The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [154]
Ordinarily he would have dismissed it, telling himself that maybe he was overdoing it. That there was no reason to be alarmed by a lone man standing in a public park, a lone man who might well be waiting to meet someone, say, for a ride to work. But he had to remember that only hours earlier he had been all but face-to-face with Conor White and Patrice. Had to remember that Anne had been very quickly traced to the Hotel Chiado Lisboa. Had to remember the men in the blue Jaguar. Meaning White or someone else, quite possibly the CIA, would have immediately put assets on the streets looking for them.
One last glance at the man in the park and he left the window and went into the kitchen.
It was now almost seven o’clock in Lisbon, approaching two in the morning in Washington, and President Harris would be sleeping. It made no difference; it was imperative he know what was going on. Moreover, Marten needed him to get in touch with Joe Ryder right then. Whoever the man in the park was or wasn’t, White knew they were in the city and probably somewhere in the vicinity of the hotel. The minute Ryder landed he would be under heavy surveillance. Wherever he went someone would be right on top of him. And if White’s people were already here watching the apartment, there was no way he and Anne and Ryder could go anywhere without being followed. Moreover, if they were going to meet with Ryder they would be physically carrying the evidence with them—Anne’s copy of the memorandum and the photographs in her purse, the camera’s memory card tucked unseen into his jeans. If they were caught, all of it would be gone in an instant.
He lifted the phone, started to punch in the number of the president’s throwaway cell phone, then stopped. If White’s men or CIA assets were watching the apartment, they might very well have sophisticated listening devices that would pick up any phone conversation coming into or going out of the building. Not only would his conversation be heard, it wouldn’t take long for them to analyze the voices and realize who he was talking to. Still, the president needed to know what was happening, and he needed to know now. What he had to do was assume the people outside were indeed White’s men or CIA and take the chance they had only recently come on-scene and as yet hadn’t received the kind of complex electronic gear they would need to monitor calls.
He punched in the number of the president’s phone. It rang once, then twice, then—
“What is it? Something wrong? Have you spoken with Ryder?” the president said quickly, almost as if he’d been waiting for the call.
“The CIA,” Marten said. “Anne Tidrow hacked into a secure Web site and pulled up a memo from the deputy director. He made a deal with Striker Oil and Hadrian to provide backing for the insurrection in Equatorial Guinea as a way to help gain favor with the rebels and drive out President Tiombe, chiefly as a means to secure Striker’s leases for years to come.” Marten took the note he’d scribbled earlier from his pocket. “I wrote down part of it, what I could remember, something like—‘a plan to secure unimpeded drilling access and petroleum rights for the U.S. in Equatorial Guinea,’ ” he read. “ ‘This initiative is part of a bigger national obligation to achieve energy independence from other world sources of crude oil.’ ”
“Are you absolutely certain what you have is authentic?”
“Anne photographed the entire memorandum off a hotel room TV screen. It’s film, 35 mm negative. The quality may not be great, but it’s all there, every page of it. You worried that the attorney general would have little to work with. Add the memorandum to the photographs and Anne’s testimony and you’ll have enough for a major firestorm.
“But that’s putting tomorrow ahead of today. I haven’t yet heard from Joe Ryder and have no way to reach him, but I have to talk to him,