The Hadrian Memorandum

93

12:52 A.M.

The BMW moved south across the six-lane 25th of April Bridge at cruising speed, its windshield wipers slowly beating against what was now little more than a drizzle. One car passed them coming north. Another going south overtook them and went by, and then that was all; the roadway was dark in either direction. Behind, the lights of Lisbon glowed against the night sky. In front were the city lights of Almada on the southern shore. Beneath was the dark ribbon of the Tagus River two hundred and thirty feet below.

The only sounds inside the car were the hum of the tires and the steady beat of the windshield wipers. Josiah Wirth looked from Irish Jack to Patrice and then to Conor White. Each man was silent, looking straight ahead, nothing more than a passenger in a moving vehicle. “Where are we going?” he asked finally, fearfully.

“To a funeral,” Conor White said softly.

Wirth saw Irish Jack glance in the mirror. Abruptly he swung the wheel, and the BMW crossed into the far right lane. A glance in the mirror and he stepped on the brakes. A heartbeat later the car slid to a stop, and Irish Jack and Patrice got out.

“What’s going on?” Wirth yelled at Conor White.

“As you said, Mr. Wirth. We’ll get out of this yet. We’ll look back and laugh.”

Suddenly Wirth realized. “No! No! No, please! No!”

“Don’t beg, Mr. Wirth. It’s beneath you.”

Abruptly the door beside the Striker chairman was thrown open, and the strongest hands he’d ever felt in his life dragged him from the car. He glimpsed the face of Irish Jack and then Patrice. Each carried the stone-cold, passionless expression of a professional killer.

“No!” Wirth screamed. “No! No! No!”

There was a wild scuffling of feet as he was wrestled toward the rail. He tried to kick, bite, fight back. Anything to get free. Nothing worked. He felt himself hoisted up and saw Conor White step out of the car and come toward him. Then he was standing next to him, the number 2, Ticonderoga 1138 pencils in his hand. He held them in front of his face and snapped them in half.

“Watch,” he said and let the pieces fall away. They drifted down as if in some kind of super-slow motion to vanish in the darkness below.

“You won’t hear them hit. You won’t hear anything, Mr. Wirth.”

“No, no-please! Don’t do this. Please don’t! Help! Help! God please help me! Please!” Wirth beseeched any man, god, or spirit for the first time in his life.

None answered.

“I asked you not to beg, Mr. Wirth.”

Suddenly he was hoisted over the rail. The hands that held him let go. There was a rush of cool air and the sensation of falling from a great height. He heard himself scream. Then he glimpsed the lights of the city. For a long moment he felt as if he were flying. A majestic bird in a world he’d never known. Then the blackness below rose up around him and he plunged headlong into it.

12:57 A.M.