The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [145]
“It’s locked, Mr. Wirth.” Conor White showed no emotion at all. “Just have the drink.”
Wirth’s eyes went to Patrice. Then to the mirror, where Irish Jack was staring at him. Again White offered the bottle. Finally Wirth took it and took a strong pull. Then he looked back to White. “I’ll ask you again—what do you want?”
“Maybe you could explain these.” White reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket pocket and brought out two number 2 Ticonderoga 1388 pencils.
“They’re yours. I believe they go with this.” White slid several folded pages of a yellow legal pad from the same pocket, unfolded them, and laid them out on the seat between them. “Maybe this will help.” He clicked on a vanity light over the seat. “Your handwriting, Mr. Wirth,”
Wirth hesitated, then looked down to see the notes he’d made in the Gulfstream while he was flying over northern Spain in pursuit of Marten. Notes intended for a dialogue later that day with Arnold Moss.
1: Prepare to quickly and publicly disavow any connection to Conor White, Marten, and Anne once the photos are recovered. Whatever happens, White acted wholly on his own, or—(check with Arnie) as previously discussed re: separate clandestine Hadrian/SimCo relationship—with no involvement by Striker whatsoever. White should immediately and very publicly be terminated (he will go to jail anyway) and SimCo reorganized for continued operation in E.G. (Side note: SimCo’s a good operation with personnel already in place in E.G. No need to completely dismantle it.)
2: As above, prepare quick, smart, well-placed public relations spin, esp. in D.C.—
There was no need for Wirth to read more. He looked over at White. Rage devouring him, his eyes little more than tiny, furious dots. “You were in my room at the Ritz while I was talking to your man in the bar.”
“I’m pleased to know SimCo is a good operation, Mr. Wirth. Perhaps you’d like to make a call and tell me personally.” He held out his left hand. In it was Wirth’s blue-tape BlackBerry. “You must have left it in your room knowing you were going to see me in person and therefore would not have to call.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have two BlackBerrys, Mr. Wirth. One to call me and one to call everyone else. You put the blue tape on mine so you wouldn’t get them mixed up. Calls from the blue tape get routed through Hadrian headquarters in Manassas so it appears that they come from there and not you. I do my homework, Mr. Wirth. Even when it’s necessarily rushed.”
Wirth stared at him for a long moment. “How much do you want?” he said finally.
“Have another drink, Mr. Wirth.”
12:47 A.M.
93
12:52 A.M.
The BMW moved south across the six-lane 25th of April Bridge at cruising speed, its windshield wipers slowly beating against what was now little more than a drizzle. One car passed them coming north. Another going south overtook them and went by, and then that was all; the roadway was dark in either direction. Behind, the lights of Lisbon glowed against the night sky. In front were the city lights of Almada on the southern shore. Beneath was the dark ribbon of the Tagus River two hundred and thirty feet below.
The only sounds inside the car were the hum of the tires and the steady beat of the windshield wipers. Josiah Wirth looked from Irish Jack to Patrice and then to Conor White. Each man was silent, looking straight ahead, nothing more than a passenger in a moving vehicle. “Where are we going?” he asked finally, fearfully.
“To a funeral,” Conor White said softly.
Wirth saw Irish Jack glance in the mirror. Abruptly he swung the wheel, and the BMW crossed into the far right lane. A glance in the mirror and he stepped on the brakes. A heartbeat later the car slid to a stop, and Irish Jack and Patrice got out.
“What’s going on?” Wirth yelled at Conor White.
“As you said, Mr. Wirth. We’ll get out of this yet. We’ll look back and laugh.”
Suddenly Wirth realized. “No! No! No, please! No!”
“Don’t beg, Mr. Wirth. It’s beneath you.”
Abruptly the door beside