The Hadrian Memorandum Part 12

"The people he brought in to run it, namely Sy Wirth and his hand-picked executives, got Wirth elected chairman and chief executive, bought back its shares, and took it private, getting rid of most of the board in the process. Afterward Wirth started developing friends.h.i.+ps in Was.h.i.+ngton, which is how he hooked up with Hadrian to protect our oil field businesses around the world. Then Iraq happened, and he and Hadrian were right there. Almost from the start they were manipulating State Department contracts, hiring all kinds of subcontractors, double billing, using creative bookkeeping, all of it in a way that was almost impossible to track. I didn't like it and said so. The only reason they kept me on the board was because of my father's reputation with our employees and suppliers and other companies we did business with. I could yell to the horizon about what they were doing, but I knew it would do no good. They were arrogant and making hundreds of millions, so why should they change, even when they were under the spotlight of Joe Ryder's congressional committee. Conor White was-"

She stopped again, and he could see the anger rise in her, as if she suddenly realized she was telling too much. "I'm really tired. I want to go to sleep."

"Not yet."

She glared at him. "You're a f.u.c.king p.r.i.c.k."

"Maybe. And maybe I just want to know what the h.e.l.l I'm dealing with. Conor White what?"

"Conor White," she said deliberately, "was hired to create SimCo as a replacement for Hadrian in Equatorial Guinea so that whatever happened with Ryder's inquiry into what was going on in Iraq would in no way trigger an interest there."

"And you knew about it."

"I knew about it, but I had no idea he was involved in arming the rebels. The man you saw me with on the plane was an in de pen dent auditor I hired to go over our books in Malabo to make certain there was absolutely no connection between the Striker/Hadrian problem in Iraq and what we were doing in Equatorial Guinea. And as far as I know there wasn't, everything was legitimate. He finished his audit on the same day I learned about the photographs and the death of the priest who took them. I asked Conor about them, and he said they had to have been phonied up, Photoshopped or something, because whatever was supposed to be in them wasn't true. Still, phony or not, we had to get them back, quickly and quietly, before they became public.

"I didn't trust him then and I don't trust him now. I think the photos are real. Otherwise the priest wouldn't have been killed and the country so violently turned upside-down looking for them. What's more, I don't know that what White is doing isn't at the direct order of Sy Wirth and the people at Hadrian."

Marten watched her closely; her eyes, the movement of her body, anything that would tell him she was lying. He didn't find it. Still, she'd given him only part of it; he wanted the rest. "That takes care of the army, SimCo, and the top guns at Striker and Hadrian. Where do you fit in? We're not here now because you suddenly decided to take a vacation."

Anne took a deep breath. "I told you before, it was personal. I want the photographs to use against Wirth and Hadrian and Conor White. Threaten to turn them over to the Ryder Commission if they don't cease arming the insurgency and stop provoking an already terrible war. Maybe even more important to me personally"-her eyes filled with emotion-"I want to save what's left of the reputation of my father's company for him. For his memory.

"My mother got very sick when I was three. She was in the hospital for a month. She didn't recognize me or my father. n.o.body knew what was wrong. Finally she came out of it. The experience scared the h.e.l.l out of me. It did the same to him. I was very young, but I could see it. He was all but lost. I wanted so much to help him, but I couldn't.

"As I told you, my mother died when I was thirteen. It was brain cancer. She didn't live long, but it was awful for her and my dad. Like the first time, he tried to protect me from it while he was falling apart himself. How he kept everything together-me, himself, the company-I don't know. When she died, he and I went on together. It was his life and my life at the same time, and we went on like that until I went to college. But we never lost the closeness, not even later when I got married. I loved him very much. I respected him even more. I was holding his hand when he died." She paused, then let her eyes find his. "Is that enough explanation for you?"

"Almost."

Suddenly her anger roared back. "What the h.e.l.l else do you want to know?"

"Whose place this is. Who you're relying on to get us out of Berlin. Who you had following me earlier so that you knew where I was and where I went when I left the hotel to meet Haas."

These were questions from before that so far she'd managed not to answer. But she knew he'd keep asking now until he had an answer, either that or he would simply walk out as he'd threatened.

"Things were arranged through old friends," she said quietly. "I lived in Berlin for eighteen months some years ago."

"Doing what?"

She didn't reply.

"Doing what?" he repeated.

"I was an employee of the U.S. government."

"As?"

"My job was cla.s.sified."

"Cla.s.sified?"

"Yes."

