The Hadrian Memorandum

88

HOTEL LISBOA CHIADO. 10:48 P.M.

The sound of a piano greeted Marten as he entered the small foyer. It seemed to be coming from a bar partway down an elegant wood-paneled hallway that led to the main desk area in the rear. On the left and in between was an elevator. A stairwell was just past it. Not the best architectural layout for a hotel, but probably done to work within the structural confines of a building that looked to be eighty years old at least and might once have been a private residence.

Marten closed the umbrella and walked down the hallway to glance into the bar. A young black man in a white suit sat at a piano effortlessly playing a medley of show tunes for the dozen or so patrons congregated there. As in the other places he’d visited, Anne was not among them.

He turned back, looked in the direction of the main desk, and headed for it. As he did, the elevator in front of him opened and three people stepped out. Their backs to him, they walked in the same direction he was going, toward the main desk. Two were clearly hotel employees, both in dark suits, one older than the other, the concierge, maybe. The third was a slim, fortyish, dark-haired man dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.

“I understand she checked in, but where is she now?” the Hawaiian shirt asked emphatically.

“I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.” The older man was genuinely apologetic. “Maybe she went out for something she needed. She had no luggage. She said it had been lost at the airport and was to be delivered here. So far it hasn’t been.”

“But she did go to the room.”

“Yes, sir. The night clerk showed her to it. You saw that for yourself.”

“All I saw was that someone had used a hand towel in the bathroom. It could have been anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tidrow. It’s all I can tell you.”

“She’s my sister, you know. She’s not well. She was supposed to call the moment she checked in.”

“I appreciate the situation, sir. We will alert you the moment she returns.”

At the word “Tidrow” Marten stopped where he was. They were already here, looking for her. How could they have known? Unless she’d been foolish enough to use a credit card and her accounts were being electronically monitored. But then credit cards, plus a little cash-certainly not enough for a room in a hotel like this, four hundred euros a night at least, probably more-would have been all she had. Moreover, she would have known that there was every chance her accounts were being watched and that if she used any of her cards they would know where they had been used and when, almost instantly. It meant she’d come there, done whatever she’d had to do, and then left before they could get there. But why? What was it that was worth the risk of exposing herself like this?

Use of the Internet?

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she’d come there for some other reason entirely. He looked around. On a side table near the bar entrance was an arrangement of hotel brochures. Quickly he crossed to it, picked one up, and opened it. In the list of hotel amenities were the words High Speed Internet Access in All Rooms.

Again he saw the fire and fear and uncertainty in her eyes just before she’d left Raisa’s apartment building and disappeared into the night. Alright, maybe the Internet was what she’d been after. But what information had she hoped to get that wasn’t already available to her via her own BlackBerry?

He slipped the brochure back in its cradle and looked down the hallway. The man in the Hawaiian shirt had stepped away from the others and was on a cell phone.

Get out of here, now! Marten thought.

Head down, he started for the front door. As he did, it opened and two men in suit coats came in. One was strongly built and well over six feet; the other, tall and very slim. Marten barely glanced at them as he passed, but in that instant the breath went out of him. The big man was Conor White. The other was the French-Canadian jungle fighter, Patrice Sennac.

Breathless, umbrella in hand, Marten pushed through the door and out into the rain. A metallic gray BMW was parked directly in front of the hotel; a lone man sat at the wheel. Double-parked across the street was a dark blue Jaguar sedan. Its parking lights were on and he could just make out two figures in the front seat. Both were looking in his direction. Immediately he turned right and walked quickly off. Back down Rua Garrett, toward the Baixa district. Seconds later he heard the hotel’s door open behind him. A rush of feet followed. Beard, turned-up collar, pulled-down hat, or not, he’d been recognized.

He took off on the dead run.

10:57 P.M.