hadrian may be subject to prosecution as well, dependent on the depth of their involvement with company operations. Ms. Tidrow's testimony, while extremely helpful, will not shield her from prosecution if evidence of her complicity should be found. It's something she's been made aware of."

"Mr. President." Marten looked around the room. "I respectfully suggest that all of it was done under the accord and agreement presented in this Hadrian Memorandum that was drawn up by the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency. I don't think you would want that to come out in The Hague. And it would have to come out if Ms. Tidrow or myself, for that matter, were subpoenaed to appear, simply because we are both aware of the memorandum and what it contains. Also, Ms. Tidrow was at one time a CIA operative and would have knowledge of how these things work. Legally, I don't know how that would affect you or Congressman Ryder or Mr. Kotteras or the deputy director. Or if any or all of you might be called upon to publicly testify. The other princ.i.p.als-aside from Loyal Truex, headman at Hadrian, and probably one or two others at Striker-are dead, Conor White and Sy Wirth." Again Marten looked around the room; then his eyes came back to the president. "Could I see you alone for a few moments, Mr. President?"