The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [104]
“Okay. There’s just the two of us, we have a car, and we’re on our way,” Anne said abruptly, the light banter of before gone. “Where the hell are we going?”
Marten knew he had stalled as long as he could. “Rental agent give you a map?”
“Yes.”
“Open it and look for Praia da Rocha. It’s a beach town near Portimão.”
“Praia da Rocha.”
“You know it?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
9:35 A.M.
67
LEARJET 55, ON APPROACH TO FARO INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT. AIRSPEED 190 MPH. ALTITUDE 2,420 FEET.
SAME TIME.
After thirty years of police work Hauptkommissar Emil Franck’s connections across Europe ran deep. Some were legitimate, some criminal, others somewhere in between. Marten’s Cessna had barely touched down at Faro when Franck learned about it from the Policia Judiciária at the airport, who quickly made several calls spreading the information. It worked like a charm.
A cousin of Judiciária police inspector Catarina Melo Tavares Santos was a desk employee of the Auto Europe branch in Faro’s Montenegro district. Santos’s physical description of Anne Tidrow fit perfectly with the woman who had rented a silver Opel Astra barely half an hour before. She’d had to wait fifteen minutes until her supervisor went on break before she could access the rental records and confirm the identity of the Opel’s renter. At the same time, she noted the car’s license number, then went outside, clicked on her cell phone, and spoke directly with her cousin. It was Inspector Santos who was on the phone with Hauptkommissar Franck now.
“New silver Opel Astra, four door, license number 93-AA-71,” Santos said, “rented in Montenegro at 8:57 A.M. by one Anne Tidrow of Houston, Texas. Marked down for an open-ended rental. Suggested time frame, twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“Destination?”
“None was given, sir.”
“Obrigado, Inspector,” he said. “Obrigado.” Thank you.
Franck clicked off and looked at Kovalenko. “They are thirty minutes to an hour ahead of us,” he said with a quiet confidence that bordered on condescension. “A car will be waiting when we touch down. I suggest whatever call you need to make, you do it now. Moscow must be waiting to hear from you.”
“Yes, Hauptkommissar, they must be.” Kovalenko’s eyes zeroed in on Franck’s. “Breathlessly.”
9:43 A.M.
PORTIMÃO. 10:18 A.M.
Marten turned the Opel south, circumventing the city. He’d judiciously watched the rearview mirror for most of the trip. If they were being followed there was still no sign of it. Nor had there been any close-in air traffic, helicopters or civilian aircraft, to suggest they were being watched from above. Satellite tracking was always a possibility via the car’s GPS system, but satellite operators would have had to have been alerted, and that was something that took time and required several layers of authorization before it would be put into effect. The thing was, at this point, they seemed to be ahead of their pursuers, and so the complications almost didn’t matter. He was too close to the end to do anything but go for it and hope everything worked out. Still, he knew he had to be ever cautious of Anne and remember how much was at stake all the way around. If he could wish for anything now it would be a gun, the more powerful the better.
10:20 A.M.
The distance from Portimão to Praia da Rocha was short, two miles at best. They were traveling south under a high sun. Mist rolling in from the sea intensified the brightness and gave everything a dangerous glare, making it hard to see without squinting. To their left was the wide estuary of the Rio Arade that flowed from the inland mountains to Portimão and from there into the Atlantic between Praia da Rocha on the western shore and Ferragudo on the eastern. They were almost there, and Marten felt his pulse rise in anticipation. All they had to do now was drive into the city and, with luck, locate Avenida Tom