The Hadrian Memorandum Part 31

Abruptly she turned to look at him. "Don't you suppose that by now he knows we were in Praia da Rocha and just might suspect that since Mr. Ryder is all-of-sudden coming to Lisbon we just might be too, and for some reason other than seeing the sights?" She stared at him a half beat, then went back to feeding the pigeons.

"Erlanger, in Berlin," she said, still without looking at him, "was CIA. You wanted to know about his manner at the airstrip in Potsdam. He was trying to warn me that the Agency was actively involved and whatever I was doing I'd better stop. And then we found out that Hauptkommissar Franck was an operative. Conor White's friend Patrice was CIA and maybe still is."

"Yes, and maybe White is, too. We've been through that."

"Nicholas-" Something caught her eye and she looked off. A well-dressed elderly couple sitting nearby was watching them intently. She smiled politely, then gently turned her back to them and looked to Marten.

"It all has to do with the photographs," she said quietly and almost offhandedly, as if she were simply discussing the weather or where they might go for dinner. "If Erlanger knew about them, I don't know. But clearly Franck did. He brought Kovalenko along because he had to, but he would have killed him afterward, the same as he planned to do with us."

"You're saying the Agency wants to make sure Ryder doesn't get them."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't think they would particularly delight in the idea of someone-one of their own former operatives, or an expat American landscape architect, or even an esteemed U.S. congressman-having graphic proof that a private security contractor conspired to provoke a revolution in a third world country, especially one that resulted in the deaths of thousands of its citizens, to benefit an American oil company. Franck's job was to kill us after he got the photographs. What makes you think that order isn't still in place?

"The Agency has long arms, Nicholas, and very good hearing." She nodded across the street toward number 17. "What if they're already in there waiting? Or will be told where we are once we go inside? Who knows who this Raisa Amaro is, anyway?"

Just then the elderly couple walked slowly past, the gentleman walking with a cane and tipping his hat as he pa.s.sed, his wife holding his arm.

Marten waited for them to move out of hearing, then abruptly turned to Anne. "Joe Ryder's expecting to contact us through whatever means Ms. Amaro has set up for us. We try to reach him now-if we can reach him-and tell him our fears, he'll want to change his plans. If he does, the people with him will want to know why, and he'll have to tell them something, which can only make things worse when he tries to find a way to connect with us. We have to take the chance that your Lisbon chief of station, Sy Wirth, and White and his friends don't yet know we're here or, if they do, where we are."

Anne looked off. She didn't like it at all.

In the next instant a distinctive white-and-blue car with a thin red stripe running the length of it drove slowly past. A single word was painted on it-POLICIA. Seconds later two motorcycle units followed, their helmeted, uniformed riders carefully surveying the park as they went by. A moment of stillness followed, and then two more motorcycle units came by, this time on the far side of the park.

"May I suggest another storm front?" Marten asked quietly. "The very real possibility that Franck's body has been found and that the authorities are keeping it quiet until the Portuguese police and maybe their counterparts in Spain, France, and Italy have been alerted and given the order to locate and take into custody the two persons the Hauptkommissar was investigating for the murder of Theo Haas. The same two persons the police know he followed to a beach house in Praia da Rocha that was owned by a certain Jacob Cadiz."

Anne smiled thinly. "You're saying we should take a great leap of faith and introduce ourselves to this Raisa Amaro as quickly as possible."

"Sooner, darling. Sooner."

7:34 P.M.

82.

7:45 P.M.

"There are just you three, no more?"

"Yes."

"A car and driver will be outside whenever you have need. Supplementary transportation is available with a ten-minute-or-less response time."

"Good."

"I know you are armed. Will you need additional armaments?"

"Unlikely, but it would depend on the situation."

Conor White and Carlos Branco stood on the balcony of a modest fourth-floor apartment on Rua do So Filipe Neri. In the distance, long shadows cast by the setting sun accentuated the wide Tagus River and the boat traffic on it. Illuminated, too, in bright yellow light, was the towering Golden Gatelike 25th of April Bridge carrying vehicles to and from areas to the south, the Algarve among them.

Inside, through the sliding gla.s.s door, they could see Patrice and Irish Jack in the living room. They were already comfortable in jeans and tight black T-s.h.i.+rts, drinking coffee and playing cards. Over the rooftops on the building's far side rose the Four Seasons Ritz, where Congressman Ryder would make his base sometime the next morning. It was a four-minute walk at most, thirty seconds by car.

