The Hadrian Memorandum Part 35

"We have one last chance to get the pictures. I don't want you involved in any way."

Wirth was outraged. "Who are you to talk to me like that? I gave you an enormous contract. Gave you power and prestige and visibility you would never have gotten on your own in a million f.u.c.king years." He jabbed an angry finger at Conor White. "And you know what, I can just as quickly take it all away. All of it. So f.u.c.k your ground rules and get going. Get to Anne."

"Have a drink, Mr. Wirth. You're going to need it." Conor White lifted a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue from a pocket in the back of the front seat and opened it.

"I don't want a drink."

"Yes you do." Patrice turned in the front seat to look at him. "Mr. Wirth."

A chill crept down Wirth's spine. Slowly he looked to Conor White. "What do you want?"

"I want you to have a drink and calm down and listen to what I have to say." White held out the bottle.

Wirth looked at it. "I need a gla.s.s."

"I'm afraid you don't."

Wirth stared at him, then suddenly and reached for the door handle.

"It's locked, Mr. Wirth." Conor White showed no emotion at all. "Just have the drink."

Wirth's eyes went to Patrice. Then to the mirror, where Irish Jack was staring at him. Again White offered the bottle. Finally Wirth took it and took a strong pull. Then he looked back to White. "I'll ask you again-what do you want?"

"Maybe you could explain these." White reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket pocket and brought out two number 2 Ticonderoga 1388 pencils.

"They're yours. I believe they go with this." White slid several folded pages of a yellow legal pad from the same pocket, unfolded them, and laid them out on the seat between them. "Maybe this will help." He clicked on a vanity light over the seat. "Your handwriting, Mr. Wirth,"

Wirth hesitated, then looked down to see the notes he'd made in the Gulfstream while he was flying over northern Spain in pursuit of Marten. Notes intended for a dialogue later that day with Arnold Moss.

1: Prepare to quickly and publicly disavow any connection to Conor White, Marten, and Anne once the photos are recovered. Whatever happens, White acted wholly on his own, or-(check with Arnie) as previously discussed re: separate clandestine Hadrian/SimCo relations.h.i.+p-with no involvement by Striker whatsoever. White should immediately and very publicly be terminated (he will go to jail anyway) and SimCo reorganized for continued operation in E.G. (Side note: SimCo's a good operation with personnel already in place in E.G. No need to completely dismantle it.) SimCo reorganized for continued operation in E.G. (Side note: SimCo's a good operation with personnel already in place in E.G. No need to completely dismantle it.) 2: As above, prepare quick, smart, well-placed public relations spin, esp. in D.C.- There was no need for Wirth to read more. He looked over at White. Rage devouring him, his eyes little more than tiny, furious dots. "You were in my room at the Ritz while I was talking to your man in the bar."

"I'm pleased to know SimCo is a good operation, Mr. Wirth. Perhaps you'd like to make a call and tell me personally." He held out his left hand. In it was Wirth's blue-tape BlackBerry. "You must have left it in your room knowing you were going to see me in person and therefore would not have to call."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You have two BlackBerrys, Mr. Wirth. One to call me and one to call everyone else. You put the blue tape on mine so you wouldn't get them mixed up. Calls from the blue tape get routed through Hadrian headquarters in Mana.s.sas so it appears that they come from there and not you. I do my homework, Mr. Wirth. Even when it's necessarily rushed."

Wirth stared at him for a long moment. "How much do you want?" he said finally.

"Have another drink, Mr. Wirth."

12:47 A.M.

93.

12:52 A.M.

The BMW moved south across the six-lane 25th of April Bridge at cruising speed, its winds.h.i.+eld wipers slowly beating against what was now little more than a drizzle. One car pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 winds.h.i.+eld 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 pa.s.senger 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, pa.s.sionless 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! G.o.d please help me! Please!" Wirth beseeched any man, G.o.d, 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.

94.

THE APARTMENT AT 17 RUA DO ALMADA. EXACTLY 1:00 A.M.

Nicholas Marten turned the key in the lock and let himself into the apartment. Save for a small lamp still on in the entryway, the place was dark. He set the umbrella on the floor, locked the door behind him, then went into the kitchen. A big red 0 glowed on the answering machine. Ryder had not called.

He was bone tired, his feet rubbed raw from shoes and socks soaked through by the rain. His walk had not taken the thirty minutes he'd imagined but closer to fifty, as twice he'd had to take cover to avoid patrolling police and twice more had to find other routes because of heavily manned roadblocks. Whatever had happened to Anne, wherever she was or had gone, he no longer let concern him. He'd done all he could to find her and bring her back. It hadn't worked, so there was nothing else. All he wanted now was a warm shower and sleep.

