by Allan Folsom
“What do you mean, right away?”
“The police are everywhere looking for the shooter of my men.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“They are also looking for you and”—he nodded toward Patrice and Irish Jack—“them.”
“Why? What the hell do they want us for?”
“The murder of a Spanish doctor and her medical students in the countryside near Madrid.”
“What?” Conor White was stunned. “How do you know this?”
“I have many lines of contact within the police organizations. Whether you did what they say is not my affair. You were seen earlier tonight in the lobby of the Hotel Lisboa Chiado and a short time later in the bar of the Hotel Ritz. At the moment the police are sweeping the area between the Baixa where my men were killed and the Chiado, working this way in a grid pattern. So if you are going in after Nicholas Marten and Anne Tidrow, do it now, very quietly and quickly, and get out. Enter the airport using the same gate I brought you through when you came here. The police don’t know the manner in which you arrived in Lisbon, so for now they are watching the main terminals, not civil aviation.” Branco smiled thinly and reached for the door. “Good luck, my friend, I have to trust you will pay me when you can.”
“Get down,” Irish Jack spat suddenly.
In reflex action the four instantly slipped below window level. They were just out of sight when a Lisbon police car moved slowly by, its headlights sweeping over the car as it went. They gave it ten seconds, then sat up.
Branco stared after it. “So now they are here in Bairro Alto.” He looked at White. “Take it as God’s blessing they came when they did and not five minutes later when you were parked in the alley and going upstairs. Get out of here and go to your plane while you still can.”
“No,” White snapped. “Not when we’re this close. Not after everything.”
“Colonel.” Patrice turned to look at him. “It’s not worth it.”
White looked to Patrice, his eyes filled with contempt. “What do you know about worth?” He looked back to Branco. “Your people will stay here. At some point Marten and Anne will leave to meet the congressman. When they do your men will follow. At the same time, you will be at Ryder’s side as a member of his embassy RSO detail.”
“You mean you intend to go back to the old plan. Even after this.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I held up my end of the bargain.”
“Yes. And you will be paid.”
“You can’t stay out on the streets.”
“You say the police were working the Baixa and the Chiado, now they’re here. If they knew we were at the Ritz they would already have swept the area between there and the Baixa. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then they would have been satisfied we were no longer there, which is why they’ve moved their search this way. They will still have patrols, but patrols can be avoided, especially when one knows he is being hunted. This is a game of cat and mouse. All three of us have played it in far more dangerous situations and in considerably more horrifying places than the quaint streets of Lisbon. I assume your men doing surveillance are wearing team radio units.”
“Of course.”
“I need the frequency.”
Branco nodded. “171.925.”
“Good, we’ll be listening. Now, we are going back to our apartment. When Marten and Ms. Tidrow make their move, alert us and follow them. We will meet you wherever it is they have gone. In the meantime, treat Congressman Ryder well. We don’t want him to suspect he has a mole at his elbow.”
Branco smiled admiringly. “I see why you carry the Victoria Cross.” With that he opened the door and slipped out into the darkness.
4:37 A.M.
98
6:50 A.M.
Marten woke with a start. Anne was still asleep, looking as if she hadn’t moved since she’d put her head down. Immediately he got up, pulled on the shirt and jeans he’d been wearing since Berlin, then found his jacket and took the dark blue throwaway cell phone from it. Another glance at Anne and he picked up the Glock from the bedside table and left, carefully closing the door behind him.
He was crossing the front room on his way to the kitchen when something made him stop and go to the window. It was just dawn, and the morning light was beginning to expose the shadows in the park across from them. A truck rumbled past on the street below; seconds later someone went by on a bicycle. The park itself was empty.
Or was it?
He could just make out the figure of a man on the far side of the benches where he and Anne had been yesterday afternoon. He was alone and standing back under a tree. Marten’s first thought was that he was watching the building. Immediately he wondered if either he or Anne had somehow been seen and followed back to the apartment, if whoever had done it had reported in and been ordered to wait and watch and follow in the event either of them left.
