The Hadrian Memorandum

110

11:16 A.M.

Conor White had no misgivings about the information Raisa Amaro had given him before she died. Terror had been in her eyes and soul, the same as it had been with the Spanish doctor and her students when his interrogation had suddenly turned from severe to murderous. People in that state didn’t lie unless they were martyrs, and Raiso Amaro cared too much about the lives of her workers to be a martyr. Once she realized what was happening and would continue to happen, she would have done everything she could to save the last of them. As she had proven.

From the backseat of the Mercedes he could see the A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa laundry truck parked outside the hospital’s front door a half block away. Red-and-white stanchions set in square concrete blocks kept the area clear of parked cars. The only vehicle there now was the truck, pulled in tight against the stanchions, its tail-lights blinking, signaling a business pickup or delivery.

His appraisal of the situation as they were leaving the laundry for the hospital had been quick. There was no doubt Marten and Anne had known they were being watched and had escaped Raisa Amaro’s apartment building via some kind of interior passageway and after that in a simple electrician’s truck, in all probability with Raisa’s help. If she had done it once, why not twice, using the same type of everyday transportation to get them from the hospital to wherever they were going next, either to meet Ryder, or to the airport and Ryder’s plane in the event the hospital was the meeting place for all three.

Every hospital needed clean laundry. Some had their own in-house laundries; others used an outside service. Either way, a laundry truck would not draw attention and made an ideal escape vehicle, and the one parked in the loading bay at Raisa’s laundry was large enough to accommodate Anne, Marten, and Ryder as well as his two RSO bodyguards. White knew his thinking might be pure conjecture, but he’d had enough experience with covert operations to know that such a scenario was more than possible, maybe even likely. What he had to do was look at it from Anne and Marten’s point of view-desperate fugitives who had escaped capture and thought they were free of surveillance-then take the necessary steps to make their thinking work to his advantage.

Marten had seen him and Patrice in the Hotel Lisboa Chiado the night before. It was probable he’d also seen Irish Jack waiting outside in the BMW, so they would need an unknown face to drive the truck. Moses, the Algerian driver and gunman Branco had supplied with the Mercedes, was quickly recruited. Provided with a crisp white A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa delivery jacket and a team radio unit, with its tiny earphone and microphone hidden in the jacket’s sleeve, he was to drive the truck to the hospital entrance, then go in unarmed and ask for Anne or Marten as if he knew what was going on and was a strategic member of their team. What happened next would tell volumes. Either he would be turned away, with some staff member informing him there was no record of anyone under those names having been admitted to the facility, or he’d be taken to them, at which time he would make radio confirmation. If they were lucky they might even find Ryder and his RSO detail with them. If indeed all five were there and expecting him, Moses could then walk them out of the hospital and into the truck. Afterward he would take them to a deserted construction site off Avenida Infante Dom Henrique on the waterfront that Branco had pinpointed. Alternatively, if Anne and Marten were alone, he would drive them to wherever they were to meet Ryder, and they would close the trap there as originally planned. Lastly, if Moses was turned away, they would simply wait and watch until Anne and Marten arrived. Or, if they were there, attempted to leave.

Branco and four of his former Portuguese army commandos were already in place, waiting in dark-colored sedans, a Peugeot and an Alfa Romeo, at either end of the alley behind the hospital. Each man was acutely aware of the less-than-hour-old death of their group member sent to tail Marten and Anne by motorcycle. Each had been warned, too, of Marten’s deadly marksmanship in the shooting of the two others of their circle who had gone after him in the blue Jaguar the night before. That they had no idea who he really was, or what his training had been, wouldn’t matter; their blood was up for a proper response, and they were more than eager for it to begin.

For his part, he, Patrice, and Irish Jack would stay were they were, parked at the curb fifty yards up from the hospital entrance, weapons and black balaclavas at hand, ready to play the game as it unfolded.

No matter what happened, or where, the end would be the same. The five targets would be quickly cut off and isolated from the public. He, Patrice, and Irish Jack would do the work. Branco and his team would back them up. It would take thirty seconds, no more. As quickly, Branco’s people would fade into the city, and they would be on their way to the airport and the Falcon 50, safe with the knowledge that there were probably no more than a handful of policemen anywhere on the planet who would stop a highly polished black Mercedes with UN plates and three well-dressed gentlemen inside, no matter how fast they were going.

That was Plan A.

Alternatively, if something happened and Moses was exposed and/or he came out empty-handed, they would immediately shift to the uglier but still very effective Plan B. Call in Branco’s men, pull on the balaclavas, then go into the hospital, lock it down, and begin a forced search of their own. The hospital was small, and they’d done such things successfully before. In Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq.

“What’s taking Moses so fucking long?” Irish Jack squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel. “If they’re there, he would know it. If they aren’t, he should have reported it by now.”

Patrice raised a pair of binoculars and studied the building’s front entrance.

“Give the man time, Jack,” White said quietly. “Give the man time.”

Irish Jack turned to look over his shoulder. “Colonel, my balls tell me he’s taking too fucking long.”

“I never distrust a man’s balls, Jack. Let’s find out.” White lifted his arm, pressed the KEY TO TALK button on the microphone inside his coat sleeve, and spoke into it. “3-3, this is Control. Do you have a rabbit for us? Copy.”

11:18 A.M.