He walked down the hallway and past the darkened bedroom toward the bathroom as if in a dream, taking off his clothes as he went. The only thing he kept with him, and it was almost an afterthought, was the Glock.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the overhead lights. They were tiny, dim halogen fixtures, maybe fifty of them mounted in the ceiling. Some kind of special effect designed to warm the hard polished marble of the walls, bath, shower stall, and counter-tops. A tasteful, if overly conscious, effort to exude s.e.x from every pore in the room.

The shower stall was directly in front of him. To the right was a large Jacuzzi tub, an extension phone on the wall beside it. It was then he decided to abandon the shower idea and instead soak in a steaming tub, maybe even fall asleep there. If Ryder called, the phone was in reach. The same for Anne, in the event she called, too, which he doubted. Still, she did have the number. She'd told him so when she'd left.

He turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and let it fill the tub.

1:07 A.M.

Marten set the Glock on a marble ledge just above the tub, then took a hand towel and slid into the water. It was warmer than he'd expected, and it took him a moment before he felt comfortable. Then he lay back and let out a sigh. A moment later he closed his eyes and put the towel across them, blotting out the world. One deep breath and then another. Where was he? How had he come to be here? Why had he come to be here? Sleep was all he wanted.

"I've been waiting for you. I was worried."

Anne's voice rocked him. He pulled the towel from his face and sat up, thinking it was a dream. It wasn't. She stood next to the tub beside him, one of Raisa's expensive bathrobes pulled around her. "I fell asleep waiting. I didn't hear you come in. Then I heard water running and saw the light on. Where have you been? What about Joe Ryder?"

He stared at her in amazement. The fact that he was naked never entered his mind. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour or so."

He sat up angrily. "Yeah, well, f.u.c.k. Conor White and your Patrice found out you were at the hotel. They went there looking for you."

"How do you know?"

"I was there. White had the others waiting outside, for Chris-sake. I killed two of them."

"What?"

"Kovalenko's Glock. They came after me. So I shot them. One right after the other on a street near the hotel. Then I walked off still looking for you. I've been dodging the Lisbon police ever since." Suddenly his anger deepened. "I'm out there in the rain with the police and you're in here f.u.c.king sleeping." He picked the hand towel up again, put it over his eyes, and leaned back in the water.

"I'm tired. Go back to sleep or whatever the h.e.l.l you were doing. I need to think and try to put this all together, if that's even possible. Maybe at some point you'll do me the courtesy of telling me what was so d.a.m.n important that you had to go out and get all this started. It might help, but I doubt it."

"I want to have s.e.x with you."

He took the towel from his eyes and looked up at her. "What?"

"I said I want to have s.e.x with you," she said again and slipped out of the robe. Without a word she slid naked into the water, opening her legs around him and fitting into the confines of the tub.

"Hey." He looked her in the eyes. "I'm mad at you. You did a hugely stupid thing going out like that. I nearly got killed because of it. You think I'm just going to forget about it and have s.e.x with you?"

"I'm still mad at you for nearly strangling me in Berlin, but that has nothing to do with now." She ran a hand along his thigh under the water, then leaned forward. "Kiss me," she whispered. "Like you did in Berlin. In the middle of the street with the police watching. I liked it."

"You're nuts."

"Kiss me."

"Aw, Jesus, Anne."

The bedroom was dark, the bed wet from their bodies come straight from the bath. Marten made a sound as her lips encircled his p.e.n.i.s. Slowly she began to move her head up and down the length of him; in time she let her hand join in, using it as well as her lips. He watched her for a moment, then leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. Lights from a pa.s.sing car on the street below moved across it and then were gone, the ceiling dark again. Fire was rising inside him.

"Jesus, Anne," he murmured.

She kept going, slowly. Her tongue circling the top of his erection, then bringing her mouth back over the top of it and taking it far down into her throat. He was going to explode and knew it. He tried to push her head away. He didn't want to come now, not yet. She fought him off and kept on, hunching up a little as his hips began to rise, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s sliding across his thighs, her nipples as hard and erect as he was. He heard her moan. An animal sound. Then everything rose up at once. He tried to hold back. It didn't work and he erupted. Still she didn't stop. Soon pain overrode pleasure and he had to forcefully move her head away.

"It hurts," he breathed.

She stopped and looked up and smiled seductively. "But it hurts good, doesn't it?"

He saw her get up and go into the bathroom. There was a toilet flush and then running water, and then she came back with a warm towel to clean him. Afterward she moved up into his arms in the dark and kissed him. They lay that way for a long time, the only sound their breathing, which seemed to rise and fall in unison. Finally she slid her hand down and made him hard again, then looked into his eyes.

"It's your turn," she whispered. "Go down on me and then f.u.c.k me. f.u.c.k me hard. And for a long time."

95.

How long had they been at it? Marten didn't remember the last time he'd had s.e.x 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 pa.s.s through her. Not just pa.s.sed 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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?