The Hadrian Memorandum

66

“I trust you got a car.” Marten took the initiative the moment he reached her. If she’d seen him talking on the phone or even sliding it into his jacket he didn’t want her asking who he was talking to and why. Better to keep the conversation on her and what was going on and hope she wouldn’t bring it up.

She nodded toward the rental agency. “It’s parked in front.”

“No questions about you? Who you were? How long you wanted the car? Where you planned to go?” He started them down the path and toward the street where the rental was.

“I said I was a tourist. I wanted it for a day or two, maybe more. That was it.” Suddenly her eyes flashed and she pressed him. Hotly. “Where the hell were you? I was looking all over. You were in this rush to get out of Faro, then you disappear into the woods. What were you doing, climbing trees?”

“I was looking for something.” Marten glanced around. The old men were still playing chess. Farther down a pair of young lovers lay in the grass, seemingly with no care in the world but themselves. A man of forty or so in jeans and a light sweater played with a small leashed monkey near the park’s entrance. For now, that was all.

“Looking for what?”

“Huh?” he brought his attention back to her.

“You said you were looking for something. What was it?”

“Garlic.”

“Garlic?”

“Ornamental garlic plants, Tulbaghia violacea. They’re growing here somewhere. I smelled them, I just couldn’t find them.”

Anne was incredulous. “We’re trying to get out of here and you’re looking for plants?”

“You may remember that flora interests me a great deal. It’s my profession. The reason I was in Bioko. It’s also a world I’d be very happy to get back to, and the sooner the better. So yes, garlic. You don’t believe me, take a deep breath, tell me what you smell.”

“You’re serious.”

“You act as if I’m making it up. Go ahead, sniff.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Sniff.”

“Fuck,” she said and then inhaled.

“What do you smell?”

“Garlic.”

Marten grinned. “Thank you.”

9:30 A.M.

The car was a silver Opel Astra with an automatic transmission. Marten took the N125 highway toward Portimão, some forty miles west. If Hauptkommissar Franck had put out an EU all points bulletin to apprehend Anne, or if her bank accounts were being electronically monitored, so far nothing had happened in the short time since she’d used a credit card at the car rental agency. And if whoever was following-CIA operatives or Conor White and maybe this Patrice-they hadn’t made themselves known either, at least that he was aware of. Still, he kept close watch on the rearview mirror.

“Okay. There’s just the two of us, we have a car, and we’re on our way,” Anne said abruptly, the light banter of before gone. “Where the hell are we going?”

Marten knew he had stalled as long as he could. “Rental agent give you a map?”

“Yes.”

“Open it and look for Praia da Rocha. It’s a beach town near Portimão.”

“Praia da Rocha.”

“You know it?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

9:35 A.M.