The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [111]
Anne and Marten looked at each other.
The camera’s memory card.
“As I said, let’s take this stuff and get the hell out of here.” Anne started for the door.
“No,” Marten said abruptly. “Father Willy didn’t print every picture. I want to see what else there is.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a computer in the other room and because there may not be a chance later. And because when we call Joe Ryder, I want one of us to be able to tell him what’s on it.”
“What do you mean—one of us?”
“In the event your Mr. White and his friends show up and one of us gets killed.”
12:16 P.M.
71
12:17 P.M.
Marten sat down at the round desk in Cádiz’s study and booted up the computer, then looked for a port to slip the card into.
“It’s here,” Anne said and slid an external card port from behind several books near the CPU and set it on top of the tower.
Marten was about to load the memory card into it but found one already there. He started to slide it out. Anne stopped him.
“Let’s see what’s on it. There may be more. Something Father Willy sent earlier.”
She moved in behind him. Marten clicked the photo icon, and images on the card came to life. On it was a series of everyday snapshots. The beach in front of the house, sea birds, the house itself, inside and out, and, as they moved on, a heady number of nude or nearly nude twenty-something women sunbathing on a beach, seemingly taken with a hidden camera.
“Jacob Cádiz has quite an eye.” Marten grinned.
“Stop drooling, darling. There’s a little bit of urgency here. Take that card out. Put the other one in.”
Marten popped out the card, slid the other out of the white envelope, and loaded it into the port. In seconds they knew it was the card Father Willy’s photos had been printed from. They hunched closer to the screen as Marten started to click through them. It was then they heard a car pull up on the gravel outside.
“Cádiz,” Anne said.
“Or maybe a friend or house keeper. Or—”
“Conor White wouldn’t come up that way. Neither would the others.”
Abruptly Marten shut down the computer, then put the memory card back in the envelope with the photographs. “Use the front door. Say we were looking for Cádiz and found it open and the window broken.”
12:23 P.M.
The glare from the midday sun was blinding as they came out, and both squinted against it. The vehicle that had driven in was stopped behind theirs, a dark gray Peugeot sedan. Two people were visible in the front seat. Then the driver’s door opened and a tall man stepped out, a Heckler & Koch compact submachine gun in his hand.
Hauptkommissar Emil Franck.
“Jesus God,” Marten said and looked around expecting to see more police. He saw none. Then the passenger door opened and Marten let out a sharp breath as a slightly overweight, bearded, and very familiar figure stepped into the Portuguese sunshine.
“Good afternoon, tovarich. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has,” Marten said in astonishment.
“Who is he?” Anne asked quickly.
Marten kept his eyes on both men. “Yuri Kovalenko. An old friend from Moscow.” What the hell was going on? What did Kovalenko have to do with this? “Why are you here?” he said. “What do you want?”
“I think you should ask the Hauptkommissar.”
Emil Franck answered before Marten had the chance. “The photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“Those, in the package under your arm. The postmaster confirmed that he personally delivered mail to the house on a regular basis. Among the pieces was a large envelope sent from Equatorial Guinea, which he remembered because of the stamps.” Franck smiled forcefully. “He often did personal favors for Jacob Cádiz. He liked him.”
If Marten was wary before, he was more so now. “Why are there no other police?”
“They know I prefer to work alone. It makes less noise.”
“Then why him?” Marten indicated Kovalenko, then looked back to Franck. “Who else does the Hauptkommissar work for? Mother Rus sia? Hadrian? SimCo? Or is it Striker Oil?”
“The photographs,