The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [117]
Marten looked at the gun. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you get,” he said flatly, then went to Jacob Cádiz’s desk, leaned in, and popped the memory card from the external port that rested on top of the CPU unit. He glanced at Anne, then looked at Kovalenko.
“Maybe you’d like it better if I put it in the envelope it came in.” Marten’s tone was acidic, even sardonic. “Make it neat and tidy and easy to carry so you won’t lose it.”
“Thank you, tovarich. You are most considerate.”
Marten shuffled through the pile of photographs, found the letter-sized envelope the memory card had been in, and dropped the card into it. Folding it, he snapped an elastic band around it and handed it to the Russian. “Sealed with a kiss,” he said.
Kovalenko smiled broadly and stuffed it into his pocket. “As always, it was good to see you, tovarich. Though too many years have passed. Your dear sister, Rebecca, is well and still in Switzerland?”
“Yes.”
“Give her my regards. Perhaps one day we will all holiday together.”
With a nod at Anne, Kovalenko started for the door.
“One more thing, tovarich,” Marten called after him. “Why did you kill the Hauptkommissar when you could have strung him along for years longer?” Kovalenko turned back, the Glock still in his hand. “You had an unknowing mole in both the CIA and the Berlin police,” Marten said. “He would have continued to be of immense value.”
“Once we had the photographs he was to kill you and Ms. Tidrow,” Kovalenko said quietly. “It was his assignment. It would have been bad manners for me to let that happen. Don’t you agree?”
Abruptly he slid the Glock into his belt, then took Franck’s Heckler & Koch machine gun from his shoulder and leveled it at them. Marten’s eyes went to it; so did Anne’s.
“So you do it, instead of him,” Marten said coldly. “Then everyone’s out of the picture.”
“After all we have been through together, tovarich? You embarrass me with your distrust.” The roundish, bearded Russian gave a great teddy bear grin. “What I think is that you will have trouble still. Especially from this Conor White. More so now that the photographs are in your possession.” Immediately his free hand went to his belt. He lifted the Glock from it and tossed it to Marten, then slid an ammunition clip from his jacket pocket and flipped it to him as well. “Fifteen-round magazine. A similar magazine is in the pistol, except that one round has been used. It means you have twenty-nine shots left.” He paused and let his eyes go to Anne; then they came back to Marten. “Your rental car—four-door silver Opel Astra, license plate number 93-AA-71. The Portuguese police have that information.”
“As the late Hauptkommissar said.”
“They will not be watching now because he had called them off. But be very careful where you go next, tovarich.” Kovalenko let the slightest grin escape. “I trust we remain the best of friends and that you will not use my own weapon against me. If you did you would then have two bodies to explain.” He nodded at Anne, then, just like that, turned for the door and was gone.
They watched through the window as he walked up the gravel driveway to the Peugeot with Franck’s body in the trunk. A moment later he got in, started the engine, and drove off.
Marten waited until he disappeared from view at the top of the driveway, half expecting a phalanx of police to suddenly materialize and start down toward them. It didn’t happen. Most likely because Franck, as Kovalenko had said, had called them off. He gave it another thirty seconds, then went down the hallway and began gathering the photographs.
Anne was watching the driveway. “Conor and his men won’t be far behind.”
“White’s not our only concern.” Marten slipped the pictures into the plastic