The Hadrian Memorandum

47

POTSDAM, 1:10 P.M.

Hartmann Erlanger opened a cabinet near the window in his study, pulled a laptop from it, then set it down on his desk. He glanced at Anne and Marten sitting in chairs across from him, then opened it, touched the POWER button, and waited for the screen to come up. When it did he punched in several codes, then twisted it around so that it faced them and looked at Anne.

“This is what I downloaded yesterday after your call. It’s two days old, so I don’t know how much help it will be, but it’s something. I’ll leave it to you and Mr. Marten to decide the importance of it. I’m going out to try to resolve your situation. Arranging for a specific type of aircraft and someone to pilot it is difficult at best. More so under the circumstances and that the request was made at the last minute.”

“Unfortunately, Hartmann, I didn’t have the information until the last minute.” Anne didn’t need to glance at Marten; the barb was clear enough. “You know how appreciative I am for everything you’ve done and are doing. And the chances you’ve been taking all along.”

Erlanger looked at her in a way that was very personal. “That’s what friends and colleagues are for. I’ll be back when I have more information. My wife is upstairs if you need anything.” He held her eyes a moment longer and then left, closing the door behind him.

For a moment Anne sat there motionless, fully aware that Marten had seen the exchange between them. Then, without a word, she leaned forward and pressed a key on the laptop. In the next instant the screen came to life. They saw a graphic of the world globe, then a slow zoom in on West Africa.

“This is a classified CIA regional video briefing,” she said. “Sometimes they come out daily. Other times less often, depending on urgency or need-to-know for handlers or assets in the field. Be warned, this stuff you won’t see on television.”

The video cut to a satellite view of Equatorial Guinea, taking in both the mainland and the island of Bioko. A narrator’s voice was heard.

“The situation in Rio Muni, the nation’s continental mainland, and on the island of Bioko, where the capital city of Malabo lies, is in increasing turmoil. Rebel forces are led by Alfonso Bitui Ada. Popularly known as Abba, he is a schoolteacher and member of the Liberal Party, the PL. Fifteen months ago he was released after serving a ten-year prison sentence for membership in the banned Popular People’s Party. Since then he has worked openly to unite disparate tribes to protest against poverty, political corruption, and acts of physical violence by the administration of President Tiombe.”

Abruptly the video cut to greenish night-vision footage of a poised, handsome, middle-aged man with short graying hair, dressed in jungle fatigues and addressing twenty or more rebel soldiers in a jungle clearing.

“This is Abba, seen in clandestine footage taken three days ago in Bioko as his forces moved north toward the capital city of Malabo. What began little more than ten weeks ago as organized protests against the government in Rio Muni has become all-out armed rebellion fueled primarily by the Equatorial Guinean army’s savage acts of retaliation against the demonstrators. The major tribes, including the Fang, Bubi, and Fernandinos, have united behind Abba. His strength is growing hourly. So, too, are the causalities as Tiombe’s military steps up its activity, engaging in increasingly brutal acts of reprisal against both rebels and civilians. To date estimates of the dead range above four thousand.”

Now the video cut to a gruesome daylight montage of burned-out villages and hundreds of dead citizens. Many had been beheaded or horribly mutilated. Men, women, children, the elderly. Even animals. Dogs, goats, cows; a horse, still saddled, slaughtered and left on the roadway.

“Jesus God,” Marten murmured.

Immediately the images reverted to more clandestine night-vision footage, this time capturing army troops on a rampage through a village. Raw and terrible footage of soldiers executing civilians with machetes, pistols, rifles, and machine guns. There was a horrifying scene of a screaming woman being raped by five soldiers, one after another. A small boy ran in to try to pull the soldiers off. One of the soldiers grabbed him, turned him around, and made him watch. The boy’s terrified struggle and reaction was tragic, especially when it was contrasted with the faces of rapist-soldiers who had finished with the woman and were standing back laughing. Then the night footage cut to a scene where army troops were using flamethrowers to set huts on fire. Suddenly a naked man ran from the darkness with his hands up, pleading for them to stop. The next instant a soldier turned the flamethrower on him, immolating him in a searing jet of burning gasoline.

“For God’s sake, Anne, I can’t watch any more! Turn it off!” Marten blurted and started to look away. Then- “Wait!” he all but shouted as the night-vision video cut to an older man in army fatigues standing imperially with a small group of heavily armed soldiers at the edge of the battleground watching the proceedings. He was hawk-faced and gray-haired and clearly not a black African like the rest.

“I know him!” Marten said. “He was there when they were interrogating me in Malabo. Who is-?”

In a near perfectly timed response the narrative answered Marten’s query.

“This is Mariano Vargas Fuente, the former Chilean general known as Mariano, once a high-ranking officer in the notorious former Directorate of National Intelligence during the 1973 to 1990 dictatorship of the late General Augusto Pinochet. He is one of the world’s best-known human rights abusers, convicted in absentia of torture and mass murder. Fled war-crimes prosecution and vanished into the jungles of Central America. Is thought to have been recruited by President Tiombe to personally supervise his counterinsurgency program in Rio Muni and Bioko. This is the first known confirmation that he is in Equatorial Guinea.”

Immediately the video cut to a map of Bioko and showed the position of Abba’s forces as they moved north, closing in on Malabo.

“Indicators suggest Tiombe is preparing to flee the country if Abba’s forces continue to gain further ground. Analysts believe that Abba will take control of the government within ten to fourteen days. As of noon tomorrow local time the U.S. embassy will be closed until further notice. All nonessential personnel have been ordered to evacuate. The State Department has issued a warning to all U.S. citizens to leave Equatorial Guinea immediately.”

With that the picture faded and the video ended.

Marten stared at Anne. “You wanted me to see that. Why?”

“I wanted us both to see it. So we can tell the same story to Congressman Ryder. And so that you will trust me the rest of the way. Trust that I want the killing stopped as much as you.”

Marten was silent for a long moment; then he let his eyes find hers. “Does the term ‘all U.S. citizens’ include Striker personnel?”

“Abba’s people are trying to get rid of Tiombe, not us. Our people have been confined to the company compound, which is heavily guarded by SimCo mercenaries. They’re safe.”

“Are they? Let me tell you something. General Mariano knows about the photographs. It’s what they were trying to get from me during the interrogation. Or maybe you knew that.”

Anne shook her head. “No.”

“Just pray to God he doesn’t order his butchers into your company compound looking for them. White’s mercenaries wouldn’t have a chance. And once they fall, God help the drillers, the tech people, the secretaries, the bookkeepers, and all the other Striker and SimCo ‘little people’ I saw in the bar at the Hotel Malabo. Especially if Tiombe’s killers come in with flamethrowers.” Marten paused, anger and outrage eating away at him. “What the hell have you people done in the name of profit?”

Anne said nothing.

“It’s alright, darling,” he said. “Don’t look for an answer. Don’t even try to make one up. Because there is none.”

1:37 P.M.