The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [129]
“See what vehicles come and go,” she’d said as they neared. “If they pass by more than once. Who goes in and out. If someone is watching from the windows or from the windows next door or from farther up or down the street. If a pedestrian or someone on a bicycle goes past, taking special interest in the building as they do. Look carefully at the people in the park. See if any of them are watching from there.”
“Anne.” Marten’s reply had been impatient and emphatic. “Only one person knows we’re coming, Raisa Amaro, and she’s inside. We have to get off the street.”
“Not yet, darling,” she’d said with finality and crossed into the park to feed the pigeons and watch the building. For how long, she hadn’t said.
Frustrated, indignant, yet knowing he couldn’t very well grab her by the hair and drag her into the building, Marten had reluctantly followed, taking up the position on the bench where he was now.
Their journey to Rua do Almada had begun the moment Stump Logan drove off. Following his directive, they’d gone to the nearby main bus depot, Terminal Rodoviário de Lisboa, crossed into the bus arrival/departure area, and entered through the ARRIVING PASSENGER doors. Taxis and public transportation were immediately available outside the main entrance on the far side, but Marten had been hesitant to use either for fear of leaving a trail that could be followed. Instead he’d bought a street map from a terminal vendor and they’d left on foot.
Ever wary of police patrols and deliberately trying to avoid appearing as a couple someone might remember later, they’d kept to opposite sides of the streets and avenues as they moved deeper into the city. With little sleep and even less to eat since they’d left Berlin, the walk had seemed interminable. The last twenty minutes especially had been a slow, lingering ramble through the crowded Baixa quarter, with Anne, on the far sidewalk, acting more like a tourist—poking her head into this store and that—than someone trying to get to the safe house on Rua do Almada.
Finally Marten had abandoned caution, crossed over, and taken her by the arm. Then, map in hand like a vacationer, he led her up a steep cobblestone street into the fashionable Chiado district and its rich blend of outdoor cafés, antique stores, and stylish shops. If Anne had had any intention of lingering there, Marten hadn’t let her—with the single exception of a small, elegant, five-star hotel on Rua Garrett that she’d gone into, to, as she’d said, “use the loo.”
Ten minutes more and up another sharply inclined street and they entered the Bairro Alto, the upper town, where Rua do Almada was. Another five and they entered the park across from number 17 where they were now, and where they had been for almost fifteen minutes of waiting and watching.
Marten looked at Anne again. She ignored him. This time it was enough. He walked over and leaned in close. “Nobody’s gone in, nobody’s come out. Not a single person has walked by. No vehicle has passed more than once. No bicycles, either. It’s time we go in. Now.”
Immediately she got up and walked a little way off. The pigeons followed; so did Marten. He started to say something, but she stopped him.
“Congressman Ryder’s coming to Lisbon,” she said quietly without looking at him. “That means the U.S. Embassy will have been informed. Which means the CIA/Lisbon chief of station will know.”
“He might know he’s coming, but he won’t know why.”
Abruptly she turned to look at him. “Don’t you suppose that by now he knows we were in Praia da Rocha and just might suspect that since Mr. Ryder is all-of-sudden coming to Lisbon we just might be too, and for some reason other than seeing the sights?” She stared at him a half beat, then went back to feeding the pigeons.
“Erlanger, in Berlin,” she said, still without looking at him, “was CIA. You wanted to know about his manner at the airstrip in Potsdam. He was