The Hadrian Memorandum

62

CESSNA, D-VKRD. AIRSPEED 130 MILES PER HOUR.

ALTITUDE 4,500 FEET. 6:15 A.M. PORTUGUESE TIME.

Marten glanced at Brigitte and then looked back at Anne. She was watching him without expression, as if she were fed up with his maneuverings and seriously wondering if he really did know what the hell he was doing. He turned back, saying nothing. This was no time to get into it again. Not when they had come this far and were so close to their objective. Or at least what he hoped what their objective would be.

A short while earlier they had passed into Portuguese airspace and were hugging the coastline, where the sunrise was providing a stunning view of the numerous beach communities dotting the Algarve region. Faro would be one of them. By his calculation, ten to fifteen minutes ahead at most.

“Mr. Marten-” Brigitte said over the drone of the engines.

“Fuel, I know.”

“We have to put down, and soon.”

“I understand,” he said, knowing they were lucky to have come as far as they had. He was still concerned about giving Brigitte their destination too soon for fear she would somehow signal ahead and operatives would be waiting for them when they arrived, but unless he wanted to land on one of the beaches along the way, he had no choice but to tell her now. “Can we make it to Faro?”

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

“Then do it.”

“Faro?” Anne said behind him.

He turned to look at her. “Yes, darling, Faro,” he said, smiling warmly. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good.”

There was a roar of engines as Brigitte swung the Cessna out over the sea, radioing the Faro tower with a request to land. Seconds later she looked to Marten. “Portugal has no passport control for flights originating inside Europe.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Once we reach the terminal you’ll go directly inside, pass through the Nothing to Declare door, and walk into the arrivals hall. Then you’re out and gone, and I refuel and fly back to Germany. It’s as simple as that.”

So Brigitte did know something of their situation. At least enough to know Marten might be concerned about having to show identification when they landed and be thinking what to do about it when they did. The question was, was she being helpful? Or purposely trying to lull him into a sense that he had nothing to worry about after they’d landed, and in doing so throw him off guard for whoever might be waiting to follow them?

“I hope it’s as simple as that,” Anne said.

Marten looked over his shoulder. “So do I.”

6:22 A.M. PORTUGUESE TIME