The Hadrian Memorandum

63

STRIKER OIL GULFSTREAM G550. NEARING MÁLAGA.

AIRSPEED 470 MPH. ALTITUDE 28,300 FEET.

7:35 A.M. SPANISH TIME.

Sy Wirth had slept soundly for an hour, then suddenly woke with a start and immediately picked up his BlackBerry, trying to reach Korostin. He got only the Russian’s voice mail. Angry, he started to call Conor White, then decided against it. There was no reason. If Korostin knew where the Cessna was, he would have alerted him. If he didn’t know, there was little chance White would either. If he did, he would have already been in touch. So there was nothing to do but wait; one of the things he hated most.

Finally he got up and went to the lavatory. Afterward, he came back and sat down, then abruptly took a yellow legal pad from his briefcase, picked up a freshly sharpened number 2 Ticonderoga 1388 pencil, and scrawled a brief memo to himself for a dialogue later in the day with Striker’s chief counsel, Arnold Moss.

1: Prepare to quickly and publicly disavow any connection to Conor White, Marten, and Anne once the photos are recovered. Whatever happens, White acted wholly on his own, or-(check with Arnie) as previously discussed re: separate clandestine Hadrian/SimCo relationship-with no involvement by Striker whatsoever. White should immediately and very publicly be terminated (he will go to jail anyway) and SimCo reorganized for continued operation in E.G. (Side note: SimCo’s a good operation with personnel already in place in E.G. No need to completely dismantle it.)

2: As above, prepare quick, smart, well-placed public relations spin, esp. in D.C., to make Striker look like the victim in the White/Hadrian debacle.

3: Prepare to dissolve all business in Iraq. Or ga nize legal defense team against any and all ensuing actions by White, Loyal Truex/Hadrian, and the Ryder Commission.

4: Analyze Striker worldwide operations, prepare to reconfigure to make E.G. and the Bioko field the centerpiece within 6-12 months.

5: Prepare-

Suddenly his everyday BlackBerry chimed. Immediately he picked up.

“Faro, Portugal,” Dimitri Korostin’s voice spat at him. “They landed about five minutes ago.”

“Your people are there?”

“We have an agreement, Josiah. I deliver as promised, no matter what you may think.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Fuck you, too!”

Dimitri clicked off; so did Wirth. A moment later he picked up the blue-tape BlackBerry and speed-dialed Conor White’s number.

“Yes, sir.” White’s voice came back. “I’m still on the ground in Málaga. No update on Marten as yet.”

“Call me back. The connection’s breaking up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eight seconds later Sy Wirth’s everyday BlackBerry chimed and he picked up, the one with blue tape silent at his elbow.

“Conor, they’ve landed in Faro, Portugal,” he snapped quickly and with urgency. “You get off the ground now, you can be there in less than an hour. Call me when you touch down. I should have more for you by then.”

“Faro. Yes, sir.”

Wirth clicked off, and a smile crept over his face. At long last the game was coming to an end.

7:47 A.M.

SIMCO FALCON, MÁLAGA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

SAME TIME.

“Faro.” White stood in the cockpit doorway, the BlackBerry still in his hand. “Fast as this thing will go. Give me a wheels-down ETA as soon as you have it.”

Abruptly he turned and went back into the cabin. Patrice and Irish Jack were waiting for him.

“Faro,” he said again, then slid past them and into his seat and buckled in. Seconds later the first, then the second and then the third of the Falcon’s turbofan jet engines came to life. Almost immediately the plane started to move.

White clipped on his headset, listening to the conversation between his pilot and the tower; then he looked to Patrice. “Get in touch with Spitfire/Madrid. Tell them we want an SUV waiting on the Faro tarmac when we get there.”

“Yes, sir.” Patrice nodded and slid a cell phone from his pocket.

“Where’d you get the info, Col o nel?” Irish Jack grinned with the kind of enthusiasm he always had when he knew action was near. “Same little bird that’s been feeding us all along?”

“Same little bird, Jack. Same little bird.” White sat back as the Falcon banged over the tarmac toward the runway. Irish Jack liked to use playful, almost childlike descriptions of people or things. Where that came from he didn’t know, probably his youth. That aside, White was well aware that both Irish Jack and Patrice knew it was Sy Wirth who had been communicating with him all along.

That was alright for them, but for White the bigger question was, where was Wirth getting his information? Just who was this third party he’d brought into the picture, and how was he keeping tabs on Marten and Anne with such speed and accuracy? Whoever it was was either extremely sophisticated or highly connected, or both. He didn’t like it, and it made him think once again that Wirth, with his blind, self-confident arrogance, had blundered into something far over his head. If so, he was being dragged face-first into it as well. But at this point there was nothing he could do about it because whoever it was held all the cards. Right now he was the tail on the dog.

7:53 A.M. SPANISH TIME