The Hadrian Memorandum

56

LEARJET 55, IN A HOLDING PATTERN OVER THE BAY OF

BISCAY JUST OFF BILBAO, SPAIN. AIRSPEED 310 MPH.

ALTITUDE 27,200 FEET. 2:52 A.M.

Emil Franck was slouched in his seat, half dozing, thinking of his children on their own, continents away, and at the same time watching the green dot showing the Cessna’s progress on the laptop in front of him. From somewhere in the dimness of the cabin behind him he heard Kovalenko talking in Russian, presumably on his cell phone. The conversation was brief. He heard him sign off and in a moment came forward and sat down across from him.

“Moscow has just informed me that two other jet aircraft are tailing the Cessna,” he said.

“What?” Franck sat up quickly. “What aircraft? Who are the people involved?”

“One is the chairman of the Striker Oil and Energy Company. The other plane has been chartered by the head of the private security firm hired to protect Striker’s interests in Equatorial Guinea. His name is Conor White. He’s a Brit, a former col o nel in the SAS.”

“Striker is after the photographs, too.”

“So it seems.”

“If mercenaries are involved it means weapons.”

“Probably.”

“Why two planes? Why aren’t they traveling together?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is the origin of the information? How did Moscow get it?”

“I wasn’t told.”

Franck stared at him. It had been a long time since he’d had Moscow thrust into his life. He didn’t like it.

“What were you told?”

“To keep them informed of Marten’s position.”

“Which they, in turn, will pass on to some nameless entity who then forwards it to Striker and White.”

Kovalenko nodded.

Franck glanced at the slowly moving green dot that was the Cessna on his laptop, then stood and walked partway down the aisle between the seats. He stopped and turned back. “Moscow is trying to serve its own interests without ruffling someone’s feathers. So they give you this information as a way of telling us to make sure these dual problematicals don’t get the pictures before we do.”

“Yes.”

“Just how are we to accomplish that?”

“Moscow has left it to us. And I leave it to you. You are famous for your ‘creative thinking,’ Hauptkommissar. Besides, we are in Europe, not Rus sia. Things are different here.”

Franck stared at him. He hated these Moscow people.

“Well?” Kovalenko pushed him.

“We let them follow the Cessna to Málaga and see what Marten does. I guarantee you it’s not his final stop. But then you know him better than I do. What is he thinking?”

“By now it’s reasonable to assume he knows, or at least thinks, he’s being followed. That means he will find some way to get where he’s going despite that handicap. He has a rather determined personality and is quite clever at using it.”

“So?”

“I seriously doubt he would set down in Málaga. He doesn’t file a flight plan for all to see and then follow it to the letter. Unless he’s going to some place around the corner, which I also doubt, it would be too obvious. On the other hand, if he did land and was still some distance from his target-even if he had arranged for a car-ground travel would be undependable and he would be easy to follow.”

“You think he’ll stay in the air until he’s close enough to where he’s going to make ground travel expedient. A reasonably short distance. An hour’s drive or less, either as you say, in an arranged car, or in a rental.”

“Yes,” Kovalenko nodded.

“Then we assume he will divert somewhere along the way. Since these other two aircraft are relying on us for his position, it’s very unlikely they will have him in line of sight. When he changes course we only need provide them with what information we think appropriate.”

Kovalenko smiled thinly. “Give them a little but not too much. A balancing act, Hauptkommissar. For Moscow’s sake.”

“And ours.”

3:07 A.M.