The Hadrian Memorandum

105

10:22 A.M.

“Stop here, please,” Joe Ryder said abruptly as the cabdriver took them along a large tree-lined plaza called the Rossio. One of the city’s main squares, it was alive with tourists peopling the shops and cafés surrounding it.

“We are not yet close to the Alfama district, senhor.”

“It’s alright. I just realized this is my wedding anniversary. I want to get my wife a present.”

“You’re American, yes?” The driver slowed, then pulled to the curb near a large flower stand.

“Yes.”

The driver grinned. “Then you mean you have to get your wife a present.”

Ryder smiled in return. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I will wait for you, senhor.”

“Not necessary, thank you. We’ll find another cab when we’ve finished shopping.”

Agent Birns got out first, briefcase in hand, his eyes sweeping the area. Ryder paid the driver, then followed Birns, and the cab drove off. Immediately they turned down a side street and went into a store selling brightly colored ceramics. Thirty seconds later they exited, walked to the end of the next block, and hailed another taxi.

“Rua Serpa Pinto,” Ryder said as they got in.

The driver nodded, put his cab in gear, and pulled into traffic.

10:24 A.M.

10:25 A.M.

Conor White left Moses and the others in the Mercedes, then crossed a dusty parking area, climbed a short flight of stairs, and entered the side door of the large, one-story white stucco building that was A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa, Avenida de Brasilia, 22. In the distance was the 25th of April Bridge. Behind him, as Carlos Branco had said, was a large stretch of Lisbon’s waterfront where vessels from hand-rowed dories to ferries to cruise ships plied the midmorning waters of the Tagus River. A world within a world chugging innocently on, a heartbeat away.

The door closed behind White, and he entered a loading dock area with space for two good-sized laundry trucks. One was there. The other, assuming there was another, would be out making pickups or deliveries. Across the way was a battered work desk where a dark-haired man in white trousers and white T-shirt talked on the phone. To the left was a large room filled with industrial-sized washers and dryers, tended by two men in white. If there were other employees he didn’t see them.

White approached the desk. “Are you the supervisor?” he said politely.

The man nodded, then finished his phone conversation and hung up. “I am,” he said, his English thickly colored with Portuguese. “What can I do for you?”

“Raisa Amaro, please. I have an appointment.”

The supervisor studied him. “I am afraid she’s not here, sir. If you would leave your name and a number where you could be reached, I-”

“You don’t understand,” White cut him off. “I have an appointment.”

“I’m sorry, but-”

“I spoke to her on the phone not five minutes ago.”

Again the man studied him. Finally he reached for the phone on his desk. “I’ll have to check.”

Abruptly White put his hand on the man’s hand, stopping him. “Just take me to her.” Gone was the politeness. In its stead was a cold, deadly resolve. “It would be in your best interests.”

The man stared at him unafraid; then his eyes abruptly shifted as the outside door opened and two men in business suits came in. Patrice and Irish Jack. In the distance came the deep-throated blast of a boat whistle, a tugboat, or maybe a ferry.

Conor White stared at the supervisor. “Raisa Amaro, please,” he said quietly.

10:30 A.M.

10:31 A.M.

Marten walked quickly along Rua Capelo, the sirens of emergency vehicles hanging in the air behind him, black smoke from the still-burning motorcycle clearly visible as it drifted upward.

Fifty feet ahead the street ended at Rua Serpa Pinto. He kept on, stepping around a woman pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair, then dodging two young teenage boys running to investigate the smoke and sirens. Finally he reached the corner and stopped. To the left, partway down the block and across the street, was Hospital da Universidade. In appearance, a small, all-purpose hospital.

The building itself was tasteful and well kept, if unimpressive. Four stories tall, concrete and plaster covering its facade, it was connected, like almost every other structure in the city, to its neighboring buildings. As on its adjoining buildings wrought-iron balconies decorated the second-floor windows. To the right of its doorway was a simple call box.

He crossed to it, studied it for a moment, then walked on. At the end of the block he turned right and then right again into a narrow service alley. Somewhere farther down was the hospital’s rear entrance. There was no sign of Tomás’s truck, or of any other vehicle for that matter. Whether Anne was there and safely inside there was no way for him to know. Nor was there any way to know if Raisa had even reached the president with the details of what Joe Ryder should do. All along he had assumed it had happened. What if it hadn’t? What if Ryder and the president had never spoken? What if the congressman wasn’t even in the city?

Once more he felt as he had in the passageways with Anne, like a war time refugee in an uncertain state with spies and lookouts everywhere, with everything they’d counted on falling apart around them, and with no way to know it until it was too late. Absently he touched the Glock under his jacket. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he started down the alley in search of the hospital’s rear entrance.

10:34 A.M.