Ordinarily he would have dismissed it, telling himself that maybe he was overdoing it. That there was no reason to be alarmed by a lone man standing in a public park, a lone man who might well be waiting to meet someone, say, for a ride to work. But he had to remember that only hours earlier he had been all but face-to-face with Conor White and Patrice. Had to remember that Anne had been very quickly traced to the Hotel Chiado Lisboa. Had to remember the men in the blue Jaguar. Meaning White or someone else, quite possibly the CIA, would have immediately put assets on the streets looking for them.
One last glance at the man in the park and he left the window and went into the kitchen.
It was now almost seven o’clock in Lisbon, approaching two in the morning in Washington, and President Harris would be sleeping. It made no difference; it was imperative he know what was going on. Moreover, Marten needed him to get in touch with Joe Ryder right then. Whoever the man in the park was or wasn’t, White knew they were in the city and probably somewhere in the vicinity of the hotel. The minute Ryder landed he would be under heavy surveillance. Wherever he went someone would be right on top of him. And if White’s people were already here watching the apartment, there was no way he and Anne and Ryder could go anywhere without being followed. Moreover, if they were going to meet with Ryder they would be physically carrying the evidence with them—Anne’s copy of the memorandum and the photographs in her purse, the camera’s memory card tucked unseen into his jeans. If they were caught, all of it would be gone in an instant.
He lifted the phone, started to punch in the number of the president’s throwaway cell phone, then stopped. If White’s men or CIA assets were watching the apartment, they might very well have sophisticated listening devices that would pick up any phone conversation coming into or going out of the building. Not only would his conversation be heard, it wouldn’t take long for them to analyze the voices and realize who he was talking to. Still, the president needed to know what was happening, and he needed to know now. What he had to do was assume the people outside were indeed White’s men or CIA and take the chance they had only recently come on-scene and as yet hadn’t received the kind of complex electronic gear they would need to monitor calls.
He punched in the number of the president’s phone. It rang once, then twice, then—
“What is it? Something wrong? Have you spoken with Ryder?” the president said quickly, almost as if he’d been waiting for the call.
“The CIA,” Marten said. “Anne Tidrow hacked into a secure Web site and pulled up a memo from the deputy director. He made a deal with Striker Oil and Hadrian to provide backing for the insurrection in Equatorial Guinea as a way to help gain favor with the rebels and drive out President Tiombe, chiefly as a means to secure Striker’s leases for years to come.” Marten took the note he’d scribbled earlier from his pocket. “I wrote down part of it, what I could remember, something like—‘a plan to secure unimpeded drilling access and petroleum rights for the U.S. in Equatorial Guinea,’ ” he read. “ ‘This initiative is part
of a bigger national obligation to achieve energy independence from other world sources of crude oil.’ ”
“Are you absolutely certain what you have is authentic?”
“Anne photographed the entire memorandum off a hotel room TV screen. It’s film, 35 mm negative. The quality may not be great, but it’s all there, every page of it. You worried that the attorney general would have little to work with. Add the memorandum to the photographs and Anne’s testimony and you’ll have enough for a major firestorm.
“But that’s putting tomorrow ahead of today. I haven’t yet heard from Joe Ryder and have no way to reach him, but I have to talk to him, and soon. Conor White and his soldiers know we’re here. They saw me and came after me. I had to kill two of them. White is very well connected. He may be CIA himself or closely tied to them, I don’t know. There’s a very good chance they know where we are and are watching the building right now.”
“They are watching the building.”
Marten looked up. Anne stood in the doorway, her hair twisted up in a bun, her robe pulled around her.
“Two men. Across the street in the park.”
“Two?” Marten said. “A few minutes ago there was only one.”
“Well, now there are two.” Anne was calm and very matter-of-fact. “Ryder needs to know where to meet us before he lands. We won’t be able to communicate once he enters the Lisbon cell phone grid. They’ll have every one of his lines monitored. If he tries to use a landline, they’ll have that covered, too.”