White studied Branco carefully, as if trying to take his full measure. How much experience he had, his thought process, the way he moved. If he could fully trust him. Clearly what Sy Wirth had told him-that Loyal Truex, not himself, had set this up-seemed to be true. From all appearances he was a skilled professional. It was one of the very few things Wirth hadn't screwed up. The speed of it meant that Truex had been in direct contact with Was.h.i.+ngton and that Branco's hire would have been done by Lisbon's CIA station chief. It was a roundabout, but in intelligence terms, correct way of keeping White out of any direct contact with Was.h.i.+ngton. That way they all were protected, which had been the idea from the beginning.

"What do you see?" Branco asked calmly.

"An accomplished resource whose name is not on the Agency payroll or listed anywhere on its books or records. A freelancer for hire who is paid out of the chief of station's private account and is used to working that way."

"Good." Branco smiled.

"How much do you know about what's going on?"

"Little to nothing. I'm a simple painter who has been a.s.signed to Congressman Ryder's RSO security detail. My job is to help set up his quarters at the hotel before he arrives and then be with him for the rest of his stay."

"Painter? As in paint him as a target."

Branco smiled. "Make sure all of his communication lines are bugged and that he is under real-time surveillance wherever he goes."

"You are aware there are two others involved."

"A Nicholas Marten and a Ms. Anne Tidrow. At some point they will attempt to meet with the congressman. When that happens, I am to pull back and take the RSO detail with me. Then you and your cardplaying friends will move in and do whatever needs to be done."

Again Conor White studied him. "You know Lisbon well."

"You are asking if I know how and where to work our threesome into an isolated situation but so they won't realize it. And in a way where there can be no interference from the police or problems with accidental witnesses."

White nodded.

"In a city like this there are all kinds of unexpected trapdoors. One only needs to know when they will be needed, and after that how to put them in play."

"You can do that."

"I am, as you said, an accomplished resource. Preparation is everything. It's a discipline in which I am quite skilled."

White crossed the balcony to look out at the river. For a long moment he stared at it, his mind elsewhere. Finally he turned back to Branco. "Do you know what Marten and Anne Tidrow look like?"

"I was provided with Marten's British pa.s.sport photo and the Tidrow woman's corporate photograph. By now, either through the pa.s.sage of time or on purpose or both, they will have changed their appearance. We will have to take that into consideration."

"They will be coming over that"-he nodded toward the 25th of April Bridge-"from the Algarve. Maybe they're already here, maybe not. When they are here, now or later, can you find them?"

"Undoubtedly the congressman will know how to reach them and will do so at some point after he arrives. His room will be bugged, his cell phones monitored the minute he lands. When he makes contact, we can move."

"Carlos." White took him by the arm. "I don't want to wait that long. Marten and Anne are the princ.i.p.al targets. If we can locate them before the congressman gets here, we won't need to involve him at all. It would be much cleaner that way." He paused and then smiled deliberately. "It's something you might find quite lucrative."

"You mean a bonus."

"Yes."

"Paid by who?"

"Me to you, personally. Fifty thousand euros in cash within thirty-six hours of the job's completion. No one else will know. Not your chief of station, not even my own people."

"How can I be sure you will keep your word?"

"You know who I am. You would have checked on me before you took the a.s.signment. A man in our line of business who doesn't honor his promises doesn't last very long, and I've been around for quite some time."

"I can't guarantee success."

"Then we will return to the original plan. You understand, of course, that if that were to happen you would be out a lot of money. "

"I will do what I can."

Again Conor White smiled. "I know you will."

8:02 P.M.

83.

17 RUA DO ALMADA. SAME TIME.

Who Raisa Amaro really was or worked for was impossible to know, at least in the first few minutes-and, Marten guessed, probably not even in a lifetime. What she did do was play the part of the discreet hostess exceedingly well. Which was how she had met them at the door. Elegantly dressed in a tailored navy suit under a shock of coiffed red hair, she'd introduced herself, inquired about their trip, then immediately taken them up in a small elevator to the sensual luxury of a top-floor apartment, acting all the while as if the sole purpose of their visit were an illicit affair.

French born and sixty-something, she was barely five feet tall; her livelihood seemed to revolve around the careful managing of this single piece of real estate that was little more than a very private stage designed for s.e.xual intimacy. She expounded on the richness of her service by explaining that should a third-party plaything be required-male or female-she would be happy to provide one at short notice. In essence, Raisa Amaro was a handsomely paid madam of the first order who guarded the apartment as well as the front door to the building herself. A building, she explained, that she owned outright. If the edifice's other tenants knew about her top-floor arrangement, they said nothing, knowing full well that as the proprietor Raisa-as she asked to be called-could and would evict them at any moment and for any reason at all, no matter what local ordinances there were against such things.

"Everything you will need for your stay is here. A day, a week, or longer, whatever is your pleasure," she'd explained in French-accented English as she'd gracefully shown them around the expansive one-bedroom facility. "Marble bathroom with Jacuzzi tub, bidet, dual-head shower, imported soaps, perfumes, extra-thick towels with more in the linen closet, terry robes more luxurious than in any hotel in Europe. The bed is king-sized, the sheets silk, the pillows and comforter goose down. A wide selection of condoms is in the cabinet next to it."

