The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [125]
“Sounds reasonable,” Marten said.
“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some books to pick up before I head home.”
They left it that way, with Anne and Marten on the street and Stump Logan and his dogs driving off in his thirty-odd-year-old VW bus, having wished them good luck and saying he was glad to have been of service.
Marten glanced around, then started them quickly down the sidewalk toward the bus terminal.
“This Bairro Alto section that you asked Logan about,” Anne said. “You know where it is?”
“No, we’re going to have to find it. Get a street map or something.”
“What’s there?”
“A safe house.”
“Safe house?”
“Yes.”
“And then tomorrow a meeting with Joe Ryder.”
“Yes.”
“The ‘old girlfriend’ you were on the phone with in Logan’s office. She set it up.”
Marten nodded.
“Who the hell is she that she can orchestrate all this?”
“Just a friend.”
“No, not just a friend. Someone who can pull top-level strings, and quickly. Things like this don’t just happen.”
Marten glanced around again, watching the traffic, looking for police.
“Who are you really, Mr. Nicholas Marten? Who do you work for?”
“Fitzsimmons and Justice. Landscape architects. Manchester, England.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.”
“For now it will have to do.”
5:20 P.M.
79
FOUR SEASONS HOTEL RITZ LISBON,
RUA RODRIGO DA FONSECA. SAME TIME.
CIA Chief of Station (COS)/Lisbon Jeremy Moyer worked Sundays when he had to, and this Sunday was one of them. Four and a half hours earlier he’d taken a call at home from Newhan Black, deputy director of the CIA, asking him to go into the embassy and pull up a file on a case officer named Fernando Coelho and when he had it to call him back right away.
What it meant was “Go to the office immediately and call me back over a secure line.” Clearly whatever Black wanted to discuss on this summer Sunday afternoon—one o’clock in Lisbon, eight in the morning at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia—was urgent.
Twenty minutes later Moyer was in his private office, door locked, secure phone in hand. When they established contact Newhan Black’s first words were: “I’m not going to tell you everything that’s going on, and it’s probably better that you don’t know. But this is what I want done.”
Now, at nearly five thirty in the afternoon, Moyer sat at a small cocktail table in the Ritz Bar sipping a Dubonnet on ice and chatting with forty-year-old Debra Wynn. Wynn was chief of the U.S. State Department’s Regional Security Office and, like Moyer, based in the U.S. Embassy/Lisbon. She was responsible for coordinating all security for the embassy, visiting guests, and dignitaries. In this case they had a CODEL, a congressional delegation, in the person of Congressman Joe Ryder of New York, chairman of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee, coming into the country.
“What I would like, Debra, is to go over the Ryder situation.” Fifty-one-year-old Moyer fit well into the hotel’s posh surroundings—neatly trimmed graying hair, navy blazer, pin-striped shirt open at the neck, khaki trousers, oxblood loafers—one embassy official having drinks with another at the hotel where an important U.S. politician was due to arrive the next day. “The congressman, coming here as he is, makes him a very high-profile target. That he’s passing through on his way back from Iraq doesn’t help. As you know, I would have preferred to have him stay at the embassy.”
Wynn looked at Moyer directly. She was handsome and athletic, a twenty-year State Department veteran who’d come up through