The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [160]
Anne and Marten were attempting much the same thing now. Only their destination was not a ship on the waterfront but an electrician’s van parked at the end of the block. With luck, and if the passageways were still navigable after nearly seventy years of nonuse, and if they left the building at number 9 and climbed unseen into the van Raisa had waiting, they should arrive at Hospital da Universidade on Rua Serpa Pinto after a reasonably short ride and pretty much on time.
That Raisa had been able to put the entire rescue plan together so quickly was a marvel in itself. She had taken Marten’s call at seven fifteen. At seven eighteen she was in the top-floor apartment dressed in the rose-colored bathrobe and slippers she’d worn the night before and listening carefully to what Marten had to say, knowing all the while that with Anne present he would have to find a way to let her know what was happening and what needed to be done without referring to President Harris by name or office.
And he had, telling her that an American politician had just flown in by private plane from Iraq, and they needed to meet with him as soon as possible and in a place that was private and out of the public eye. Further, there were people outside her building now waiting to follow them to wherever that place was. What they hoped she could do was provide them with that meeting place and a way that they could get to it, quickly and without being seen by those outside. Further, wherever that place was, they would all have to leave it soon afterward undetected for a trip to the airport and the politician’s plane. Complicating things even more was the fact that they had no way to contact their man without the people outside knowing. It was a big order, Marten understood, and made on very short notice. He ended his plea with a simple sentence. “I think you appreciate where this is coming from.”
“I appreciate very well where this is coming from,” Raisa said with a smile. “Old lovers die hard.”
If Anne had been caught up in the game of “what the hell’s going on?” she didn’t show it. Instead she gave Raisa a warning. “The people watching outside will have very sophisticated electronic listening equipment. Any conversation coming into or going out of the building will be heard, traced, and recorded, and that includes the line in this apartment that transfers out through your laundry company.”
“Then we’ll have to find another means.” Raisa walked off, lifting a BlackBerry from the pocket of her robe as she did. They saw her scan a list of names and numbers programmed into it. Immediately she put it away, turned, and came back.
“My laundry is called A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa, or Best Laundry of Lisbon. It’s not far from here. I go to my office there every morning, as I will do now. When I have something to tell you I will send a messenger. A teenage boy named Otavio. He will give you a slip of paper with instructions. Follow them exactly.”
“Raisa,” Marten said, “we can’t just walk out through the front door, or the back, either.”
It was then she’d told them about the network of passageways, warning of their age and probable condition but saying she thought they were still passable. “Look for a blue electrician’s van with white and gold lettering, Serviço Elétrico de Sete Dias—Seven Day Electrical Service. It will be parked at the end of the last house on the block. Go out the basement door and to it quickly. The driver will take you where you need to go. A truck from my laundry will get you to the airport.”
“You realize our man will have to know where to meet us and when,” Marten