The Hadrian Memorandum

104

10:14 A.M.

“Senhor, a motorcycle has been following us for the last minutes,” the heavyset, middle-aged electrician said over his shoulder as he guided the blue van down a series of narrow cobblestone streets. He wore white coveralls and a Serviço Elétrico de Sete Dias baseball cap and was clearly nervous.

Quickly Marten moved forward from where he and Anne had been crouching among the electrical supplies to look into the van’s side mirror. The motorcycle was two hundred feet back with a small car in between. It looked like a Japanese street racer, a Suzuki maybe. Very fast, with tremendous acceleration. Its rider was a man, or so it appeared. He wore jeans, a dark jacket, and a full helmet and visor, making it impossible to see his features.

“How close are we to the hospital?”

“About five minutes.”

“If he’s still with us after the next turn, pull over and stop and let him pass. We’ll see what happens then.”

The driver started to look back at Marten.

“Don’t,” Marten warned. “I don’t want him to think you’re talking to someone.”

The driver looked back to the road, his anxiety growing. “I’m just an electrician, senhor. Doing a favor for Raisa. I have three school-age children.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tomás.”

Marten smiled. “Don’t worry, Tomás. You’ll be fine. So will your children.”

10:15 P.M.

Moses had pulled from the curb and was heading the Mercedes toward Rua António Maria Cardoso, the street where the van was last seen, when Branco’s voice crackled through their headsets.

“Congressman Ryder’s not in his hotel room,” he said firmly. “He came back from the pool and went up to his room. Then he vanished. The same with his RSO detail.”

“What?” White snapped, giving a quick glance to Patrice beside him. Irish Jack had turned and was looking at him from the shotgun seat.

“They’re nowhere in the hotel. Not that we can determine, anyway.”

“They’re moving all at once,” Patrice said. “Somehow they’ve communicated. It means they have an agreed-upon time and destination.”

White looked off, staring at nothing. Five seconds later he turned back. “Branco,” he said softly into the microphone, “you’re an accomplished resource who would have done his homework before he moved his surveillance team in. Who owns or manages the building on Rua do Almada?”

“A Raisa Amaro. Lives on the first floor. She’s French. Been in Lisbon for fifteen years. She also owns a commercial laundry close to the waterfront. She went there about seven thirty this morning.”

“The name and address of the laundry.”

“Give me a minute.”

White’s eyes were locked on nothing. He was thinking, planning the next step. This was like a fast-moving combat situation where every possible situation had to be considered, sorted out, and then acted upon.

Branco clicked back on. “A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa. Avenida de Brasilia, 22, at Cais do Sodré. As I said, it’s close to the waterfront.”

“Thank you.”

10:16 A.M.

“He’s still coming.”

Tomás turned the van left onto Largo da Academia Nacional de Belas Artes. The motorcycle rider followed at a distance.

“Pull over,” Marten said.

“Alright, senhor.” Tomás slowed, then pulled the van to the side of the street and stopped beside a row of parked cars. The motorcycle rider slowed as well as he approached, then suddenly sped up and passed, turning at the far end of the street to disappear from view.

“Get out and put up the hood as if you’re having engine trouble.” Marten reached down and touched the Glock in his waistband.

Tomás did. Quickly and nervously.

Marten slid up to look in the van’s side mirror. They had stopped on a narrow cobblestone street in what appeared to be a relatively fashionable neighborhood. For a moment there was no movement at all, and then a car followed by a taxi turned the corner and approached, the bright midmorning sun flashing off their windshields. In seconds they had passed and the street was quiet again. Maybe there’d been no threat at all, Marten thought. Maybe the motorcycle rider had been doing nothing more than simply going his own way.

He was about to tell Tomás to get back in the van when the motorcyclist slid into view at the far end of the street. Seemingly he’d circled the block and come back. He slowed as he came toward them, then stopped at the side of the roadway.

“Dammit,” Marten breathed and looked to Anne. “He’s back. Stopped at the end of the street behind us.”

Anne slid up beside him and looked in the mirror. “He thinks we’re in the van but he’s not sure. He’s waiting for us to move. The minute we do, he’ll follow. In the meantime he’ll call for backup, probably is now.”

Marten looked out at Tomás, his head poked under the hood. “Tomás,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Close the hood and get back behind the wheel.”

Tomás hesitated, then stood upright and closed the hood. As he did, he hesitated, looking back down the street toward the motorcycle rider.

“Tomás, get in!”

“He’s scared to death,” Anne whispered.

“I don’t blame him, but we can’t sit here waiting to see what happens next.” Marten slid the Glock free of his waistband. “Give me your professional opinion. Is our pal one of White’s men or does he work for the Agency?”

“Take your choice.”

“Not just somebody curious.”

“No.”

Tomás opened the door and got in behind the wheel. Immediately Marten climbed into the seat beside him. “How do I get to Rua Serpa Pinto from here? You said it was close.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just tell me how to get there.”

“Up this street, past the fancy restaurant on the left. Then turn down Rua Capelo. At the end is the street you want. Number 25 is right there.”

“Thank you.” Marten looked over his shoulder at Anne. “Go with Tomás. I’ll meet you at the hospital. If I’m late, if something happens, follow up with Ryder yourself. Give him everything you have and go with him. His people will protect you.”

“What the hell are you going to do?”

Marten smiled. “Not quite sure.”

With that he opened the passenger door and stepped onto the street. “Get out of here, Tomás. Now!”

Marten slammed the door and stepped into the shadows between parked cars. Tomás glanced at him and then drove off. Marten looked back down the street. The motorcycle rider was watching either him or the van, it was hard to tell which. Suddenly he moved his head animatedly, as if he were either receiving orders or replying to them over a radio-microphone in his helmet. A split second later he set himself and revved the machine. There was a vicious scream of engine and the street racer shot toward him. Its speed alone told Marten all he needed to know. The rider had been ordered to ignore him and follow the van.

By his estimation a bike like that would accelerate from 0 to 150 miles per hour in about ten seconds. Meaning it would be going close to a hundred by the time it reached him. He counted, one, two; then stepped into the middle of the street and directly into its path. He waited a half second, then raised the Glock with both hands, pointing it at the rider’s chest and giving him three choices to make in less than a heartbeat. Swerve out of the way, hit him at full speed, or get shot. The distance between them was closing at warp speed. The machine and rider were little more than a blur. A bullet coming straight at him. Marten stood his ground, his finger closing on the trigger. Then it was right there. Marten saw the rider touch his brakes and veer sharply to the left in an attempt to go around him. Instantly the laws of physics took over. The machine slid out from under him and he was airborne. A split second later he slammed headfirst into the windshield of a parked car. His head snapped back and he bounced off it, his body twisting high in the air and then disappearing from sight on the far side of the car with a sickening thud. In the next instant the riderless motorcycle hit another car and exploded in an enormous fireball.

Marten watched for a moment, then slipped the Glock back into his waistband and turned and walked off toward Rua Capelo, the way Tomás had told him to go. Behind him traffic came to a standstill as flames and black smoke bellowed skyward.

10:21 A.M.