The Hadrian Memorandum

72

Ninety seconds later they were inside the house, the front door closed, standing in the hallway. Franck’s submachine gun was slung over Kovalenko’s shoulder, the Glock still in his hand. Anne and Marten stood in front of him, the envelope open, the photos spread out on the wooden table. Marten turned them over one by one.

“Him,” Kovalenko said suddenly and pointed a finger at a photo of Conor White. “This man is Conor White.”

“I know,” Marten said.

“He’s one of those following you.”

“As I suspected.”

“You know him, then?”

“I met him in passing.” Marten glanced at Anne.

“Be very careful, tovarich. He is a highly decorated former British combat officer with a great deal to lose personally if these”-he touched the stack of photos-“are made public.”

“I know that, too.”

Anne was staring at Kovalenko. “Who else is following us?”

“Two of his fighters.” Kovalenko reached out a finger and pushed aside the photos until he found the one he wanted, the one showing Patrice and Irish Jack in a helicopter doorway. “These.”

Anne exchanged glances with Marten, then looked back to Kovalenko. He wasn’t telling her everything. “You said ‘others.’ Who are they? Your people? Who and how many?”

“As far as I know, only one, Ms. Tidrow. The head of your own company.”

“Sy Wirth?”

Kovalenko nodded. “He is, or at least was, traveling separately and feeding information about your position to White and his men. Where any of them are now I don’t know.”

“Where did Wirth get this timely information he was passing on?” Marten said, then deliberately looked at Anne.

“Don’t even think it,” she snapped. “I haven’t talked to him since we were in Malabo.” She nodded at Kovalenko. “Why don’t you ask him how he knows all this.”

Kovalenko smiled easily. “Moscow.”

There was no smile from Marten. “I should be surprised, but I’m not. I suppose Moscow knew about Jacob Cádiz, too.”

“It took a little time, but yes.”

“Why would Father Willy send the photographs to him and not his brother? Was he that close a friend?”

Kovalenko cocked his head and grinned. “You honestly don’t know.”

“Know what?”

Kovalenko’s free hand swept around, indicating the house. “This is the place Theo Haas came to work and get out of the Berlin cold and the public spotlight of a Nobel laureate. He didn’t want people coming around bothering him, so he used the name Jacob Cádiz. He spoke Portuguese well; few people knew.” Abruptly his expression changed. He put the photos aside and picked up the folded white envelope with the camera’s digital memory card inside. “What is this?”

Marten didn’t answer.

Kovalenko unfolded it and slid out the card. “Ah,” he said, smiling, “the cake’s frosting.” Suddenly his eyes found Marten’s. “You’ve looked at its contents.”

“Some, not all.”

“Where is the computer you were using to view it?”

“In the other room,” Marten said quietly, still trying to understand what Kovalenko was doing here and why Moscow was involved.

“I was assigned before I knew you were in the middle of it,” Kovalenko said as if he had read Marten’s thoughts. “Moscow has been watching the developments in Equatorial Guinea closely. She is always intrigued when a Western oil company shows undue interest in an area and begins building up its operation there, especially in West Africa, where there are potentially large untapped reserves. If something should prove of value it would be strategically unfortunate if other countries, especially the Chinese, got to bid on it first. I’m sure you can appreciate that kind of thinking. It’s merely good business.”

“So one would think.”