The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [132]
“You mean a bonus.”
“Yes.”
“Paid by who?”
“Me to you, personally. Fifty thousand euros in cash within thirty-six hours of the job’s completion. No one else will know. Not your chief of station, not even my own people.”
“How can I be sure you will keep your word?”
“You know who I am. You would have checked on me before you took the assignment. A man in our line of business who doesn’t honor his promises doesn’t last very long, and I’ve been around for quite some time.”
“I can’t guarantee success.”
“Then we will return to the original plan. You understand, of course, that if that were to happen you would be out a lot of money. ”
“I will do what I can.”
Again Conor White smiled. “I know you will.”
8:02 P.M.
83
17 RUA DO ALMADA. SAME TIME.
Who Raisa Amaro really was or worked for was impossible to know, at least in the first few minutes—and, Marten guessed, probably not even in a lifetime. What she did do was play the part of the discreet hostess exceedingly well. Which was how she had met them at the door. Elegantly dressed in a tailored navy suit under a shock of coiffed red hair, she’d introduced herself, inquired about their trip, then immediately taken them up in a small elevator to the sensual luxury of a top-floor apartment, acting all the while as if the sole purpose of their visit were an illicit affair.
French born and sixty-something, she was barely five feet tall; her livelihood seemed to revolve around the careful managing of this single piece of real estate that was little more than a very private stage designed for sexual intimacy. She expounded on the richness of her service by explaining that should a third-party plaything be required—male or female—she would be happy to provide one at short notice. In essence, Raisa Amaro was a handsomely paid madam of the first order who guarded the apartment as well as the front door to the building herself. A building, she explained, that she owned outright. If the edifice’s other tenants knew about her top-floor arrangement, they said nothing, knowing full well that as the proprietor Raisa—as she asked to be called—could and would evict them at any moment and for any reason at all, no matter what local ordinances there were against such things.
“Everything you will need for your stay is here. A day, a week, or longer, whatever is your pleasure,” she’d explained in French-accented English as she’d gracefully shown them around the expansive one-bedroom facility. “Marble bathroom with Jacuzzi tub, bidet, dual-head shower, imported soaps, perfumes, extra-thick towels with more in the linen closet, terry robes more luxurious than in any hotel in Europe. The bed is king-sized, the sheets silk, the pillows and comforter goose down. A wide selection of condoms is in the cabinet next to it.”
At that Marten and Anne had exchanged glances as the term “safe house” suddenly took on an entirely new meaning.
“There is a small hotel-type safe in the clothes closet; instructions on the door will tell you how to use it. The television in the front room receives one hundred and twenty channels in any number of languages. Breakfast is when you ask for it. If you want something you don’t see, pick up the phone and dial one-one. It is a direct line to my apartment on the ground floor.” At that point she’d led them into the kitchen.
“In the refrigerator you will find paté, cold cuts, a selection of cheeses, milk, champagne, and mineral water. Fresh fruit and desserts are on the side table. The coffee is automatic, ready to brew at the touch of a button. The telephone is there next to the refrigerator. There is another in the bedroom. The number is unlisted and is changed regularly. Use it to make and receive private calls. The line is patched through a commercial laundry that I own and where I do the books, so there is no record of any calls coming or leaving here.”
“I’m expecting a friend to be in touch. I wonder if he might have called before we arrived?” Marten asked carefully and with a