The Hadrian Memorandum

20

8:48 A.M.

Marten showed his British Airways boarding pass at the security checkpoint, then set his suitcase on the luggage conveyor, took off his belt and put it in a plastic tray with a number of coins from his pocket, and stepped through the metal detector. A moment later he retrieved his belt and coins, collected his suitcase, and walked off toward his boarding gate, B34. Not once, from the time he’d stepped into line at the ticket counter until now, had he seen anyone in particular watching him. It didn’t mean they weren’t there. It simply meant he hadn’t seen them.

8:50 A.M.

Ahead, to Marten’s right, was Gate B34 where a long line of passengers was in the process of boarding the London flight. To his left were toilets, a combination bookstore/newsstand/convenience store, and next to it a sandwich shop. He continued purposefully on and joined the line at Gate B34.

Twenty feet in front of him a slim, athletically built middle-aged man in a sport coat and blue jeans stood in the crowd waiting to board and at the same time absently watched Marten come toward him. Now he raised his hand as if to stifle a cough or clear his throat.

“This is Three. He’s just joined the passenger queue waiting to board,” he said softly into a microphone in his sleeve.

A male voice floated through an earpiece barely visible in his left ear. “This is One. Thank you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay with him and board behind him. Make sure he is on the aircraft when it pulls back from the ramp.”

“Right.”

Seconds earlier, by luck or by instinct, Marten had looked up and seen a middle-aged, athletic-looking man in sport coat and jeans, standing near the front of the line watching him and at the same time moving his lips as he held a hand to his mouth. Now Marten saw him drop his hand and casually move aside to speak with a uniformed British Airways agent near the boarding gate.

Right then he knew. Whatever he’d thought before, there was no question now, he was being watched. But by whom? Conor White and Anne Tidrow’s people? Operatives under the direction of the Army of the Republic of Equatorial Guinea?

And there wasn’t just one. The man had been communicating with someone, which meant there were two of them at least, maybe more.

8:52 A.M.

The ranks of boarding passengers were lessening rapidly as people entered the aircraft. The Athlete, as Marten had decided to call him, was still talking with the British Airways employee, gesturing as if he had some problem with his ticket or seating arrangement or something similar. Every so often he looked off, as if he were becoming frustrated with the direction of the conversation. That glance away and then back, Marten knew, was carefully calculated to keep an eye on him. See where he was in line. Make certain he was moving forward with the remaining passengers, whose number by now had dwindled to fewer than two dozen. Athlete or no Athlete, if Marten was going to get out of there, he had to do it soon.

“Excuse me.” He turned to a young woman in line behind him. “I have a splitting headache and need to get something for it before I get on the plane. Would you mind holding my place in line? I’ll be right back.”

With that he was gone, leaving the boarding area and crossing to the bookstore/newsstand/convenience store on the other side of the corridor.

Immediately the Athlete turned from the airline agent and raised his hand to his mouth. “He just left the boarding area and has gone into a newsstand across from it!” he blurted into his hidden microphone.

“Stay with him! Stay with him!”

8:55 A.M.

Marten entered the store in a rush looking for another exit. He pushed around a magazine stand and then past a rack filled with toiletries. No time to think about the Athlete-just find the exit and get out of there. But where? There was no other egress. In front of him was a wall of bestselling books. To his right, a large magazine rack. To his left, a floor-to-ceiling case of PARIS, FRANCE T-shirts and caps.

“Christ!” he said to himself and turned to look for another way out. As he did, the Athlete came into the store and stood in the entryway, his eyes scanning the room. Immediately Marten looked away. The only exit was the doorway where the man was. To use it he would have to walk right past him. The clock was fast ticking down. If he missed the Berlin flight, there was every chance people employed by Striker/SimCo or agents from the Equatorial Guinean army would be at Theo Haas’s doorstep before he was. Athlete or not, he had no choice but to go out past him and go now.

He was turning, starting to move, when a nearby door suddenly opened and a female clerk came out of a back room pushing a service cart piled with magazines and boxes of candy. In an instant Marten was past her and into the room looking for a service exit. All he saw was shelves full of supplies.

Immediately the clerk came in behind him. “Sir,” she said with a French accent, “you’re not allowed in here!”

“Sorry,” he said and turned back, disheartened. Then he saw an exit door to the side, a crash bar mounted across it just below a bright red warning sign.

EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, it read, in French and English.

Marten studied it. Go through it and the alarm goes off. People come running from everywhere. Perfect.

8:59 A.M.