The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [195]
Marten glanced at them, the Glock still trained on Conor White. “Stay back or I’ll shoot him right now!” he ordered.
Branco stopped. So did his men.
White sat motionless, staring into the distance.
Marten glanced at Kovalenko. “Cover me.”
Kovalenko nodded. Marten waited a half beat, then rushed the kiosk, fully expecting White to make a sudden move. But he didn’t. Then Marten was in the kiosk and on top of him. All he saw was a tableau—White sitting in the center of the kiosk, half his face in light, the rest in deep shadow, a newspaper in his hands, the MP5 and a 9 mm SIG SAUER semiautomatic resting on a stack of magazines next to him. It might as well have been a still photograph.
Marten pushed the Glock against White’s head, then eased over and carefully slid the weapons out of reach. He was still expecting a trick, a sudden move. None came. White just sat there staring at nothing, his chest rising and falling as he breathed. In a heartbeat the fight, the life, everything, seemed to have gone out of him. Marten lowered the Glock.
Kovalenko stepped in beside him. “What the hell happened?”
Marten shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“ ‘He’s dead.’ What was he talking about? The guy you shot in the tunnel?”
“Maybe.”
Marten looked to the newspaper in White’s hand, as if that might have had something to with it. It was a copy of that morning’s copy of the International Herald Tribune. He could see part of a headline about a suicide bombing in the Middle East, a column about the ongoing global financial crisis, and a few more everyday items. Nothing that would bring a man like Conor White to his knees. Whatever had happened had to have been something else. Something physical. A small stroke. Some kind of mild heart attack. Who knew?
Kovalenko glanced at Carlos Branco. “One of White’s men is dead inside the tunnel. The bodies on the platform. Several appear to be people caught in the crossfire. Another is from White’s team. The last is Ryder’s RSO guy.”
“I know,” Branco said.
“Marten and I are taking the train car out. When we get to where we’re going, I’ll send it back.” He looked to Marten. “Give me the pistol.”
Marten’s eyes came up to Kovalenko’s. “Why? What the hell are you going to do?”
“Just give it to me.”
Marten glanced at Branco and then at his men. Finally and reluctantly he did as Kovalenko asked. The Russian took it, pulled out a handkerchief, then wiped off Marten’s fingerprints and put the gun down next to White. Still the Englishman didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge their presence.
“Get on the train, tovarich.” Kovalenko gestured with the machine pistol. “I want to talk about my memory card.”
Marten looked at White once more, then walked off toward the train car. Kovalenko followed him inside and pressed a button. The doors closed and the car started back up the track the way it had come. Then they heard the boom of a single gunshot.
Marten looked at Kovalenko. “White. Branco shot him.”
The Russian nodded. “White was CIA. Branco was freelancing for them.”
“Then why did he kill him?”
“The chapter had to be ended, tovarich. They would be afraid of what might come out if he was put on trial.”
“The police think I killed Franck and Theo Haas. They’re going to have the same problem with me if I get caught. Branco would have known that. Why didn’t he take care of me, too?”
“Because I paid him not to. He makes a lot of money not doing things.”
“Anne got away, Ryder got away. And then he lets me go. What happens to him now?”
“He goes to his handler and says, ‘We took care of White. His shooters are dead, too. Sorry, the rest didn’t quite work out the way it was supposed to, but call me the next time you need me.’ And they will. It’s a dirty business all around.”
Marten let out a sigh of disbelief, then looked back down the track toward the Rossio station. A tiny iris of bright at the end of a dark tunnel.
“Take off your clothes,” Kovalenko said behind him.
“What?” Marten whirled around. The machine pistol was pointed at his chest.
“Strip