The Hadrian Memorandum

65

FARO, MONTENEGRO DISTRICT. STILL SUNDAY, JUNE 6. 8:12 A.M.

Nicholas Marten stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked across the street to a small tree-lined park and sat down on a bench. In the distance church bells tolled for Sunday Mass. Somewhere nearby was the faint odor of cultivated garlic. Marten looked around for the decorative plant, curious as to what variety it was and where it was. Farther down two elderly men played chess under a large almond tree that he estimated was at least forty years old.

For a moment he did nothing but sit there. Finally he turned and looked across the narrow street behind him to the Auto Europe rental car office where Anne was, and had been for more than ten minutes, hopefully just because that was how long it took to rent a car, not because the use of her credit card had attracted the police as she had feared. He turned back, then stood and strolled deeper into the park. He’d been casual enough for long enough. He glanced at his watch.

8:18 A.M. IN FARO.

3:18 IN THE MORNING IN WASHINGTON, D.C.

CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND. ASPEN LODGE,

THE PRESIDENTIAL CABIN. 3:20 A.M.

A musical ringtone jolted President John Henry Harris from a deep sleep. It took a moment before he realized the sound was coming from the slate gray cell phone on the table at his elbow. The phone he had long prayed would ring. He stared at it almost in disbelief, then snatched it up and clicked on.

“Nicholas!” he blurted. “Are you alright? Where are you?”

“Faro, Portugal.”

“Portugal?”

“Is it safe to talk? Are you alone?”

“Yes.” The president sat up quickly.

“I don’t have much time.”

“Go ahead.”

“You know about Theo Haas, about the Berlin police?”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t kill him. A young man did. I chased after him. He got away in a crowd. People thought I was running from the murder scene.”

“I believe you. It’s alright.”

“Just before Haas was murdered he gave me a clue as to where the photographs were or might be. A man named Jacob Cádiz, in the Portuguese beach town of Praia da Rocha. There’s a woman involved.”

“I know. Anne Tidrow. Striker Oil. Her father founded the company. For a time she was in the CIA.”

“You do your homework.”

“I try.”

FARO.

Marten turned his back as two cyclists in bright jerseys moved past him to join a group of six other riders waiting at the far end of the park.

“She’s with me now, across the street, with luck renting us a car. Next comes the crazy part. I’m not so sure she isn’t still with the Agency. Her old connections got us out of Berlin and then Germany courtesy of a former operative who arranged for a private plane. We were being tracked, and our pilot may well have tipped off whoever’s on our tail to where we landed. Meaning that at this point, I don’t know who’s who or what’s what with anyone.”

“Does Ms. Tidrow know about this Jacob Cádiz or Praia da Rocha?”

“Not yet.”

“Can you get rid of her? Go there on your own?”

“That’s part of the problem. She says she’s concerned with her father’s reputation and the reputation of the company. That she doesn’t like where its directors have taken it, especially in Iraq and with the Hadrian company. The photographs and the company’s culpability in the civil war in Equatorial Guinea pushed her over. While we were in Berlin she agreed to meet with Joe Ryder after we recover the photos and tell him what she knows about the Striker/Hadrian situation in Iraq and Equatorial Guinea. That is, if we get them, if they’re there at all. There’s another thing, too. She learned something from a former CIA operative in Germany that shook her up and that she won’t talk about. Whatever it is it may be even more valuable than the photographs. I’d like to think the Agency is very quietly trying to protect its friends at Striker and Hadrian and at the same time trying to prevent what could turn into a major international incident. But somehow I think it’s more than that, and she knows what it is. All of them are reasons why I can’t just walk away from her.

“Then there’s the flip side. It could all be a game just so I’d keep her with me. If so, and she set me up? You understand? We get the pictures, then the CIA swoops in, and she and they and the photos are gone and I’m hung out to dry for the murder of Theo Haas.”

“Nicholas, you don’t have to put yourself at risk any more than you already have. Leave her and get the pictures and get out of there.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t,” Marten said definitively, then glanced at the old men playing chess and then at the Auto Europe car rental agency across the street where Anne was.

“Does she know of my involvement in this?”

“No.”

Suddenly the door to the Auto Europe agency opened and Anne came out. She shaded her eyes from the sun and looked around, clearly wondering where he was. Marten stepped back into the shadow of a large stand of tall conifers that seemed the centerpiece of the park.

“What is it?” Harris said at his silence.

“Nothing.” Marten watched her for the briefest moment, then turned back to the phone. “Call Joe Ryder and tell him what’s going on. When I have the pictures, or don’t, I’ll let you know. In the meantime find some place where Anne and I can meet with Ryder that won’t draw attention. A good-sized city somewhere near here would be best. A place we can get lost in if someone’s following us. I know it means pulling Ryder out of Iraq, but he can travel a lot easier than we can.”

“It’s going to take a little while to put all this together. Let me call you this time. I don’t like not being able to reach you anyway. Give me your cell number.”

Anne crossed the street and was coming into the park. Marten moved farther back into the conifer grove. The last thing he needed was for her to see him on the phone and then to question him about it, wanting to know who he’d been talking to and why. Immediately he turned his attention back to the president.

“Better let me do the calling. I run into trouble, someone else gets the phone, and you call? If it’s the Agency there’s every chance they’ll trace it straight to you even if you hang up right away.”

“Give me an hour.”

Anne passed the old men playing chess and was approaching the trees where he was. She was noticeably concerned and looking around, as if she were afraid that he’d run out on her.

“One last thing.” A jagged intensity came into Marten’s voice. “Have you seen the latest regional CIA briefing video on Equatorial Guinea?”

“No.”

“Find a way to get it without the request seeming to come from you. Then watch it alone. That’ll answer why I’m doing what I am. You won’t need more.”

Anne was almost there, thirty feet away at most.

“I have to go, my friend. I’ll let you know what happens.” With that Marten clicked off and slid the phone into his jacket, then walked out from the behind the trees to meet her.

8:53 A.M