At that Marten and Anne had exchanged glances as the term "safe house" suddenly took on an entirely new meaning.

"There is a small hotel-type safe in the clothes closet; instructions on the door will tell you how to use it. The television in the front room receives one hundred and twenty channels in any number of languages. Breakfast is when you ask for it. If you want something you don't see, pick up the phone and dial one-one. It is a direct line to my apartment on the ground floor." At that point she'd led them into the kitchen.

"In the refrigerator you will find pate, cold cuts, a selection of cheeses, milk, champagne, and mineral water. Fresh fruit and desserts are on the side table. The coffee is automatic, ready to brew at the touch of a b.u.t.ton. The telephone is there next to the refrigerator. There is another in the bedroom. The number is unlisted and is changed regularly. Use it to make and receive private calls. The line is patched through a commercial laundry that I own and where I do the books, so there is no record of any calls coming or leaving here."

"I'm expecting a friend to be in touch. I wonder if he might have called before we arrived?" Marten asked carefully and with a glance at Anne, hoping her fears about Raisa had been calmed. From her return look it seemed that for now, at least, they had been. Still, he wasn't quite sure about the situation. Neither Raisa nor the apartment was anything like he had expected, especially after the president had told him-"It's not fancy, but it'll do until Ryder arrives."

"There." Raisa pointed toward a small boxlike piece of equipment next to the kitchen phone. "An old-style answering machine. It lights up with a number when a call has come in." She walked over and looked at it. "Right now it reads zero. So, no, there have been no messages."

"What about a door key?" Marten asked.

"On the table in the entryway. It opens both the door to the apartment and the front door downstairs. Make sure both are locked behind you when you come or go. There are two"-she smiled-"in the event one of you needs some air. Quarrels and misunderstandings do come up, even at the most unlikely time."

"Thank you," Marten said, and they walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door.

"One other thing," Anne said, as if it were an afterthought. "A computer or laptop with an Internet connection. At some point I will need to do a little work."

"This is an old building, and the Internet we do not yet have. Soon, we hope." She glanced at Marten, sizing him up, then looked back to Anne. "If I were you I would have left my work at home."

With that she'd bid them good night and left, closing the door behind her.

Anne looked around at the sensual opulence. "I'd like to meet this old girlfriend. The string-puller who set all this up. She must be something."

Marten grinned. "She is."

"I bet." She crossed to look into the bedroom, then turned back to Marten. "I'm tired and hungry. I could use some champagne and something to eat and a shower. In what order I don't know. And then, if you don't mind, I want to get some sleep. Alone."

"You don't think I planned this?" Marten raised an eyebrow. "There are far less dangerous ways to get a woman into bed."

"Let me tell you something, darling. If a woman wants to have s.e.x with you, she'll let you know." She fixed him with a deliberate stare. "Now be a good boy and turn on the television like you did in Berlin. Out of a hundred and twenty channels you ought to be able to find one that will give us some clue as to what's going on in the world. Say, with Equatorial Guinea, or Joe Ryder's trip to Lisbon, or maybe even what happened to Hauptkommissar Franck."

With that she walked off and into the kitchen. A moment later Marten heard the refrigerator door open. Seconds after that there was the distinct pop of a champagne cork. Then there was silence. Two full minutes anyway.

"What are you doing?" he called finally.

"Drinking," her voice came back.

"You do that alone, too?"

"Right now, yes."

"I'd be careful if I were you. It could lead to a whole series of bad habits."

Anne didn't reply, and Marten didn't carry it further. Finally he picked up the TV's remote control and sat down on an overstuffed chair.

Click. He turned on the television.

Forty-seven channels later he found a Portuguese news station. A man and woman shared an anchor desk. Almost immediately the station went to a commercial. A half-dozen commercials later the picture came back to the male anchor and then quickly morphed into a photograph of Hauptkommissar Emil Franck. Next were live photos of a burned-out car near an apparently desolate beach with police and emergency vehicles everywhere. A female correspondent in a Windbreaker was doing a stand-up. The whole thing was chillingly reminiscent of the television news coverage and video of the burned-out limousine in Spain that had led to the discovery of the bodies of Marita and her students.

"Anne," he said quickly over his shoulder.

"I know. The Hauptkommissar." Her reply was sharp and close by.

Marten turned to see her standing near the door, her purse over one shoulder, one of the room keys in her hand. He stood up in surprise and alarm. "Where are you going?"

"I took down the phone number here. I'll call you later." Immediately she twisted the lock, pulled open the door, and was gone.