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11:25 A.M.

70

HOTEL LARGO. 11:37 A.M.

Wirth was back in his room and had just finished brushing his teeth when his BlackBerry sounded. Immediately he answered.

“Yes.”

“Praia da Rocha. Four-door silver Opel Astra, license number 93-AA-71,” Korostin said tersely. “By the time you reach it my people will have found Marten. By the terms of our agreement, Josiah, I will tell you where.”

“Thank you.” Wirth clicked off.

It was time to move.

He went into the bedroom and picked up the blue-tape Blackberry. Two calls would be made from it. The first would be to Conor White, letting him know where Marten had gone, giving him a description of the car, and telling him he would give him an exact location in Praia da Rocha when he had it. The second would be made once he knew White had reached Praia da Rocha. It would be a text message to an FBI in for mant in Spain arranged by his friend in the FBI’s Houston bureau who had originated the transmission system for the blue-tape BlackBerry. The text would be a simple “OK.” At that point the informant would call Spanish authorities, implicating Conor White in the Madrid farmhouse murders and telling them he was armed and dangerous and thought to be in Praia da Rocha, Portugal.

Wirth glanced out the window at the swarm of pleasure boats plying the Sunday waters of Faro harbor, then lifted the blue-tape BlackBerry and punched in Conor White’s number.

“Yes, Mr. Wirth,” White’s voice came back sharply.

“The city of Praia da Rocha. On the sea near Portimão. I’m on my way now.”

“I need a location.”

“I will have it by the time you get there.”

“Yes, sir.”

11:45 A.M.

THE HOUSE AT 517 AVENIDA JOÃO PAULO II. 11:50 A.M.

They found it, as Stump Logan said, through an old wooden gate and down a gravel drive. Marten opened the gate by hand, drove the Opel through, then closed it behind them and started down the driveway.

They could see the house at the bottom. It was single story, made of stone and white stucco with a red tile roof, and was very nearly on the beach itself, no more than a hundred feet up from the high-water mark. Jagged sea cliffs that rose straight up from the sand surrounded most of it, giving a feel of isolation and extreme privacy. For all the bustle of the town’s nearby beaches, there was nothing here but sea birds and slowly lapping waves.

Marten rolled the Opel to a stop at the end of the driveway, and he and Anne got out. They studied the house for a moment, then looked around. There was no one in sight, either on the beach or up the driveway behind them.

“Let’s do this fast,” Marten said, and they moved toward the house. Sand had blown up in shallow drifts over the front walk, and a loose awning swung from its anchorage over a front window, seemingly torn free by the wind. Stump Logan had been right—whoever Jacob Cádiz was, he wasn’t there and hadn’t been for some time. Nor apparently had anyone else, at least since the wind had started moving the sand and awnings around.

Marten started toward the front door, then decided against it and led Anne around to the side of the house. Most of the windows had blinds that had been drawn against the sun, suggesting this was a vacation retreat of some kind and Cádiz had closed them when he left.

They were turning back for the front door when Marten noticed a small window that did not have a shade. Peering in, they saw a narrow hallway that looked as if it were an extension of the front entryway. Partway down it was a small wooden drop-leaf table stacked high with mail, as if someone had deposited it there for Cádiz upon his return. A neighbor or caretaker perhaps.

Mail.

Suddenly Marten remembered what he’d thought during the flight out of Malabo—that the reason the army hadn’t found the photos on Bioko was that Father Willy might have sent them to a safe haven somewhere off the island, perhaps in something a simple as the everyday mail.

“Front door,” Marten said quickly. They went to it, and he rang the doorbell. No answer. He tried it again. Still nothing.