The Hadrian Memorandum

35

BERLIN. SATURDAY, JUNE 5. 1:27 A.M.

Marten slumped in the worn overstuffed chair watching Anne sleep on the bed across from him. A bottle of the Radeberger Pilsner in his hand, he wore boxer shorts and the light blue sport shirt he had on when he’d gone to meet Theo Haas in the park.

He took a sip of the beer and looked restlessly up at the ceiling. The apartment was warm, and Anne slept with only a sheet pulled up around her. She’d invited him to sleep beside her for no other reason than that the bed was the only place to rest. Instead he’d chosen the chair, chiefly because it gave him a clear view of the apartment’s front door. If anyone was coming through it, he wanted to see them before they saw him. Especially if they were police with orders to shoot.

1:32 A.M.

Marten took another drink of the Radeberger and looked at Anne across from him. He could just see her in the dark, sleeping on her side, her legs pulled up toward her chest in an almost fetal position. The CIA, he thought. Jesus, what department had she been in? Research, an operative, what? Whatever it was, it had certainly been important enough for her to still be connected to people who would shadow strangers for her, help her elude the police and provide a safe house and then somehow get them out, or at least try to get them out, of the city.

At forty-two, she was seven years older than he was, but looking at her now she might have been a child. She’d told him she’d been married, and he wondered if she had children herself. If so, how many? And how old? And where were they now? For all he knew they could be in high school or college or in their early twenties and out on their own.

1:40 A.M.

He finished the Radeberger and took the empty bottle into the kitchen. He was exhausted and wired tight at the same time. The idea of sleep seemed impossible. The murder of Theo Haas had been horror enough, but the combination of circumstances that made him a prime suspect was beyond imagination. That a top cop like Franck had been assigned to the case made it all the worse. His credentials aside, his physical bearing, his body language, and the intense look in his eyes as he’d addressed the television cameras had chillingly reminded Marten of his mentor on the Los Angeles Police Department, the late Commander Arnold McClatchy, who had been one of the most revered, relentless, and feared homicide detectives in California history. Like McClatchy, Franck had the entire department at his disposal, and like McClatchy, Marten was certain, once he’d taken on a case he wouldn’t let go until, one way or another, his man was brought to the ground.

Then there was the other thought. Poor as his photograph was, it was everywhere. What if the guys on the LAPD still hunting him saw it and got in touch with Franck? Then what? A little cop-to-cop talk and suddenly a couple of detectives show up from L.A. waiting for Franck to get him. And when he does, he keeps it quiet and hands him over to them. The next day his body is found in a ditch somewhere. Nobody knows who did it. It would save the Berlin PD a big noisy trial and a lot of expense. It made him want to kick himself for blurting to the jerk-off dope dealer on the street that he was an L.A. cop. What if the police caught the guy and he brought it up?

It had been a stupid thing to do.

Just plain stupid.

1:42 A.M.

Marten set the bottle on the kitchen counter and was starting toward the bedroom when he heard sirens approaching. He stopped and listened. What were they? Fire? Ambulance? No, police, he was certain. They grew nearer. He went into the front room and stood beside one of the narrow windows to peer out at the dimly lit alley below. The sirens were closer still. He counted one, two, and then three, all traveling close together. Instinctively he listened for the sound of a circling helicopter. What would he do if they pulled up outside?

“What is it?” Anne called from the other room.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Christ, maybe he should tell her to get up and get dressed. But then what? Go out the tiny air-shaft window in the dark and up the fire ladder to the roof? Why? If the police knew where they were, they wouldn’t have a chance to begin with.

He moved farther back from the window, giving him a view of the alley where it met Ziegelstrasse. The sounds grew louder, the shrillness bouncing off the old brick facades of the neighboring buildings. His heart was pounding. If they came, they came. Just give up. There was nothing else to do.

The sounds grew louder and louder. Then they were right there on top of him. He expected to hear the screech of brakes, the instant cutting of sirens, the slam of doors as armed police jumped from the cars. Instead he caught the briefest glimpse of flashing lights. And then, like that, they passed, taking their noise with them.

For a long moment he just stood there in the darkness listening to the pounding of his heart and the sound of his own breath. Suddenly he wondered about his emotional state, if things were beginning to get to him that shouldn’t, or at least that he should have control over. Thinking, too, that this was no time or place for such fragility. It was far too dangerous.

“You need to sleep.” Anne’s voice floated out of the darkness nearby. He started and looked up.

He saw her in the light-spill from the streetlights, standing in the doorway watching him. Her dark hair tucked behind her ears, she was barefoot and still wearing nothing but the T-shirt and panties.

“You’re overtired,” she said quietly.

“I know.” His voice was barely a murmur.

“Come to bed.”

Marten stared at her.

“Please.”

“Alright,” he said finally, then left the window and followed her down the narrow hallway into the bedroom.

1:48 A.M.