The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [152]
Then she’d had second thoughts. Maybe even third, fourth, and fifth thoughts. Physically exhausted, emotionally overwhelmed, she robotically reverted to the old ways, burying her feelings and focusing on something else. In this case a wild orgy of sex with him, thinking, hoping, maybe even praying it would give her sufficient release to make her clearheaded enough to destroy the negatives and perhaps the photographs, too. But it hadn’t worked; roaring and retching, a hurricane of long-buried emotions flooded out, and she came apart. Finally she was spent enough and raw enough to find the courage to do what she thought was right and give him the negatives, telling him nearly word for word what the memorandum contained. After that the only thing left was sleep.
Whether any or all of his analysis was right, there was no way to know, but putting things together the way he had along with memories of what his sister experienced, what had happened made sense. All they could do now was stay where they were and wait until Joe Ryder arrived in Lisbon and contacted them. Then they would go from there.
Again Marten looked at the clock: 3:51 A.M.
He closed his eyes and finally, mercifully, fell asleep.
3:53 A.M.
They spoke in Portuguese.
“Which floor?”
“The top one, I think. I walked around to the back. There was only one light on in the building, and it was up there. It went out about twenty minutes ago. The woman entered around midnight, the man about an hour later.”
“You’re certain it was them.” Carlos Branco stood in the darkened park across the street from the building at 17 Rua do Almada, a fisherman’s cap on his head, his jacket collar turned up against the lightly falling drizzle. The woman with him was maybe twenty. Her dark, short-cropped hair, light pullover jacket, and jeans were soaked through. She’d been outside for a long time.
“I’m certain it’s her,” she said. “I followed her from the Baixa. The man—I’m not positive it was him. I only saw him from the park, but he pretty much fit the description I was given.”
“You did well.”
“I know.”
Branco took her hand and put five one-hundred-euro bills into it. “Go home and go to bed. You were never here.”
He watched her walk off in the dark, then pass under a street-lamp and then fade again into the night. He looked back, then slid a night-vision scope from his jacket and trained it on the top floor. Even in its green glow, he saw only darkness.
3:58 A.M.
97
4:32 A.M.
Its headlights out, the gray BMW rolled to a stop on the far side of the park across from Rua do Almada. Seconds later a figure moved out of the dark, opened the rear door, and slid in beside Conor White.
“Number 17, top floor,” Carlos Branco said.
“You’re certain it’s them?”
“The woman, yes. The man, not positive, but I would bet it’s Marten. There’s a narrow alley at the back and a rear entrance. I have a man there watching. No one’s come out. My guess is they’re sleeping. The door lock’s easy to crack. You want to go in, now is the time.”
White looked to Irish Jack at the wheel and Patrice beside him. “Jack, take us around back and down the alley, lights out.”
“Colonel,” Branco warned. “This needs to be done very quickly. Afterward go directly to your plane and get out of the country. Right then, right away.”
“What do you mean, right away?”
“The police are everywhere looking for the shooter of my men.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“They are also looking for you and”—he nodded toward Patrice and Irish Jack—“them.”
“Why? What the hell do they want us for?”
“The murder of a Spanish doctor and her medical students in the countryside near Madrid.”
“What?” Conor White was stunned. “How do you know this?”
“I have many lines of contact within the police organizations. Whether