The Hadrian Memorandum

113

The two minutes were up.

Conor White had come too far, been thwarted too often through no design of his own, not to complete the mission now. Not with the objective right there, yards from his grasp. He hit the KEY TO TALK button and lifted the microphone in his jacket sleeve to his hand.

“6-4, this is Control. We’re going in. Lockdown rules, full balaclavas.”

“Roger, Control.”

“6-2, you copy?” White reached for the balaclava on the seat beside him.

“Roger, Control.”

“They’re coming out,” Irish Jack said sharply.

“What?” White looked up.

They saw five people quickly exiting the hospital’s front entrance and heading for the parked laundry truck. Moses led them. Marten was next. Then Joe Ryder carrying some kind of backpack, Anne, and lastly one of the RSO agents. Patrice lifted the binoculars.

“6-4, abort action,” White snapped into his microphone. “Our relatives are in view!”

“That’s not Moses!” Patrice had the binoculars tight against his face, watching Marten’s group as they climbed into the truck. “It’s not Anne, either!”

“Christ!” White lifted the MP5. “Gun it, Jack, gun it!”

Irish Jack turned the ignition key. The Mercedes’s 510 horsepower V12 roared to life. A split second later he fishtailed it out of the parking spot after the laundry truck that was accelerating away.

“6-4, 6-2,” White said into the microphone at his sleeve. “Marten’s using the truck as a decoy. Anne and Ryder will be coming out in some other vehicle. Watch for it. We’re in pursuit of Marten! Copy.”

“6-4. Roger, Control.”

“6-2. Roger, Control.”

Marten rode in the shotgun seat watching the truck’s outside mirror. “Here they come. Black Mercedes.” He clicked on the power to the team radio unit he had taken from Moses and pressed the earpiece into his left ear.

Agent Grant was right behind him. He looked to the bookkeeper playing Anne and the anesthesiologist who had the part of Agent Birns. “Get down, flat on the floor!” he ordered, then opened his backpack and slid the MP5K submachine gun from it.

“Santos.” Marten looked to Mário’s brother at the wheel. “Take us into the Baixa, the shortest route you know.”

Twenty yards ahead, Rua Serpa Pinto ended at the bottom of the hill. Santos touched the brakes, then leaned on the horn and took a sharp left, the top-heavy truck leaning dangerously to one side as it went. Marten could see the Mercedes slide through the same turn seconds behind them. His hand went to the Glock in his belt. He looked at Santos.

“They’re coming hard. What can you do?”

To his great surprise, Santos grinned, almost as if he were enjoying it. “I have been an ambulance driver for twenty-two years. This is no ambulance, but-” Abruptly he swung the wheel right and turned the laundry truck down a narrow cobblestone alley that was almost impossible to see from the street. Marten saw the Mercedes fly past, then slide to a stop, back up in a cloud of burning rubber, and come down the alley after them. Then Santos was taking another right, then a sharp left. The Mercedes disappeared from view.

“How far is the Baixa?” Marten pressed.

“Three minutes.”

“Get me on a street where I can drive to it myself. Then pull over and stop. I want you people out of here.”

Santos grinned again. “Out of here? This is fun!”

“Fun, hell, those guys will kill all of us!”

Suddenly a sharp communication came through Marten’s earpiece. “Control, this is 6-4.”

The men in the Mercedes heard Carlos Branco as well. “A fire alarm was pulled in the hospital seconds after you left. I’m monitoring Lisbon Fire. They’ve got five vehicles rolling now. They’ll probably ring a second alarm and double that. Every street in the area will be filled with fire apparat-Christ!” Branco blurted suddenly and then there was silence.

“Christ! What?” Conor White spat into his microphone as Irish Jack slid the Mercedes through a corner and accelerated off. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Hospital ambulance just shot past us in the alley. RSO Special Agent Birns was in the shotgun seat! Go!” they heard him yell to his driver in Portuguese. “We’re in pursuit now! Am assuming Anne and Ryder are with him, maybe the other RSO, too, if he didn’t decoy with Marten!”

“Stay on him! Stay on him! 6-2, back up 6-4. Copy.”

“6-4. Roger. 6-2, copy.”

“6-2. Roger.”

