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By Root 675 0

glances but said nothing. The police might have sped off, but their sudden arrival and close scrutiny were deeply troubling. There was no way to know if Franck’s body had been found and if the authorities were already looking for them, the motorcycle officers part of a much larger dragnet. Even if they weren’t, it was only a matter of time before it happened. What made it worse, and Marten hadn’t even thought about it until now, was that the Glock Kovalenko had given him was the weapon used to kill the Hauptkommissar. Not only did he have it on his person, with the lone fatal shot fired from the otherwise full magazine, his fingerprints were all over it.

And then there was Sy Wirth. Wherever he was when he had tried to reach Anne—surely Faro, maybe even Praia da Rocha—he was too close. That Conor White and his mercenaries would be with him exacerbated an already highly dangerous situation because of their reach and connections and deadly expertise. He had only to remember what had happened to Marita and her medical students outside of Madrid to remind him what kind of people they were.

What had President Harris said about the CIA station chief in Lisbon? That he would know Joe Ryder was coming—

“But that’s all he knows. Ryder will be under the protection of the State Department’s regional security office, the RSO. They’ll coordinate his movements, but they won’t know about you or Ms. Tidrow.”

Maybe not, unless White was CIA. If he was, it wouldn’t take much for him to learn that Ryder had abruptly left Iraq and was on his way to Lisbon and to find out where he would be staying when he arrived and then realize why he was going there. If that happened, things would get a lot darker. And quickly.

Suddenly something large and black appeared in front of Marten and he was shoved back hard against his seat. The next instant brought a nauseating wave of hot doggie breath. Bruno had suddenly leapt up, throwing both forepaws against Marten’s chest, knocking him backward and holding him there. Now his large, drooly face was inches from Marten’s and he was staring at him with a look of deep sympathy, as if somehow he had sensed the fear and turmoil going on inside him and had determined to share his concern.

“Thanks, buddy, you’re a real pal,” Marten said gratefully, then lifted the Newfoundland’s big paws and eased him back to the floor. Afterward, he patted him gently on the head. “If I was going home I’d ask Stump if I could take you with me. Unfortunately, I’ve got other things to do first.”

3:48 P.M.

78

LISBON. STILL SUNDAY, JUNE 6. 5:12 P.M.

They came in on the A2 Auto-estrada, passing the towns of Palmela, Fernão Ferro, and then Almada on the southern bank of the Tagus River. Then, still in a crush of heavy traffic, they were across the towering 25th of April Bridge—an edifice that was a near replica of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge—and into the city, staying on the main highway, Avenida da Ponte.

Marten leaned forward to talk to Stump Logan. “We’re looking for the Bairro Alto section. Rua do—”

Instantly Logan put up a hand for silence, then yanked off his iPod headset. “Don’t,” he said sharply, looking at Marten in the mirror. “I don’t want to know, period. Area, street address, who you’re meeting. Nothing at all.” With that he slipped the headset back on and drove on in silence.

Four or five miles later he took an exit near the Zoological Gardens, then turned left and then right onto Rua Professor Lima Basto. Another twenty yards and he pulled to the curb and stopped.

“Down there and around the corner”—he pointed a finger at the windshield—“is Terminal Rodoviário de Lisboa, a central bus terminal where the motor coaches from the Algarve come in. Get out and walk to it; go in from the coach entrance and then out the front door. Nobody will stop you, unless by now the police have the German policeman’s body and your faces are plastered all over. If they do, you’re as good as dead anyway. But if they don’t and somebody sees you and remembers you later, they’ll think you came into the city by bus. The police