The Hadrian Memorandum

95

How long had they been at it? Marten didn’t remember the last time he’d had sex like this. How many times had he come? How many times had she? And there had been something more. When he’d been on top she’d reached up and run her hands through his hair and held him, her eyes watching him as he watched her. Even in the dim light he’d seen pleasure, and escape, and maybe even love pass through her. Not just passed through but shared with him. He had never had any woman do that before. Not even his adored Caroline. He wondered how she could convey those exceedingly simple yet terribly deep emotions all at the same time without abandoning herself to any one of them.

“Let’s go to sleep,” he said finally. “Tomorrow-” He looked at his watch: 2:32 A.M. “No, today is going to be long and, I think, very dangerous.”

“I want more,” she whispered.

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“I’m not sure I-”

“I know you can.”

She reached down and stroked him until his erection filled her hand. Then she rolled over and got on top. She was still wet and slid him into her as if they’d never stopped. Then she began. The rhythmic sliding up and down, the smooth, steady pump of her hips. He tried to move with her, but she wouldn’t let him. This time it was all her. Her movements, her timing, everything. His rod, little more than her own personal tool.

Slowly her pace increased, the movements more intense, her breasts sliding up and down over his chest as she worked. The moans that had come from her before were now longer and louder, but somehow different, as if rising from some place neither of them knew existed. What had Raisa told him?

“Something troubles her a great deal. It’s why she left, to try and resolve it. When she does, or even if she fails, she will come back completely drained by whatever has happened and be looking for a release of the most profound kind. In my experience nothing does that better than a good fuck, especially when it’s done with someone you like and trust. Be gentle with her. But not too gentle. For a little while at least she will want to forget everything.”

Suddenly Anne picked up the tempo; with it came a series of powerful cries, nearly shouts. One after the other after the other. She was coming to orgasm in a way he’d never seen or heard or been part of, even with what they’d gone through in the last hours. She rode up and down the full length of him, again and again and again. Her breathing grew deeper, her cries unworldly. Then, with one final storm of thrusts, she let go a resounding wail and collapsed on top of him. To lie there in the dark, gasping and soaked with sweat.

For a long time he did nothing but lie beneath her, his arms around her, letting her recover. “Are you alright?” he whispered finally.

She gave no reply. Seconds passed, and he wondered if she had exhausted herself and fallen asleep. Then suddenly she let out a muffled sob, rolled off him, and got up, moving back away from the bed in the dark.

“What is it?” he said in concern and surprise.

Silence.

He sat up. “What is it?” he said again.

“Don’t!”

He could just see the wild starkness of her eyes as she shook her head and moved farther back, climbing into an overstuffed chair in the corner and cowering there, still naked, like some fearful animal. Then the crying began. Tears and quiet sobs at first, followed by a torrent of both, louder and far more pronounced.

He got out of bed and came toward her. “What’s wrong?” he asked tenderly. Her only response was a continuing rain of tears that were interspersed with wrenching sobs.

Marten was as much dismayed as he was concerned. This was something he never would have imagined, let alone expected-a strong, vibrant woman like she was suddenly coming apart in front of him.

“What is it? What’s going on?” he pressed gently. “Tell me. Let me help.”

“Fuck you!”

The crying and sobbing kept on. She was about as close to hysteria as anyone could get.

He crossed the room and found her robe, then came back and put it over her as best he could. She didn’t seem to notice. He went to the closet, found a robe for himself, and pulled it on. Then he took a straight-backed chair, turned it around, and sat down close to her, watching her. He wanted to intercede, to help, but he knew it would do no good. Ten minutes passed. Nothing changed. He wanted to turn on a light but was afraid of how she might react.

Ten minutes more, then twenty. A car went by outside, its lights momentarily reflecting off the ceiling and letting him see her. She was still hunched in the chair, the robe over her, crying inconsolably.

“It all has to do with why you went out, doesn’t it?” he said. “What were you doing? What happened?”

There was no reply. Just tears and wrenching emotion.

“If you didn’t want me to know, you wouldn’t have come back.”

Still there was no response.

A few minutes more and the crying slowed and then stopped. “My purse,” she murmured softly. “It’s on the chair by the bed.”

“I can’t see what I’m doing. I need to turn on a light. Is that alright?”

“Yes.”

Marten got up, crossed to a lamp next to the bed, and switched it on. The room filled with a dim, warm glow. Then he found the purse.

“Open it,” she said. “There’s a zipper pocket just inside, near the top.”

“What’s in it?”

“You’ll see.”

Marten opened the purse and found the zipper, then pulled it open. Inside the pocket was a single item. A drugstore-type film processing envelope.

“This?”

“Yes.”

He opened it. Inside were several strips of processed 35 mm film. He looked at her, puzzled. Her eyes were red. What little makeup she wore had been streaked by rivulets of tears.

“In the bottom of the purse…” she said hesitantly, “is something I’ve… kept with me… ever since I… left the Agency. It was habit… The old… spymaster special. A 35 mm Minox camera. When… we… crossed… the city, the shops I… kept going into… I was… looking for a place that had… photo-developing service. I found one in the… Baixa district. One hour or less… just like… at home… Open till midnight… seven days a… week.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Deliberately she reached up and wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Go into the… bathroom… turn on the light over the sink and… and hold the strips up to… it. Don’t look… for pictures. There are… none… Only… words.”