The Hadrian Memorandum

118

Irish Jack changed the speed of the Mercedes’s windshield wipers to keep up with the downpour and at the same time kept them a neat three vehicles behind the Ford tail car. Directly behind them was a silver Opel and then Branco and his men in the Alfa. He glanced at Patrice in the shotgun seat, then in the mirror at Conor White. Both men had their automatic weapons out and ready. His own M-4 Colt Commando rested in his lap. He looked back at the road in front of him just as the Toyota and Ford reached the far end of the square and began the run along its far side heading toward Avenida da Liberdade.

Ryder glanced at Grant, then turned to look over his shoulder at Marten. “Now what?” he said quietly. Because of the rain, the crowds they were counting on for cover were gone. The big plaza was void of anything but pigeons.

Anne turned to look behind them. “Nicholas,” she warned. “Gray Alfa Romeo, several cars back.”

Marten looked. He saw the Alfa and the black Mercedes in front of it. “The Mercedes is Conor White’s car.” He turned back to Ryder and Grant. “They’re right on our tail,” he said sotto voce. “All due respect to the GOEs, we’re not going to get anywhere near the embassy.”

Immediately he looked at the barren square on his left, trying to decide what to do, find any avenue of escape. There was nothing but the open, rain-soaked plaza. He looked right, along the facade of shops and cafés they were passing, but nothing jumped out at him. If they told Barbosa and they sped off, White would realize they had been seen, drop back, change cars, and wait for later. The same would happen if they called in more police, because he was certain White or his people would be monitoring the GOE radio frequencies. Then, in the distance, he saw it. A big red M marking the entrance to a Metro station. He looked to Anne, then leaned forward to Ryder and Grant. “We’re going underground,” he said quietly, “now.”

Conor White sat forward, his black balaclava and MP5 submachine gun in his lap, preparing himself for the action that was to come in less than two minutes as they left the Rossio and started up Avenida da Liberdade toward the strike point at Rua Barata Salgueiro.

Suddenly he felt a dark shadow descend from the car’s ceiling and settle around him like some precursor of doom. What the hell is this? he said to himself. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. He tried to shake it off, but the shadow remained. In the next instant he had a soul-chilling premonition that he was right, that things were about to go horribly wrong. The way they had gone wrong ever since Nicholas Marten arrived in Bioko. Until then everything had gone smoothly. Then, and almost immediately, the trouble with the photographs had begun and everything started to come apart.

“Jesus Christ!” Irish Jack shouted.

Fifty yards in front of them the big Toyota suddenly pulled to the curb. The tail car came in right behind it. In a blink the Land Cruiser’s passenger doors opened. Ryder and Grant got out, followed by Marten and Anne. The driver and front-seat passenger got out at the same time. Marten looked at them, pointed toward the Mercedes, and said something. Then he, Anne, Ryder, and Grant dashed into the Metro.

“Take down the GOEs,” White said coolly. “We’re going in after them.”

“Stay with Anne and Ryder,” Marten yelled at Grant as they came into the station and headed toward a long flight of stairs that led to the Metro trains below. Immediately he turned back, lifting the Glock from his jacket and holding it tight against his side. The Metro entrance framed everything. The Mercedes pulled up behind the tail car as the uniformed GOEs piled out of it, their weapons coming into full view. The next happened in a millisecond. Three men wearing black balaclavas and business suits jumped from the Mercedes, their flame-and sound-suppressed automatic weapons already firing. Clemente Barbosa and Eduardo went down almost in silence. So did the four uniformed GOEs, their weapons never discharged. The horror didn’t stop there. The three came running into the Metro station after them.

Glock in hand, his heart pounding, Marten reached the stairs and started down. He could see Anne, Ryder, and Grant mixed in with other travelers as they neared the bottom. He looked back to see Conor White reach the top of the stairs and start down after him. The balaclava gone, his suit jacket open, he was concealing something beneath it. An instant later he saw Patrice and Irish Jack come in behind him and follow him down. Like White, their balaclavas were gone and their suit jackets were open, and each was holding something out of sight beneath it. In between them and himself were probably twenty or more travelers.

Marten shoved the Glock into his belt and pulled the dark blue cell phone from his jacket. He hit the speed dial and prayed he’d entered the right number and that it was still in service. It rang once, then again, then once more. Finally a familiar voice answered.

“Ya,” Kovalenko said in Russian.

“You here? In Lisbon?” Marten demanded.

“Where the hell is my memory card?”

“I need your damn help. Are you here or not?”

“I’m your guardian angel, always around when you need me. We Russians have big ears and wide eyes. I was going to meet you where you are going, the U.S. Embassy. Your friend Mr. Logan, with the books and dogs. It was kind of you to include his business card in the envelope you gave me when you switched the memory cards. Even then you were thinking you might need my assistance.”

“I was and I do.” Marten kept on down the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped around an attractive young woman and pushed past a large, overweight man, trying to put as many people between himself and Conor White and his killers as possible. “We’re in the Rossio Metro. White and two of his mercenaries are coming after us. They just killed a half-dozen cops. We need help, and soon, or I’ll be dead and your memory card will end up in White’s trophy case.”

Marten looked up. He saw Ryder, Anne, and Grant stop at a ticket kiosk. Grant bought tickets and motioned for him to join them. The backpack was tucked under his arm, the MP5K at the ready, and he was being very cool. No need to alarm the other people crowding the station. People they would keep between themselves and White and his men until they could board a train. He looked up at a large Metro station guide. The next station in one direction was Martim Moniz. Baixa/Chiado was in the other. That was the one he chose because he guessed it would be the most crowded.

“We’re going to try to make the Baixa/Chiado station. “Look for us there.” There was no reply. Only silence. “Kovalenko. Kovalenko! Jesus Christ, are you there?”