“I see him. I see him!” Irish Jack glimpsed the laundry truck. There was a massive whine as he touched the accelerator and the Mercedes shot forward. In seconds they were on top of a lumbering vintage streetcar. Irish Jack cut left, started to pass it, then found himself in the path of an oncoming bus. He swore out loud and dropped back, letting the bus go by. In the next instant he pulled left. There was a scream of engine and then they were around the streetcar and cutting back in front of it. Ahead they could see the laundry truck turn down a side street. At the same time, an aging white Opel pulled out of a parking space in front of them.

“Get out of the fucking way!” Irish Jack slammed on the brakes, then jumped on the accelerator and fishtailed around it, barely missing an oncoming taxi, its driver leaning on his horn and throwing a fist up in rage.

Santos turned the laundry truck onto Rua Nova do Almada. As quickly he swung right, and they were into the heart of the Baxia.

Marten looked in the mirror. Two blocks back he saw the Mercedes round a corner and race after them.

“Santos, next block pull over. Tell me which way to go afterward.”

“Right turn, then left,” Santos told Marten, “then two streets and-”

“Control, 6-4. We’ve got the ambulance. 6-2’s on their tail.” Marten heard the quick rasp of Branco’s voice. “We’re right behind them. Copy.”

“Control. 6-4. Where are you? Can you take them down now?” Marten felt a stabbing chill as Conor White’s distinctive British accent spat through his earpiece. In the same instant he flashed on the memory of the first time he had seen him as he accompanied Anne across the floor of the Hotel Malabo. A strong, proud, seemingly sane military man in a well-cut suit.

“We’re on Calçada do Carmo heading toward Rossio Square. Streets are too narrow to make any kind of takedown move.”

Suddenly the piercing scream of a siren followed by the thundering blare of an air horn shot through Marten’s earpiece. A split second later he heard what sounded like a horrendous crash.

For a moment there was absolute silence. Then-

“6-4. Control. 6-4! Copy,” he heard Conor White bark. There was no reply. Then, “6-2. 6-2. Control. 6-2! Do you read me? Copy!”

“This is 6-4, Control. Fire truck went through an intersection. Hit the ambulance and the 6-2 car. Ambulance is on its side. 6-2 car not drivable.”

“Control, 6-4. How bad is it? Anybody killed?”

“Can’t tell. Firemen are on it. My guys seem banged up but okay, don’t know the extent of it. Firemen have the ambulance’s rear doors open. I can’t-Wait. I see Ryder. He’s being helped out. Looks stunned. Don’t know about the others.”

“Get your men out of the 6-2 car.” White was calm but emphatic. “If they can’t walk, carry them. Then get the hell out of there. You’ll have emergency personnel including police all over the place before you can piss. You don’t want them talking to your guys. Copy.”

“6-4, roger, copy.”

“Control, 6-4. Imperative we meet close to accident scene. Our vehicle has GPS. Give me street coordinates. Copy.”

“Roger, Control. Ah, Calçada do Duque at Rua da Condessa. Copy.”

“Calçada do Duque at Rua da Condessa. Five minutes tops. Copy.”

“Roger, Control. Five minutes.”

For an instant Marten sat stunned. It wasn’t just the unexpectedness of the accident and the acute fear that Anne and Ryder might be seriously hurt or worse; what struck him was how quickly White had read the situation and decided on what action to take next. Whatever that was, whoever his 6-4 and 6-2 people were, clearly none of them were running away.

As quickly, real time caught up. He glanced in the mirror looking for the trailing black Mercedes. He saw it several cars behind just as the driver did an abrupt U-turn in traffic, then accelerated off in the opposite direction. Immediately he turned to Grant.

“Fire truck hit the ambulance. It’s on its side. Ryder seems okay. That’s the most we know. White had two cars tailing it. One of them got caught up in the accident. He’s regrouping to meet near the scene.” He looked to Santos. “Your brother may have been hurt, I don’t know. Get us to Calçada do Carmo near Rossio Square. Fast as you can!”

“Yes, sir.” Santos glanced in his mirror, waited for a man on a bicycle to pass, then took an abrupt left and stepped hard on the truck’s accelerator.

12:02 P.M.