The Hadrian Memorandum

41

He remembered seeing her close the door and lock it, then turn toward him. She had her purse and a garment bag over one arm and was pulling a cheap plastic rain cover from her hair. The rest he had little recollection of. All he knew now was that she was sitting in a chair by the television staring at him, her hair disheveled, the garment bag and her purse on the floor. And that he was leaning against the wall breathing deeply, his arms across his chest, trying not to look at her.

“Tell me what happened,” she said quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I-”

“Tell me.”

Slowly his eyes went to hers. “I grabbed you by the throat and shoved you against the wall. Hard. And held you there.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t say. I asked.”

“Asked what?”

“Why them?”

“And what did I say?”

“Who are you talking about?” Marten could feel his jaw tighten in anger. “You knew exactly who I was talking about.”

“No. I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tell me.”

“You want me to spell it out?”

“Yes.”

“The Spanish doctor and her medical students. I’ll name them for you. Marita, Ernesto, Rosa, Luis, Gilberto. Marita wasn’t even thirty. None of the students were more than twenty-three. They’re all dead! Murdered! Somewhere outside Madrid. God only knows what happened before they were killed.”

“Nicholas, I didn’t know. Believe me. How could I?”

“I said-fuck you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Jesus God.” Marten walked over to the window and stood beside it staring out. He felt like putting his foot through it and yelling at the people below that there was a real live murderer in here and they should call the police.

“You might have killed me,” she said.

Marten’s head came around like a bullet, his eyes filled with hatred. “I should have killed you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I should have.”

“What did you do?”

“I took my hands away and let you go.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No.”

“You cried.”

For a long moment Marten said nothing, just glared at her. “Yeah, well, fuck it,” he said finally. “One way or another Conor White and your damned AG Striker Company killed them. Whether you helped him plan what to do and how to do it, I don’t know. You do, but I don’t.”

“Nicholas,” she said quietly, “I’m terribly sorry about your friends, I really am, but I don’t know why you would think that I or Striker or Conor White had anything to do with it.”

“Why? I’ll tell you why. You thought I told them where the photographs were. You came after me, White went after them.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“As far as I know, still in Malabo.”

“You have his cell number?”

Anne nodded.

Deliberately Marten walked over and picked up her purse, then fished out her BlackBerry and dropped it in her lap. “Call him. Ask him where he is.”

“Alright.” Anne picked up the BlackBerry and punched in a number. She waited a few seconds; then they both heard a male voice on the other end. It was sharp and curt, the British accent unmistakable.

“Yes.”

“It’s Anne. Where are you?” She paused as he said something, then, “I just wanted to know where you were if I needed you.” Another pause, then, “I’m still in Berlin. But don’t come here. I’m alright. Never mind what you see in the media.” There was a long pause as White said something more, then, “Yes, I think so. What?” Another pause, then, “No, I don’t think, Conor, I know,” she said testily, then finished. “I’ll be in touch.”

Marten watched her click off, then get up and put the Black-Berry away. “Where is he?” he said.

Anne hesitated.

“Where?”

“Madrid, Barajas Airport.”

“Madrid?”

“Yes.”

Marten leaned in so that his face was inches from hers. “The next time you talk to him, tell him from me that it was all for nothing. The people he killed didn’t know a damn thing about the photographs. I never said a word.”

Anne looked at him genuinely, even vulnerably. “Think whatever you want. But I didn’t know. Whatever Conor White did, he did on his own, or maybe, as I said before, at the urging of Sy Wirth or the people at Hadrian.”

Marten glared at her hatefully, then took a breath and crossed the room to again stare out the window. “When the hell are we getting out of here?”

“A van is picking us up”-she looked at her watch-“in five minutes.”

“Where?”

“Outside, on Ziegelstrasse.”

“A van is coming here?”

“Yes.”

“To do what, run us right past the noses of the five thousand cops looking for us?”

“Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?”

“The Hauptkommissar is getting closer. He must have interviewed people on the tour boat. Police are starting to put up roadblocks near the dock where we got off. If what I’ve put together doesn’t work, we can both look forward to spending the next thirty years in a German prison.”

Marten’s eyes fixed on hers. “God damn you. Your company. Hadrian. Conor White. All of you.”

“I’m sorry.”

8:50 A.M.