The Hadrian Memorandum

21

9:03 A.M.

Marten walked quickly, suitcase in tow, the blaring of the emergency exit alarm and the rush of security personnel toward the convenience store diminishing behind him as he left Hall 2B and moved through the throng of apprehensive travelers drawn by the sudden activity and toward Hall 2D and his destination, gate D55 and his 9:30 Air France flight to Berlin.

To his right, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on other terminals across the way. Through them he could see that the bright, cloud-pocked sky of earlier had become completely overcast and large droplets of rain were splattering on the glass. Suddenly, even as he rushed for the plane and at the same time tried to evade the Athlete and his unseen players, the idea of rain brought memories of the storm in Malabo that he had feared might keep him grounded there for days. It was a reflection that carried with it the haunting memories of Bioko itself: Father Willy and the young boys clubbed to death by army troops; the bodies of the woman and children caught in the branches of the floating tree; the venomous features of the soldiers murderously pursuing him through the rain forest; the deadly, piercing eyes and tribal-scarred face of the army major who had interrogated him; the preposterous entrance of President Tiombe into the bar at the Hotel Malabo and the awful, chilling stare with which he had fixed Marten as he moved on.

Only one word could express his feelings about all of it.

Anger.

The people of Equatorial Guinea were victims of machinery and measures and dynamics far beyond their control. More infuriating still was the numbing realization that there was so very little that could be done about it. Father Willy had tried, done the very best he could, and he was dead because of it. Yet the thing was, no matter the outcome, he had tried, which was what Marten, in his own way, was attempting here. If he could somehow retrieve the photographs and get them to President Harris and Joe Ryder, it might be ammunition enough to pressure Striker and Hadrian and SimCo to stop arming the rebels and at the same time force Tiombe to pull back his forces, a combination that could quickly lessen the barbaric scope of the fighting. It wasn’t much, but if he could do it, it was something. And to Marten, as he hustled toward gate D55, that little bit of something meant everything.

9:07 A.M.

The Athlete was stopped midcorridor outside Hall 2B. Through the terminal’s glass wall he could see the British Airways London-bound aircraft pull back from the gate. He lifted a hand to his mouth. “This is Three,” he said quietly but with urgency. “Who’s got him?”

“This is Two. He came out of the gate area. Security swept in and we lost him. One?”

“I don’t have him.”

“There’s three of you out there! Somebody had to pick him up! Four, where are you?”

Silence.

“Four, repeat, where are you?”

Silence.

“This is One. Four isn’t answering.”

9:11 A.M.

Anne Tidrow watched Marten enter Hall 2D, then go into the boarding area, looking at the gate numbers as he went. No one had had to tell her he’d been lying about his British Airways flight to London and his connecting flight to Manchester. In the minutes before he’d seen her watching him from the upper balcony, she had seen him. He’d been about to enter a café area in Hall 2B when he’d stopped a uniformed Air France flight crew and asked directions. One of them had pointed in the direction of Hall 2D. Marten had nodded, then thanked them and gone into the café, where he’d purchased coffee and a croissant and soon afterward made a call on a cell phone.

9:15 A.M.

She saw him enter the section at Gate D55 and join the line of passengers boarding flight 1734 for Berlin. Ninety seconds later he handed an Air France gate attendant his boarding pass, then entered the jetway and disappeared from view.

A breath and she lifted her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cough.

“This is Four. I’m in Hall 2D. I thought I saw him come this way, then he took the escalator down and I lost him.”

“Roger, Four.” The voice of One came back.

Anne Tidrow watched for a moment longer as the last of the passengers slipped into the jetway and the Air France people closed the door behind them. She lingered a few seconds, then walked off. As she did she took a cell phone from her purse, flicked it open, then tapped in a number and waited for it to ring through.

Past lives, fond memories, old friends.

By the time Marten reached Berlin and entered the city-by taxi, private car, public transportation, or even if he walked-she would know where he had gone and where to find him.