"Meaning you were an operative of some kind."

"I ... worked for the CIA."

10:30 P.M.

34.

HARRINGTON LAKE, CANADA, THE OFFICIAL COUNTRY.

RETREAT OF THE PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA.

STILL FRIDAY, JUNE 4. 4:35 P.M.

President Harris walked down a country path with Canadian prime minister Elliot Campbell, Campbell's wife, Lorraine, and Emiliano Mayora, the president of Mexico. The weather was warm with puffy clouds that occasionally darkened, suggesting rain later in the day. All were dressed casually for the walk that was purposefully about nothing, an opportunity for the leaders of the Americas northern-most countries to chitchat and spend a little unofficial time in one another's company before getting back to the formal discussions of trade and mutual security that brought them there.

A conversation about fly-fis.h.i.+ng had seen Prime Minister Campbell and President Mayora move ahead of the others, leaving President Harris alone with Mrs. Campbell. Cute and perky, she took the opportunity to ask him how he was doing personally, gently reminding him that he was quite a handsome man who had not been seen publicly with a woman since the death of his wife during his presidential campaign some two years earlier.

"Frankly, I haven't had much time to think about it." President Harris smiled graciously. "This is a big job."

"That part I fully understand, Mr. President. Still, you do think about it. I saw the longing in your eyes as you spoke. For everything you do and have to do, you are lonely for companions.h.i.+p."

This time John Henry Harris's smile was more inward and delicate. "You're very perceptive, Mrs. Campbell, I am lonely. But my longing is still for my wife. I miss her a great deal. I do my best not to think about it."

"Mr. President," a voice suddenly called from behind them.

Harris and Mrs. Campbell turned to see Lincoln Bright, the president's chief of staff, press through the gaggle of Secret Service agents following them and come quickly forward.

"Excuse me, Mr. President, Madame Campbell." Bright looked to the president. "Representative Ryder is calling from Qatar. It's important."

"I'll take the call," Harris turned to Lorraine Campbell. "Please excuse me for a few minutes. Tell the prime minister and President Mayora I'll catch up with you all shortly."

"Of course, Mr. President."

4:47 P.M.

President Harris took Joe Ryder's call over a secure phone in the comfortably rustic guest quarters of the Harrington Lake estate.

"You've heard what's happened in Berlin?" Ryder's voice was filled with concern.

"The Theo Haas murder."

"Yes."

"I know about it, that's all. Did Marten reach him before it happened?"

"Marten is wanted for his murder."

"What?" Harris was astounded.

"It's all over TV. In the Was.h.i.+ngton Post, New York Times, Was.h.i.+ngton Post, New York Times, and and in about every other major paper as well as on the Internet. I realize you've been busy and probably not tuned in to this stuff, and certainly no one would advise you. There would be no reason to; they wouldn't know the connection. in about every other major paper as well as on the Internet. I realize you've been busy and probably not tuned in to this stuff, and certainly no one would advise you. There would be no reason to; they wouldn't know the connection."

"My G.o.d, Joe, where the h.e.l.l is he?"

"As far as I know, on the run in Berlin. There's a woman with him. So far they haven't released her name, or his, for that matter."

"Then how do you know it's Marten?"

"Someone took his picture with a cell phone. It's not a very good likeness. But it's him, or his double, without doubt. You showed me a photo of the two of you together when you suggested him for the job." Ryder hesitated. "John, Mr. President. You can't get involved. You can't try to help him. Not even with your own people. You can't risk the connection."

President Harris stared off at nothing. "I know, dammit. He knows it, too."

"What do we do?"

"Nothing. Just wait and hope to h.e.l.l he finds a way to get in touch with me."

"Then what?"

"Something. I'm not sure. I'll work on it."

"What if he did kill Haas?"

"He didn't."

"You're certain?"

"d.a.m.ned certain."

"I'm here for you, John. Whatever, whenever."

"I know, Joe, we'll work it out. And thanks. Thanks for being there in all this. I'll call you when I have news."

With that the president hung up and stared off, praying he was right, that Marten would find a way to get in touch with him. What he would do then, he truly didn't know. At the same time, he knew he'd better have something to tell him.

4:52 P.M.

35.

BERLIN. SAt.u.r.dAY, JUNE 5. 1:27 A.M.

Marten slumped in the worn overstuffed chair watching Anne sleep on the bed across from him. A bottle of the Radeberger Pilsner in his hand, he wore boxer shorts and the light blue sport s.h.i.+rt he had on when he'd gone to meet Theo Haas in the park.

