The Hadrian Memorandum

90

11:17 P.M.

Irish Jack opened the left rear door of the gray BMW and climbed in next to Conor White. Carlos Branco was at the wheel, Patrice beside him.

“We’re not dealing with your everyday landscape architect.” Irish Jack was rain-soaked, his hair and suit jacket especially. Branco had parked the car at the top of the hill, and the Irishman had gone down to the stopped Jaguar to see what had happened even as residents began coming out of their apartments and the singsong of approaching sirens echoed in the distance.

“My guess is he took three shots and they all hit their mark. Got the driver smack-fuck between the eyes. He knows what the hell he’s doing.”

Carlos Branco’s eyes went to the mirror, and he looked at Conor White.

“Who is he?”

White stared back at him. He wasn’t happy. “The question is, who are you, Mr. Freelance Accomplished Resource? We knew where Anne was and she got away. We had Marten and he got away. Two of your people are dead. Coincidentally, if I’m not mistaken, he got a good look at you in the hotel. You’re supposed to be part of Congressman Ryder’s RSO team that sets all three of them up tomorrow. What are you going to do about that?”

“What I look like tomorrow. He’ll never make the connection.”

“You fucked up everything. You tell me why should I keep you on.”

The scream of sirens drew closer.

“Because it would be a mistake not to.”

Just then two police cars, their light bars flashing, turned the corner at the bottom of the hill, started up, then came to an abrupt stop in front of the Jaguar.

White looked at his watch: 11:22 p.m.

“What time does the Ritz bar close?” he asked quietly.

“One,” Branco replied.

“Good.”

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL RITZ, THE RITZ BAR. 11:52 P.M.

Sy Wirth came in and looked around. The bar area where he’d been earlier was nearly as busy as before, but the fashionable seating area back from it where small round tables with plush chairs or couches were nestled intimately close, was not. A man sitting at a corner table raised his hand. Wirth went over and sat down. He was dressed in a dark suit coat over a hastily thrown-on white dress shirt and jeans.

“You’re Patrice,” he said tersely.

“Yes.”

“Where’s Conor White?”

“He’s been delayed. He apologizes. He should be here shortly,” Patrice said easily.

“That’s what he said when he called and asked me to meet you. Where the fuck is he? What happened with Anne Tidrow?”

Patrice signaled for a waitress. “Ms. Tidrow had apparently been in the hotel for a short time and then left without being seen. Nicholas Marten showed up about the same time we did.”

“Marten?”

“He saw us and ran. We went after him. He killed two of our people.”

“What?”

“Afterward he got away.” Patrice looked up as the waitress arrived. “Mineral water for me.” He looked at Wirth. “You?”

“Nothing.”

“Please, Mr. Wirth.” Patrice smiled. “It’s been a long day, it may get longer. What do you drink?”

“Walker Blue,” Wirth said irritably.

The waitress left, and Wirth leaned in close. “What the good fuck is going on?”

“There’s been a new development. It has to do with Ms. Tidrow. Carlos Branco, you know him?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been in touch with Conor. It’s why the delay, why Conor asked me to see you and fill you in on what happened before he got here.”

“Your drinks, gentlemen.” The waitress smiled, put down cocktail napkins and then set each man’s drink in front of him.

“Cheers.” Patrice lifted his glass. Wirth took his and downed the whisky in one swallow.

Patrice looked to the waitress and grinned. “I think he might want another.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and left.

Wirth glared at him. “Get on your cell phone and call Conor White. Tell him I want him here. I want him here, now.”

“He doesn’t have to, Mr. Wirth.” Conor White slid into a chair next to him.

12:08 A.M. NOW MONDAY, JUNE 7.