The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [133]
“There.” Raisa pointed toward a small boxlike piece of equipment next to the kitchen phone. “An old-style answering machine. It lights up with a number when a call has come in.” She walked over and looked at it. “Right now it reads zero. So, no, there have been no messages.”
“What about a door key?” Marten asked.
“On the table in the entryway. It opens both the door to the apartment and the front door downstairs. Make sure both are locked behind you when you come or go. There are two”—she smiled—“in the event one of you needs some air. Quarrels and misunderstandings do come up, even at the most unlikely time.”
“Thank you,” Marten said, and they walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door.
“One other thing,” Anne said, as if it were an afterthought. “A computer or laptop with an Internet connection. At some point I will need to do a little work.”
“This is an old building, and the Internet we do not yet have. Soon, we hope.” She glanced at Marten, sizing him up, then looked back to Anne. “If I were you I would have left my work at home.”
With that she’d bid them good night and left, closing the door behind her.
Anne looked around at the sensual opulence. “I’d like to meet this old girlfriend. The string-puller who set all this up. She must be something.”
Marten grinned. “She is.”
“I bet.” She crossed to look into the bedroom, then turned back to Marten. “I’m tired and hungry. I could use some champagne and something to eat and a shower. In what order I don’t know. And then, if you don’t mind, I want to get some sleep. Alone.”
“You don’t think I planned this?” Marten raised an eyebrow. “There are far less dangerous ways to get a woman into bed.”
“Let me tell you something, darling. If a woman wants to have sex with you, she’ll let you know.” She fixed him with a deliberate stare. “Now be a good boy and turn on the television like you did in Berlin. Out of a hundred and twenty channels you ought to be able to find one that will give us some clue as to what’s going on in the world. Say, with Equatorial Guinea, or Joe Ryder’s trip to Lisbon, or maybe even what happened to Hauptkommissar Franck.”
With that she walked off and into the kitchen. A moment later Marten heard the refrigerator door open. Seconds after that there was the distinct pop of a champagne cork. Then there was silence. Two full minutes anyway.
“What are you doing?” he called finally.
“Drinking,” her voice came back.
“You do that alone, too?”
“Right now, yes.”
“I’d be careful if I were you. It could lead to a whole series of bad habits.”
Anne didn’t reply, and Marten didn’t carry it further. Finally he picked up the TV’s remote control and sat down on an overstuffed chair.
Click. He turned on the television.
Forty-seven channels later he found a Portuguese news station. A man and woman shared an anchor desk. Almost immediately the station went to a commercial. A half-dozen commercials later the picture came back to the male anchor and then quickly morphed into a photograph of Hauptkommissar Emil Franck. Next were live photos of a burned-out car near an apparently desolate beach with police and emergency vehicles everywhere. A female correspondent in a Windbreaker was doing a stand-up. The whole thing was chillingly reminiscent of the television news coverage and video of the burned-out limousine in Spain that had led to the discovery of the bodies of Marita and her students.
“Anne,” he said quickly over his shoulder.
“I know. The Hauptkommissar.” Her reply was sharp and close by.
Marten turned to see her standing near the door, her purse over one shoulder, one of the room keys in her hand. He stood up in surprise and alarm. “Where are you going?”
“I took down the phone number here. I’ll call