He took a sip of the beer and looked restlessly up at the ceiling. The apartment was warm, and Anne slept with only a sheet pulled up around her. She'd invited him to sleep beside her for no other reason than that the bed was the only place to rest. Instead he'd chosen the chair, chiefly because it gave him a clear view of the apartment's front door. If anyone was coming through it, he wanted to see them before they saw him. Especially if they were police with orders to shoot.

1:32 A.M.

Marten took another drink of the Radeberger and looked at Anne across from him. He could just see her in the dark, sleeping on her side, her legs pulled up toward her chest in an almost fetal position. The CIA, he thought. Jesus, what department had she been in? Research, an operative, what? Whatever it was, it had certainly been important enough for her to still be connected to people who would shadow strangers for her, help her elude the police and provide a safe house and then somehow get them out, or at least try to get them out, of the city.

At forty-two, she was seven years older than he was, but looking at her now she might have been a child. She'd told him she'd been married, and he wondered if she had children herself. If so, how many? And how old? And where were they now? For all he knew they could be in high school or college or in their early twenties and out on their own.

1:40 A.M.

He finished the Radeberger and took the empty bottle into the kitchen. He was exhausted and wired tight at the same time. The idea of sleep seemed impossible. The murder of Theo Haas had been horror enough, but the combination of circ.u.mstances that made him a prime suspect was beyond imagination. That a top cop like Franck had been a.s.signed to the case made it all the worse. His credentials aside, his physical bearing, his body language, and the intense look in his eyes as he'd addressed the television cameras had chillingly reminded Marten of his mentor on the Los Angeles Police Department, the late Commander Arnold McClatchy, who had been one of the most revered, relentless, and feared homicide detectives in California history. Like McClatchy, Franck had the entire department at his disposal, and like McClatchy, Marten was certain, once he'd taken on a case he wouldn't let go until, one way or another, his man was brought to the ground.

Then there was the other thought. Poor as his photograph was, it was everywhere. What if the guys on the LAPD still hunting him saw it and got in touch with Franck? Then what? A little cop-to-cop talk and suddenly a couple of detectives show up from L.A. waiting for Franck to get him. And when he does, he keeps it quiet and hands him over to them. The next day his body is found in a ditch somewhere. n.o.body knows who did it. It would save the Berlin PD a big noisy trial and a lot of expense. It made him want to kick himself for blurting to the j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. dope dealer on the street that he was an L.A. cop. What if the police caught the guy and he brought it up?

It had been a stupid thing to do.

Just plain stupid.

1:42 A.M.

Marten set the bottle on the kitchen counter and was starting toward the bedroom when he heard sirens approaching. He stopped and listened. What were they? Fire? Ambulance? No, police, he was certain. They grew nearer. He went into the front room and stood beside one of the narrow windows to peer out at the dimly lit alley below. The sirens were closer still. He counted one, two, and then three, all traveling close together. Instinctively he listened for the sound of a circling helicopter. What would he do if they pulled up outside?

"What is it?" Anne called from the other room.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Christ, maybe he should tell her to get up and get dressed. But then what? Go out the tiny air-shaft window in the dark and up the fire ladder to the roof? Why? If the police knew where they were, they wouldn't have a chance to begin with.

He moved farther back from the window, giving him a view of the alley where it met Ziegelstra.s.se. The sounds grew louder, the shrillness bouncing off the old brick facades of the neighboring buildings. His heart was pounding. If they came, they came. Just give up. There was nothing else to do.

The sounds grew louder and louder. Then they were right there on top of him. He expected to hear the screech of brakes, the instant cutting of sirens, the slam of doors as armed police jumped from the cars. Instead he caught the briefest glimpse of flas.h.i.+ng lights. And then, like that, they pa.s.sed, taking their noise with them.

For a long moment he just stood there in the darkness listening to the pounding of his heart and the sound of his own breath. Suddenly he wondered about his emotional state, if things were beginning to get to him that shouldn't, or at least that he should have control over. Thinking, too, that this was no time or place for such fragility. It was far too dangerous.

"You need to sleep." Anne's voice floated out of the darkness nearby. He started and looked up.

He saw her in the light-spill from the streetlights, standing in the doorway watching him. Her dark hair tucked behind her ears, she was barefoot and still wearing nothing but the T-s.h.i.+rt and panties.

"You're overtired," she said quietly.

"I know." His voice was barely a murmur.

"Come to bed."