The Hadrian Memorandum

103

10:05 A.M.

The car was a black Mercedes S600 sedan with smoked glass windows and, as Conor White had asked, United Nations license plates. Their driver was a handsome young black man called Moses, from Algeria, he said. He had a 9 mm automatic pistol mounted in a clip under the dashboard. The car itself had a 510 horse power V12 engine. It could go from 0 to 60 in 4.5 seconds. Its top speed through narrow city streets was unknown.

Irish Jack had parked the gray BMW on a side street a block from the U.S. Embassy. Less than a minute later, at eight thirty-seven, Moses met them with the Mercedes. Conor White was dressed in a tailored pin-striped navy suit with a light blue French-cuffed shirt and a striped maroon tie fastened with a Windsor knot. Patrice and Irish Jack wore conservative blue suits, white shirts, and ties. Each man carried a hard-shell briefcase holding his primary weapon of choice. For Patrice and Irish Jack, highly modified 45 mm M-4 Colt Commando submachine guns with sound and flame suppressors. For Conor White, two modified MP5 submachine guns, also with sound and flame suppressors. Each man, too, carried a concealed sidearm beneath his suit coat. Burst-firing 9 mm Beretta automatic pistols for Patrice and Irish Jack. The short-barrel 9 mm SIG SAUER semiautomatic for Conor White.

All three wore team ratio units and constantly monitored the on-and-off banter between Carlos Branco’s men watching the building at number 17 Rua do Almada. So far their communication had been little more than idle chatter; nothing seemed to be happening. That fact alone made White increasingly nervous. What were Anne and Marten-by now he was convinced it was indeed Marten who had been seen entering the building at close to one in the morning-doing? Waiting for communication from Ryder? Planning something else? So far he had no sense of any of it. Ryder was under Branco’s personal observation. His electronic surveillance team monitoring communications to and from the apartment building had reported no transmittals or receptions they could attribute to either Anne or Marten.

By nine fifty Moses had made two passes down Rua do Almada. There had been no sign of police, just a few pedestrians, several people in the park, two of which had to be Branco’s men, and normal everyday traffic. The quiet had made White bold enough to want to go in right then and take care of business. The Mercedes sedan, the UN plates, the men inside dressed like diplomats. Even if the police came by on patrol, it would be easy enough to simply let them pass, then go inside, do what had to be done, and quietly leave. But doing so might somehow alert Joe Ryder and would put Branco in the situation of having to kill him himself. That, in turn, risked a firefight with Ryder’s personal RSO bodyguards. Something like that would be loud and messy, and who knew how it would turn out? So going in after Anne and Marten was not a reasonable option. All he could do was wait until they made their move and Ryder made his in an attempt to join them. What he had to do was have patience, something every soldier in every war ever fought had had to have. Hurry up and wait. It was the unwritten heart of les règles de guerre, the rules of war.

10:09 A.M.

They had just taken seats at a small outdoor café on Rua Garrett and were ordering coffee to wait it out when they heard the alarm. One of Branco’s lookouts was extremely concerned about two people who had suddenly appeared from the basement entrance of the building at the end of the block and climbed into an electrician’s van that had been parked there for nearly a half hour. Seconds later the vehicle pulled away.

“Couldn’t tell if it was two men or a man and a woman. One of them wore a pulled-down hat,” a male voice spat in Portuguese. “Blue van, Serviço Elétrico de Sete Dias, with white and gold lettering. Moving north toward Travessa do Sequeiro.”

Immediately they heard Branco cut in. “Bernardo. Pick it up! Pick it up! Pick it up!”

“Excuse me,” Conor White said politely and left the table. He walked past several customers and crossed to where Moses waited in the parked Mercedes. Safely out of earshot, he lifted his right arm, pressed the KEY TO TALK button on the small microphone in the sleeve of his jacket, and spoke into it. “Branco,” he said quietly. “Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“Was it them?”

“Don’t know. Sit tight. We’ll find out.”

“Don’t lose that van.”

“I have a man on a motorcycle right behind it.”

“Where is Ryder?”

“Went for a swim, then back to his room. Wants a car at eleven thirty to go to a café in the Alfama district.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Across the Baixa quarter from where you are.”

“Which way did the van go?”

“I-Wait, what?” Branco paused, as if he were listening to some other transmission, then came back on. “It just turned onto Calçada de Combro.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s not heading to the Alfama district.”

“Stay on it to wherever it stops. Then just watch, don’t do anything. See who gets out and where they go afterward. If it is Marten and Anne I want immediate confirmation.”

Conor White clicked off the microphone, went back to the table, and sat down next to Patrice and Irish Jack. “You heard?”

Patrice nodded.

“What do you think?”

“They know we’re here and watching,” he said in his distinct French-Canadian accent, “and have found a way around us.”

“That’s what I think, too.” White glanced around, then lifted the microphone. Again he spoke quietly. “Where is the van now?”

“Rua António Maria Cardoso.”

“Which way is it going?”

“Just city streets. No way to tell. As I said, sit tight. My guy’s a good rider.”

10:13 A.M.