The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [175]
Branco and four of his former Portuguese army commandos were already in place, waiting in dark-colored sedans, a Peugeot and an Alfa Romeo, at either end of the alley behind the hospital. Each man was acutely aware of the less-than-hour-old death of their group member sent to tail Marten and Anne by motorcycle. Each had been warned, too, of Marten’s deadly marksmanship in the shooting of the two others of their circle who had gone after him in the blue Jaguar the night before. That they had no idea who he really was, or what his training had been, wouldn’t matter; their blood was up for a proper response, and they were more than eager for it to begin.
For his part, he, Patrice, and Irish Jack would stay were they were, parked at the curb fifty yards up from the hospital entrance, weapons and black balaclavas at hand, ready to play the game as it unfolded.
No matter what happened, or where, the end would be the same. The five targets would be quickly cut off and isolated from the public. He, Patrice, and Irish Jack would do the work. Branco and his team would back them up. It would take thirty seconds, no more. As quickly, Branco’s people would fade into the city, and they would be on their way to the airport and the Falcon 50, safe with the knowledge that there were probably no more than a handful of policemen anywhere on the planet who would stop a highly polished black Mercedes with UN plates and three well-dressed gentlemen inside, no matter how fast they were going.
That was Plan A.
Alternatively, if something happened and Moses was exposed and/or he came out empty-handed, they would immediately shift to the uglier but still very effective Plan B. Call in Branco’s men, pull on the balaclavas, then go into the hospital, lock it down, and begin a forced search of their own. The hospital was small, and they’d done such things successfully before. In Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq.
“What’s taking Moses so fucking long?” Irish Jack squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel. “If they’re there, he would know it. If they aren’t, he should have reported it by now.”
Patrice raised a pair of binoculars and studied the building’s front entrance.
“Give the man time, Jack,” White said quietly. “Give the man time.”
Irish Jack turned to look over his shoulder. “Colonel, my balls tell me he’s taking too fucking long.”
“I never distrust a man’s balls, Jack. Let’s find out.” White lifted his arm, pressed the KEY TO TALK button on the microphone inside his coat sleeve, and spoke into it. “3-3, this is Control. Do you have a rabbit for us? Copy.”
11:18 A.M.
111
11:19 A.M.
Marten, Mário Gama, and Special Agent Grant stood inside a darkened inner chamber of the hospital’s Security Center studying a bank of monitor screens tied to security cameras throughout the building.
“There.” Gama indicated one of the screens as a man in a starched white laundryman’s jacket stepped into view near the front entrance. “He’s the one who asked for you.”
They could see Moses standing in a shaft of daylight just back from the door, a hand to his ear, seemingly intent on something.
“He’s plugged into a radio unit. Someone’s talking to him,” Grant said quietly.
They could see Moses nod, then lift his left arm to his mouth and apparently say something. He waited, then nodded slightly. A second later he turned and walked out of view. Another monitor picked him up as he approached the front reception desk to speak with a hospital employee behind it.
“Whoever he was talking to wants to know what’s taking so long, and he’s trying to find out,” Grant continued.
Other monitors showed nothing more than normal hospital activity at the front and rear entries. Another showed the emergency room entrance, with a vanlike ambulance parked in the drive-in bay. One angle from a remote camera over the front door showed the sidewalk and street outside with the laundry truck parked on the far side of the traffic stanchions.
“I’m going to speak to