The Hadrian Memorandum

83

17 RUA DO ALMADA. SAME TIME.

Who Raisa Amaro really was or worked for was impossible to know, at least in the first few minutes-and, Marten guessed, probably not even in a lifetime. What she did do was play the part of the discreet hostess exceedingly well. Which was how she had met them at the door. Elegantly dressed in a tailored navy suit under a shock of coiffed red hair, she’d introduced herself, inquired about their trip, then immediately taken them up in a small elevator to the sensual luxury of a top-floor apartment, acting all the while as if the sole purpose of their visit were an illicit affair.

French born and sixty-something, she was barely five feet tall; her livelihood seemed to revolve around the careful managing of this single piece of real estate that was little more than a very private stage designed for sexual intimacy. She expounded on the richness of her service by explaining that should a third-party plaything be required-male or female-she would be happy to provide one at short notice. In essence, Raisa Amaro was a handsomely paid madam of the first order who guarded the apartment as well as the front door to the building herself. A building, she explained, that she owned outright. If the edifice’s other tenants knew about her top-floor arrangement, they said nothing, knowing full well that as the proprietor Raisa-as she asked to be called-could and would evict them at any moment and for any reason at all, no matter what local ordinances there were against such things.

“Everything you will need for your stay is here. A day, a week, or longer, whatever is your pleasure,” she’d explained in French-accented English as she’d gracefully shown them around the expansive one-bedroom facility. “Marble bathroom with Jacuzzi tub, bidet, dual-head shower, imported soaps, perfumes, extra-thick towels with more in the linen closet, terry robes more luxurious than in any hotel in Europe. The bed is king-sized, the sheets silk, the pillows and comforter goose down. A wide selection of condoms is in the cabinet next to it.”

At that Marten and Anne had exchanged glances as the term “safe house” suddenly took on an entirely new meaning.

“There is a small hotel-type safe in the clothes closet; instructions on the door will tell you how to use it. The television in the front room receives one hundred and twenty channels in any number of languages. Breakfast is when you ask for it. If you want something you don’t see, pick up the phone and dial one-one. It is a direct line to my apartment on the ground floor.” At that point she’d led them into the kitchen.

“In the refrigerator you will find paté, cold cuts, a selection of cheeses, milk, champagne, and mineral water. Fresh fruit and desserts are on the side table. The coffee is automatic, ready to brew at the touch of a button. The telephone is there next to the refrigerator. There is another in the bedroom. The number is unlisted and is changed regularly. Use it to make and receive private calls. The line is patched through a commercial laundry that I own and where I do the books, so there is no record of any calls coming or leaving here.”

“I’m expecting a friend to be in touch. I wonder if he might have called before we arrived?” Marten asked carefully and with a glance at Anne, hoping her fears about Raisa had been calmed. From her return look it seemed that for now, at least, they had been. Still, he wasn’t quite sure about the situation. Neither Raisa nor the apartment was anything like he had expected, especially after the president had told him-“It’s not fancy, but it’ll do until Ryder arrives.”

“There.” Raisa pointed toward a small boxlike piece of equipment next to the kitchen phone. “An old-style answering machine. It lights up with a number when a call has come in.” She walked over and looked at it. “Right now it reads zero. So, no, there have been no messages.”

“What about a door key?” Marten asked.

“On the table in the entryway. It opens both the door to the apartment and the front door downstairs. Make sure both are locked behind you when you come or go. There are two”-she smiled-“in the event one of you needs some air. Quarrels and misunderstandings do come up, even at the most unlikely time.”

“Thank you,” Marten said, and they walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door.

“One other thing,” Anne said, as if it were an afterthought. “A computer or laptop with an Internet connection. At some point I will need to do a little work.”

“This is an old building, and the Internet we do not yet have. Soon, we hope.” She glanced at Marten, sizing him up, then looked back to Anne. “If I were you I would have left my work at home.”

With that she’d bid them good night and left, closing the door behind her.

Anne looked around at the sensual opulence. “I’d like to meet this old girlfriend. The string-puller who set all this up. She must be something.”

Marten grinned. “She is.”

“I bet.” She crossed to look into the bedroom, then turned back to Marten. “I’m tired and hungry. I could use some champagne and something to eat and a shower. In what order I don’t know. And then, if you don’t mind, I want to get some sleep. Alone.”

“You don’t think I planned this?” Marten raised an eyebrow. “There are far less dangerous ways to get a woman into bed.”

“Let me tell you something, darling. If a woman wants to have sex with you, she’ll let you know.” She fixed him with a deliberate stare. “Now be a good boy and turn on the television like you did in Berlin. Out of a hundred and twenty channels you ought to be able to find one that will give us some clue as to what’s going on in the world. Say, with Equatorial Guinea, or Joe Ryder’s trip to Lisbon, or maybe even what happened to Hauptkommissar Franck.”

With that she walked off and into the kitchen. A moment later Marten heard the refrigerator door open. Seconds after that there was the distinct pop of a champagne cork. Then there was silence. Two full minutes anyway.

“What are you doing?” he called finally.

“Drinking,” her voice came back.

“You do that alone, too?”

“Right now, yes.”

“I’d be careful if I were you. It could lead to a whole series of bad habits.”

Anne didn’t reply, and Marten didn’t carry it further. Finally he picked up the TV’s remote control and sat down on an overstuffed chair.

Click. He turned on the television.

Forty-seven channels later he found a Portuguese news station. A man and woman shared an anchor desk. Almost immediately the station went to a commercial. A half-dozen commercials later the picture came back to the male anchor and then quickly morphed into a photograph of Hauptkommissar Emil Franck. Next were live photos of a burned-out car near an apparently desolate beach with police and emergency vehicles everywhere. A female correspondent in a Windbreaker was doing a stand-up. The whole thing was chillingly reminiscent of the television news coverage and video of the burned-out limousine in Spain that had led to the discovery of the bodies of Marita and her students.

“Anne,” he said quickly over his shoulder.

“I know. The Hauptkommissar.” Her reply was sharp and close by.

Marten turned to see her standing near the door, her purse over one shoulder, one of the room keys in her hand. He stood up in surprise and alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I took down the phone number here. I’ll call you later.” Immediately she twisted the lock, pulled open the door, and was gone.

“Jesus Christ!” Marten blurted and went after her.