The Hadrian Memorandum

37

2:57 A.M.

In two of the first four reports, three eyewitnesses-one at the Platz der Republik and two near the Brandenburg Gate-had made mention of a young, curly-haired man in a black sweater running through the crowd as if he were being chased. That was all, just that. Nothing about what he looked like, his size, or what he was wearing other than the sweater. It all three cases it was just a throwaway observation. Certainly nothing that would tie him in with Marten, Anne Tidrow, or the Haas murder. Nonetheless Franck made a note about it and reached for the fifth report. As he did his phone rang. He glanced at the clock on his desk and then picked up.

“Yes.”

“Hauptkommissar.” It was Gertrude Prosser.

“You should be home sleeping. A few hours at least.”

“You are working.”

“Yes, but I’m foolish. Go home, Gertrude. You can’t work if you don’t rest.”

“Hauptkommissar.” Her voice became urgent. “I just received answers on two pieces of information you requested a short while ago. I think they should be regarded as confidential.”

“Go on.”

“You wanted to know where Nicholas Marten and Anne Tidrow had been before Paris. Answer, they had both come in on the same Air France flight from Malabo, on the island of Bioko, Equatorial Guinea.”

“Equatorial Guinea?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The second piece?”

“Striker Oil has oil field service and exploration contracts around the world. Lately they have expanded exploration activities on the island of Bioko and have hired a British private military contractor called SimCo to provide protective services there. And then I discovered something else.” She paused, and he could feel the excitement in her.

“Go on.”

“A catholic priest, a Father Willy Dorhn, was killed in southern Bioko by members of the national army a day before Marten and Ms. Tidrow left there.”

“So?”

“Father Dorhn was the brother of Theo Haas.”

“What?”

“That’s all I have so far. There is a major civil war building in Equatorial Guinea. Maybe they are all connected.”

“Yes, maybe. Good work, and thank you, Kommissar Prosser. Go home and get some sleep.”

Emil Franck hung up. This was a turn he would never have expected. Was it possible Marten and Anne Tidrow, and maybe her oil company, were somehow involved in the civil war in Equatorial Guinea? And had some part of it spilled over into Berlin via Theo Haas and his brother? If so, why? The questions puzzled and troubled him at the same time, and he suddenly wondered if this was something that should be handled by either the BND, the Federal Intelligence Service, or the BKA, the Federal Criminal Police, rather than his office.

But bringing in either agency would change everything. Their presence would be too unwieldy and have too much media coverage. As a result he might lose Marten and Anne Tidrow altogether. No, can’t do it, he thought. For now, at least, he would do as Gertrude Prosser had advised and keep the information confidential.

Again he glanced at the clock on his desk.

3:09 A.M.

Time to lie down on the worn leather couch across from him and get some sleep himself. He closed the reports he’d been studying and was reaching to turn off his desk lamp when his personal cell phone sounded, announcing an incoming call with a musical ringtone a technical assistant had programmed, which he detested.

Who was it? His wife would have long been asleep. His children were out of the country, his twenty-year-old daughter spending a college year in China, his nineteen-year-old son backpacking in New Zealand. Very few others had the number.

The phone went silent, then rang again. He picked up and clicked on.

“Yes.”

“I thought I’d find you working,” a throaty female voice came back.

Franck paused, trying to place the voice. Then he did. “It’s been a long time.”

“We need to talk.”

“When?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Same place?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Franck said, then slowly clicked off. He was right, it had been a long time. But putting things together, he knew he should have expected to hear from her.

3:12 A.M.