The Hadrian Memorandum

124

They came out of the Martim Moniz Metro station in bright sunshine, damp sidewalks and puddles the only suggestion that a rainstorm had passed. A silver Peugeot was parked at the curb across the street, and Kovalenko nodded toward it.

Marten looked at him in surprise, if not admiration. “The train could have been sent in from the other direction. How did you know which way it would come?”

“It’s my business to know.”

Five minutes later Kovalenko was driving them past the Intendente Metro station and away from the city center. Two ambulances were parked outside it with two police cars behind them.

“Waiting for Branco’s delivery,” Marten said quietly. “I feel bad about Ryder’s RSO detail. They were good men, both of them.”

“Like I said, it’s a dirty business.” Kovalenko kept his eyes on the road. Thirty seconds went by, and then he looked at Marten. “I want you to know I’m very upset about the memory card. You did something with it. And don’t tell me again you lost it. Where the hell is it?”

“What if I were to promise you the pictures will never be made public, nor will the CIA have them. None of them. ‘The photographs and memory card you were after were either destroyed or never existed.’ That’s how the official record will read. The memory card you recovered is the only one there was. Knowing that, you can take it back to Moscow with a clear conscience and let your people examine it themselves. Soon everyone will smile and make jokes about what you’re paid to do, but you’ll be off the hook.”

Kovalenko glared at him. “You design gardens in England. The photographs and most probably the memory card are now in the hands of a United States congressman. That means every security agency in Washington will know about them. So how can you promise such a thing?”

“Because I can. From me to you, Yuri.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

Kovalenko looked off in disgust and then back at the road. They were traveling up a long tree-lined boulevard. Traffic was moving normally; people were chatting on street corners, going in and out of shops and offices, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The way life usually is in cities, people getting on with their own lives and for the most part wholly unaware of what murderous intrigues may be going on around them, or in the subways beneath their feet.

Suddenly Marten grew wary. “Where the hell are we going?”

“To the airport. I’m sending you home and hope you stay there for many years. As I said to you a long time ago, tovarich, go back to your English gardens. This other kind of life does not suit you.” Abruptly he looked at him. “I trust you haven’t lost your passport.”

“Yuri.” Marten was more than apprehensive. “I can’t go to an airport, not to a commercial airline anyway. I try to check in, the police will have me in handcuffs before I can turn around.”

“Why, for the murders of Franck and Theo Haas?”

“Yes.”

Kovalenko smiled. “As much as I’d like to see you in jail for stealing my memory card, don’t worry about the police. It’s why we left the Glock with Conor White. It’s the gun that killed the Hauptkommissar. The authorities know he was in Praia da Rocha that same day. It also happens to be the gun that killed two of Branco’s gunmen here in Lisbon. Last night, I believe.” He looked at Marten accusatively. “Correct?”

“What was I supposed to do, let them kill me? It’s why you gave me the thing in the first place. Correct?”

Kovalenko grinned. “If the police miss connecting the dots, Branco will help them, and rather quickly, I imagine, because he knows where I’m taking you. As for Theo Haas, his murderer was captured before Franck and I left Berlin.”

“What?” Marten was flabbergasted.

“The killer was a young man.”

“With curly hair. I know, I chased him.”

“When he was caught he confessed right away. Franck ordered it kept quiet. He wanted the photographs. You knew where they were. At least that’s what we thought, so better to keep the pressure on. With luck some police agency would spot you and follow you until we got there. Which is exactly what happened and how we found you.”

“Did you ever think that maybe I could have been shot dead in the process?”

“Sure, that could have happened.”

“Christ!” Marten looked off, burning. Almost immediately he looked back. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did the kid murder Theo Haas? He give a reason?”

“Yes.” Kovalenko nodded. “He hated his writing.”