Marten turned back to the phone. “Could you hear that?”
“I assume it was Ms. Tidrow.”
“Hopefully Ryder’s left Rome and is en route here now. See if you can reach him and ask him to delay his landing until I can find a place and time where we can meet unseen. The best would be somewhere at the airport itself.”
“That won’t work. His itinerary has been laid out by the embassy. It means he’s got to at least start to play the game and go to his hotel. After that he can try to make his move. But you can’t just meet. You’ve got to get back to the airport, onto his plane, and out of Lisbon. We have to have Ms. Tidrow and every piece of evidence you’ve got in our custody and safely back in the States. Where you land and where she goes after that, I’ll take care of. Your job is to get you, her, and Ryder onto his plane and airborne as fast as possible.”
“We can’t do this alone. I’m going to need Raisa Amaro’s help. You said to trust her completely. I want to hear it from you again, just to be sure I didn’t get it wrong. Right now everything is going to depend on her.”
“You can trust her with anything, cousin. As I said, she is very smart and very gifted, and also very efficient. She and I go back a long way.”
“I’ll talk to her and get back to you, hopefully with a time and meeting place for Ryder. Then you can pass that information on to him before he lands. If Raisa can’t help, we’ll just have to figure out something else. With luck you’ll hear from me soon.” With that Marten clicked off.
“The old girlfriend,” Anne said with the faint hint of a smile.
“Yes.” Immediately he brushed past her and went to the front window to stand beside it and look out. The man he had seen earlier had moved closer to the edge of the park. Another was a little farther back standing by a decorative fountain, his eyes on the building. Several seconds passed, and he reached up and touched his ear as if he were listening to something. Abruptly he put his hand to his mouth.
“He’s talking to someone.” Anne moved in beside Marten. “If there are two there, there will be others watching the back.”
“You don’t think they’re police,” he said flatly.
“No, I don’t think they’re police.”
Marten crossed to the room phone, picked it up, and dialed 11, the extension Raisa had given him. She answered on the second ring.
“Good morning, Mr. Marten.”
“Good morning, Raisa. I know it’s early, but I wonder if you could come up here right away. Yes, now. It’s important. Thank you.” Marten glanced at Anne and hung up.
7:15 A.M.
99
THE APARTMENT ON RUA DE SÃO FILIPE NÉRI. 7:17 A.M.
An hour and forty minutes of sleep had been enough. Conor White was up at six forty-five. By seven he’d showered and shaved, and then he woke the others. Barefoot and wearing nothing but a bath towel around his waist he’d plugged a team radio unit, a team radio unit, headset into his right ear, tuned to the 171.925 frequency Branco had given him, and listened to the intermittent chatter of Branco’s men watching the apartment at 17 Rua do Almada. Afterward he’d gone into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. By seven ten he was at the kitchen table making notes on his laptop. Six minutes later he opened a map of Lisbon and pinpointed the U.S. Embassy on Avenida das Forças Armadas, a location that looked to be no more than a five to ten minute drive from where they were.
7:20 A.M.
White lifted his BlackBerry and punched in Carlos Branco’s number.
“Yes,” Branco’s voice came back.
“Where are you?”
“Just leaving the Ritz. Congressman Ryder’s suite is ready for him. We are on our way to the airport to meet his flight.”
“I need a car and one of your men for a driver, a guy who knows his way around the city and knows what’s going on with Marten and the congressman.”
“When and what?”
“A limousine of some kind with UN plates, parked outside the U.S. Embassy. I need it fast. How soon can you have it?”
“Not so simple a request. It will take a few calls.”
“How soon, Branco?”
“Within the hour.”
Conor White glanced at his watch. “We’ll leave here at eight twenty and arrive at the embassy by eight thirty. If there is a problem, let me know before that.”
“There will be no problem.”
“Good.”
