The Hadrian Memorandum

27

HOTEL ADLON KEMPINSKI, ROOM 647. 6:15 P.M.

Marten stood near the window staring out. Not a hundred yards away, backlit by the late-afternoon sun, was the Brandenburg Gate with a number of police vehicles still clearly in sight. That they’d come back to the same area they had left barely an hour earlier was something he hadn’t realized when they arrived because they’d come in through the luxury hotel’s rear entrance on Behrenstrasse and then taken a back stairwell to avoid using the elevators.

He turned to look at Anne. She had her suitcase open on the bed and was hurriedly packing it. “Some choice of hotels. I count four police cars and three police motorcycles, and that’s just those I can see.”

She stopped and looked at him. “How did I know you were going to come this way? I just wanted a place reasonably close to yours.”

“You should have stayed in Malabo. Better yet, Texas.”

She smiled. “Look at it this way, darling. By now the authorities will have detained anyone they wanted to question, meaning that before long most of them will leave the area.”

“Then what?”

“We go and get the photographs.”

Marten suddenly flared. “You never let up, do you? Somehow you’ve convinced yourself that I know where they are and what’s in them.”

As quickly her eyes narrowed and she pushed back. “Stop playing games with me, Nicholas. You were going out the door with your suitcase when I showed up at your hotel. If the pictures were anywhere nearby you would have simply gone to get them and then come back to your room with nobody the wiser. That means they aren’t in Berlin, maybe not even in Germany. But wherever they are, you were on your way to get them.”

“I had my suitcase because I was going home,” he said quietly.

“You were going home this morning, too, remember? You came to Berlin instead.”

“I came to Berlin to see Theo Haas. He’s dead. What else was I supposed to do? Believe it or not, I have a job waiting. My employers as well as my clients can be exceptionally demanding.”

“Not as demanding as the police. They’ll want to know why you met with Haas, and they won’t buy your fairy tale about discussing park design. Once you tell them the real reason, and you will, they’ll want to know what the photographs were of, and you’ll have to tell them that too. Then we’ll have the beginning of a major international incident and because of it the pictures, wherever they are, will be recovered. The police will see to it.

“You’re not doing this on your own, darling. Not here, and you weren’t in Bioko, either. If those photographs become public, whoever hired you won’t like it, and neither will I. So cut the bullshit about not knowing. We don’t have time for it. There may be a way out of this yet, but you can’t do it without me, and you’re not getting me without the pictures.”

Marten had no idea what “a way out of this” meant. He knew that if he had to, he could get help by calling President Harris and telling him what was going on, but that was something he had to save as a last resort because if he did call him the president would do everything he could to get him out of there. That meant pulling strings, which was something that in itself could set off an international incident no matter how discreetly it was done, simply because of who Theo Haas was. Both the Berlin police and the German public would be outraged to learn that the chief suspect in his murder had been suddenly let go under pressure from the American government.

And one way or another they would learn, if by no other means than the long, invasive tail of the Internet. If that happened, pundits, bloggers, and almost anyone else would have a field day tracing the diplomatic maneuver to its “suspected” source. Even if it couldn’t be proven the damage would have been done and what Anne Tidrow said about “whoever hired you won’t like it” would be a helluva lot more than accurate because it would appear to the world that the president of the United States was trying to cover up a murder. Moreover, it could lead to the ultimate exposure of the photographs, which, when made public, would make it look as if the motive behind it had been to protect both Striker Oil and Hadrian. Clearly that was a scenario Marten couldn’t let play out. So once again, and for now at least, he had little choice but to let Anne Tidrow run the show.

He plunked down on the edge of the bed. “What are we supposed to do while we wait for the police to go their merry way?”

“Turn on the television. Maybe you can learn what they’re doing. If they’re checking passengers leaving from airport, bus, and train terminals. If they’re searching cars leaving the city.”

“I don’t speak German.”

“You’ll get the idea. It’s television, it’s not that hard.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Take a shower.”

“A shower?” Marten was incredulous.

“Most of last night was spent on an airplane. Today was spent chasing after you. I have the feeling tonight is going to be pretty damn long as well. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get cleaned up before it begins.” Abruptly she went into the bathroom and closed the door.

“How do you know I won’t just leave?” he called through it.

“Because I’d call the police if you did.”

“They’d get you, too.” There was no reply.

He raised his voice. “I said they’d get you, too.” Still no reply.

Then he heard the shower running.

6:25 P.M.

6:37 P.M.

Marten was sitting in a chair staring at the television when the bathroom door opened and Anne came back into the room, her dark hair twisted up in a towel, a thick white terrycloth robe pulled around her, her eyes on the TV screen.

“Did you learn anything?” she said.

Marten said nothing, just continued to watch the screen. She took a step closer. Whatever channel he was tuned to was broadcasting live remotes, cutting between stand-up reporters on the green of the Platz der Republik, the Brandenburg Gate, and Polizeipräsidium Berlin, police headquarters, on Platz der Luftbrücke. An on-camera correspondent outside of the Polizeipräsidium suddenly put a hand to his earphone, as if listening to a special instruction from the studio, then quickly gave an introduction to whatever was next. The video feed abruptly cut to a media room somewhere inside the building where a tall, steely, black-eyed man with a shaved head, wearing a black leather jacket, white shirt, and a tie, approached a bank of microphones.

“Ever hear of a Berlin detective called Hauptkommissar Emil Franck?” Marten asked without looking at her.

“No.”

“Well, that’s him. A few minutes ago I saw him on a video that was recorded at the Platz der Republik. He seems to be their top homicide cop and is heading the investigation.”

“What have they said so far?”

“That I’m the guy they’re looking for.”

“What?” Anne was flabbergasted.

“At least as far as I can tell.”

“How can they know for sure? All they had was a description.”

“Somebody took my picture with a cell phone.”

“Christ!”

“Amen.”

“Do they have your name?”

“If they do, they haven’t said.”

Hauptkommissar Franck reached the microphones and looked directly into the camera. He spoke first in German and then in English and in a voice that was icy and without emotion.

“This is the man wanted for questioning in the tragic and shocking daylight murder of Theo Haas. We are asking the public’s help in finding him.”

A blurry image of Marten in the melee near the Brandenburg Gate popped on the screen. Franck’s voice was heard giving a telephone number and e-mail address.

“Recognize me?” Marten’s concentration was on the TV.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Immediately the same phone number and e-mail address appeared on the screen. After a long moment the picture faded to black. Several seconds later a photograph of Theo Haas appeared. Superimposed over it were the words VERBRECHEN DES JAHRHUNDERTS.

“Crime of the century,” she translated. “Crime of the fucking century.”

Marten turned to look at her. “For some reason I don’t think the rather generous bribe you gave the taxi driver who brought us here is going to be enough to keep him from suddenly going to the police.”

“Neither do I.”