The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [127]
The first part was information, most of it coming from Truex.
Joe Ryder had suddenly been called away from a close inspection of the records division of Hadrian’s central facility in Baghdad. Less than thirty minutes later his plane had taken off for Rome, the first leg of a hurried return trip to Washington. But Rome, Truex had learned, was not his final destination in Europe. Lisbon was. The purpose of his Lisbon visit? A courtesy call on Lisbon’s mayor. It was bullshit. A man like Ryder, who’d gone all the way to Iraq for a hands-on inspection of the Striker and Hadrian operations there, accompanied by several members of his commission, an audit team, and their support staff, and who then suddenly abandoned everyone and everything to hurry back to Washington alone and for reasons unknown, does not stop to make a courtesy call on the mayor of Lisbon. Clearly he was going to the Portuguese capital for some other and very specific reason. And since Marten and Anne had been in Portugal that day, it was more than reasonable to presume that the three were planning to meet somewhere there. That same logic taken a step further, especially in light of the haste of Ryder’s departure from Baghdad, suggested that it was possible, even probable, that they had somehow snatched the photographs from under the Russian noses and were readying to turn them over to Ryder. It was equally probable that Anne—almost certainly to avoid prosecution—had agreed to brief Ryder on the Striker/Hadrian/SimCo arrangement in Equatorial Guinea and the Striker/Hadrian dealings in Iraq. Either or both reasons made it a meeting neither Striker nor Hadrian could afford to have take place.
For Conor White it was a defining moment. For the second time in hours he’d been given a massive injection of hope that the photographs might still be retrievable. With it came the feeling that maybe his torment would, at long last, be over and that finally everything would be alright. It was the kind of sentiment he’d so often longed for as a boy. That no matter what he had done or what had happened, his father would somehow manage to be there, to put his arms around him and hold him and tell him everything would be alright. That he was there for him, and always would be. Even if it was a lie. Just to see him and hear it and feel it even once would have brought untold joy.
Less than an hour after Truex’s call, they’d lifted off from Faro for Lisbon. Once again, Wirth had taken the Striker corporate Gulfstream, leaving the tri-engine Falcon 50 to White and the others, with Wirth promising to update them with more information the moment he received it. Ten minutes after takeoff White’s BlackBerry had sounded. Wirth already had it.
“Ryder is staying at the Four Seasons Ritz,” he’d said. “He’ll arrive sometime tomorrow morning. His dinner with the Lisbon mayor is at eight in the evening. I don’t have a location yet. A man named Carlos Branco will meet you on the tarmac in Lisbon at Air Terminal Two in the civil aviation area and take you to an apartment on Rua do São Filipe Néri, which is close to the Four Seasons. Go there and wait until you hear from me. Branco is a freelancer, a total professional. He’ll be working with you. It was set up by Truex, not me, so trust him. We’ll get out of this yet, Conor. We’ll look back and laugh.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Wirth,” he’d replied