With that White clicked off and went into the bedroom Irish Jack and Patrice had shared. The covers on the twin beds were thrown back. Irish Jack was just out of the shower, towel-drying his hair. Patrice walked in from the bathroom doing the same. Both were in undershorts and nothing else. Despite their physical differences, both men were built like stone and carried the tattoos and body scars of the longtime combat veterans they were.
“You look like fucking lovers,” White said impassively.
Irish Jack grinned broadly. “That towel does wonders for you, too, Colonel. Standing here with us pretty boys makes you look like some kind of chap who wants to join the party but hasn’t been invited.”
For a moment a boyish sparkle came into White’s eyes. “My dick’s too big for you pussies, you couldn’t handle it.” Immediately the playfulness vanished and his eyes narrowed. “Business garb today. Suits, shirts, and ties. Ready to move out at oh eight twenty.”
White headed into the other room to get dressed himself. As he did, his BlackBerry signaled a text message. He looked at it and saw it was from Loyal Truex, still in Baghdad, and went into the kitchen to take it.
He read it once, then again.
This arrived five minutes ago from Washington with copies to Arnold Moss in Houston and Jeremy Moyer, COS/Lisbon. I forwarded it to you and to Anne, in the event she can, and would want to, read it. As you know, Washington can be purposely terse and ambiguous, so I’m not sure if it’s a reprimand, a compliment, or if they just want us to know. It reads like a newspaper brief tied to a world geography narrative.
“The 585-mile-long Tagus River rises in the mountains east of Madrid, then flows northwest through the mountains and across central Spain to form part of the Spanish-Portuguese border. Afterward it runs southwest into the Atlantic Ocean at Lisbon. It is here, between the cities of Paço de Arcos and Carcavelos, where the river meets the sea, that the body of Striker Oil chairman Josiah Wirth was discovered by fishermen just after dawn this morning floating in a tangle of debris and seaweed.”
I forward, too, a
second message. It was encrypted and sent to me and Moss only. Use your laptop to read it. It’s self-explanatory. You will find it extremely disturbing. Know you will take immediate and appropriate action upon reading. Am returning to Washington within the hour.
White sat down at the table and pulled his laptop around, then booted it up and pressed the pound sign on the keyboard. Immediately a marker popped up asking for his personal code. He typed it in. A second marker called for a password, which he entered as well. The screen registered a number of symbols and, beside them, a time and date code. He moved the cursor to the most recent entry—barely twelve minutes earlier. The message was brief.
XARAK Protocol, file accessed, 4 June, 1717 EDT. Access ceased 1720 EDT. Access code AZ101P-22-0LX5-8.*.8.*.2.
Instantly White signed off and shut down the laptop. The access code belonged to Loyal Truex. The time 1717 through 1720 EDT was 2217 through 2220, Lisbon time. The exact same time Anne Tidrow had been in her room at the Hotel Lisboa Chiado. The file had been accessed only, not copied or downloaded. If an attempt had been made to do either, the program would have shut down immediately, a security breach would have been sounded, and there would be an electronic record of the time and location where the attempt had been made. All things Anne would have known. It meant she had read the document and most likely either hand-copied it or photographed it off the screen.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath. Anne and the photographs were trouble enough; now they had to deal with this. In the hands of Joe Ryder the first two would be crushing, but this last—the text of the document Truex, Sy Wirth, Arnold Moss, and himself had all referred to as The Hadrian Memorandum—would be hard evidence of Agency involvement in the civil war in Equatorial Guinea on behalf of the Striker Oil company, an operation authorized by the deputy director himself. Having it become public was not something that could be tolerated under any circumstance. Meaning the line in Truex’s text message Know you will take immediate and appropriate action upon reading had not been a directive but an explicit order: Retrieve the outstanding materials and eliminate Marten, Anne, and Congressman Ryder as quickly as possible. Before it had just been Marten and Anne, and Ryder if necessary. Now all three had been given a death sentence. One that was to be executed immediately and in any way most expedient.