The Hadrian Memorandum

60

CESSNA, D-VKRD. AIRSPEED 190 MILES PER HOUR.

ALTITUDE JUST OVER 11,200 FEET. 5:57 A.M.

“Where are we?” Marten was talking to Brigitte without looking at her, his eyes on the sparkling lights of a city below.

“Passing over Gibraltar. Following the coastline west, as you asked.”

“Good.”

“It would be helpful if you told me where you want to land.”

“I’ll tell you when we get there. The same as I’ve I said all along.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was still nearly an hour to sunrise. Faro, Marten had to remember, was in Portugal, not Spain, and the time zone there was an hour earlier, meaning it was now approaching five in the morning Portuguese time. From what he remembered of the Google map he’d studied earlier, Gibraltar was probably a hundred and fifty miles from Faro in a direct line. By following the coast they could easily add another forty or fifty miles to the trip. Meaning it would be sometime after six when they reached Faro, and that was important. If they arrived too early, the airport terminal would be relatively quiet, making it difficult for two people arriving by private plane to walk in off the tarmac unnoticed. Faro was the hub airport for the popular Algarve region of southern Portugal, and the later they got there, the better the opportunity they would have to mix in with the tourists and business people arriving or departing on early-morning flights. The trouble was, by taking a longer route, fuel became a problem, and they were low on it as it was.

Marten glanced at the gauge on the instrument panel. It read close to empty.

The last thing he wanted was to put down somewhere between where they were and Faro, because the minute he gave the order to land, Brigitte would have to contact the tower, and once they were down they would be vulnerable. Never mind that the people in two planes he suspected had followed them to Málaga might still be on their tail; if Brigitte was a CIA plant arranged through Erlanger in Berlin, she might well silently alert someone on the ground and an operation to tail them would be in force when they arrived. That kind of chance he was prepared to take in Faro because he knew exactly where they were going afterward; he’d just have to hope they could find a way to leave the airport quickly and unnoticed. But landing at an unknown airport along the way was no good. He looked to Brigitte.

“How soon before we need fuel?”

“An hour. A little more if we throttle back and slow down.”

“Then slow us down,” he said without hesitation. If they made it to Faro they would be landing on fumes, but it was a chance he was willing to take.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Anne’s voice rang out from behind him.

He turned to look at her. She was sitting back, her arms folded over her chest. “I’m not exactly in the mood to end up in the Atlantic.” She smiled demurely.

“If it makes you feel any better, neither am I.”

“How comforting.” She smiled again.

“Isn’t it?”

6:00 A.M.