The Hadrian Memorandum

19

8:17 A.M.

Marten watched her as she came down the escalator. Still in the dark slacks and tailored jacket she’d worn on the plane, she seemed slimmer, less severe, and more athletic than when they’d met at the Hotel Malabo. For the first time he noticed the long taper of her neck and the muscular strength of it. Clearly she kept in good physical condition and, from the way she held herself, was proud of it.

“I was on my way to the railway station for a train into the city when I saw you,” she said as she reached him. “I wondered how you were after the long flight.”

“Anxious to get home and back to work,” he said lightly. “I have a flight that leaves in less than an hour.”

“To England. Manchester, isn’t it?”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“I also know where you work. The landscape design firm of Fitzsimmons and Justice.” She smiled. “Conor White told me. He has access to information most people don’t.”

“Why would either of you be interested in where I live or work?”

“Because, Mr. Marten, neither he nor I felt you were being completely honest with us when we talked in Malabo. We are concerned about our employees in Equatorial Guinea, and you seemed to have had some other reason for being there, aside from collecting information on plants, that is. So Mr. White did a background check on you and-”

“Found I was telling the truth,” he said, finishing her sentence, “that I was in Bioko to look over native flora for clients at home.” He paused, taking the slightest moment to study her. She was intelligent and equally bold and clearly used to getting whatever it was she was after. “I have to assume it’s why you were on the plane, out of concern for your employees, following me to make sure Mr. White’s background check was accurate. And why, instead of leaving the airport with your friend, you were watching me from up there.” He gestured toward the balcony above.

She grinned. “I was leaving Bioko for Paris anyway. So I took the assignment.”

“In that case, you should be happy to report that my flight to Manchester connects through London, so there’s no need to chase me all the way there. That is, unless you’re interested in property in the north of England. Have you been to Manchester before?”

“No.”

“Well, if you should happen to come, I would be happy to show you around. Conversely, should you have need for landscape design for either your home or business in Texas, you know where to reach me. Fitzsimmons and Justice, Manchester, England. We’re in the phone book and we’re expensive, but we do excellent work. Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to miss my flight. Please give my regards to Mr. White.” With that Marten nodded and started off.

“Which airline?” she called after him.

He looked back, “Why, you want to come with me?”

“No, but I might have you followed.”

“Help yourself.” He grinned. “British Airways.” Then he turned and continued on.

8:22 A.M.

Marten’s study of the departure console had been fortunate in more ways than one. In trying to find the next flight to Berlin, he’d also seen the next flight to Manchester via London, something he’d noted with envy because he would have much preferred going there. Nonetheless it had stuck in his mind and was a welcome immediate and reasonable destination to give to Anne Tidrow. He doubted she believed him, though. She’d been far too blasé in telling him that neither she nor White had fully believed him in Malabo. It had been the same when she’d asked what airline he was taking on his flight home. Maybe she’d been joking about having him followed, but most likely she wasn’t. Clearly they believed he knew something about the photographs and weren’t about to let go until they were certain, one way or the other.

The Air France flight from Malabo brought them to Terminal-or Hall, as it was called-2F. The British Airways flight to London left from Hall 2B at 9:10. That gave Marten precious few minutes to walk from one terminal to the other, buy a ticket to London, find a place where he could call the president back, make the call, and then get to the departure gate. Once there he would wait until passengers began to board, then suddenly duck into a nearby kiosk as if he needed something at the last minute, then go out the other side and make his way to Hall 2D and the 9:30 Air France flight to Berlin. It was a lot of maneuvering but hopefully enough to throw off Anne Tidrow or anyone else who might be following him and let him make the Berlin flight unnoticed.

The thing about Ms. Tidrow, when he’d caught her watching him, was that her reaction had been to simply smile and wave. Afterward, when he’d directly accused her of following him, she’d admitted it and said why. Or at least partially why. Honesty in situations like that was always best. Or at least partial honesty. The trouble was, most people didn’t do it. They hesitated and made up a story and certainly didn’t look you in the eye when they told you the way she had. Maybe that kind of confidence came from sitting on the board of directors of a large oil company or maybe it came from somewhere else. Just where, or what that was, he had no way of knowing.

8:44 A.M.

Marten stopped at the rear of the line entering the security checkpoint, then moved away and took the blue cell phone from his bag and a pen and small notebook from his jacket. He glanced around, then repeated the dialing procedures he had used earlier.

UNITED STATES EMBASSY, OTTAWA, CANADA. 2:44 A.M.

President Harris picked up at the first ring. “I just got off the phone with Joe Ryder. He’ll be calling Theo Haas momentarily. Here’s Haas’s private number. You have something to write with?”

“Yes.”

“030-555-5895.”

“Thank you.”

“After you’ve seen Haas, Ryder wants to speak with you. I do, too. Call me and I’ll get us plugged in on some kind of secure conference call. Don’t know just how it’ll work yet because he’s traveling, but I’ll have it operating by the time you call.” The president hesitated. “Nick, Nicholas, cousin. I did a quick run-through on your friend Conor White. He won his stripes as a top British commando. He’s got the Victoria Cross and a chest full of other military honors to prove it. Be damned careful, huh? I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“I wouldn’t want to lose me, either. I’ll call you when I have something to report.” President Harris heard Marten click off. He looked at his watch. It was two forty-five in the morning. Eight forty-five in Paris.