The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [196]
“I don’t have the memory card.”
“Ms. Tidrow, no doubt, had the photographs, which would now be in the possession of Congressman Ryder. And very soon put into a diplomatic pouch. But you wouldn’t have given her the memory card because you didn’t really trust her. I saw that in Praia da Rocha. It means you kept it yourself.”
“You’re right, Yuri. I did have it. But I lost it. I’m not sure where.”
Anger flashed across Kovalenko’s face. “You plotted nicely to leave a trail I could follow, and you knew I would come once I realized you had made the switch. You counted on me helping you because you knew things were going to get tough. In doing that you would have also known such help would come with a price. I cannot go back to Moscow empty-handed, tovarich. If I do I will soon be out of a job. Maybe worse.”
“You’re not going empty-handed. You have a memory card. It shows any number of lovely young women sunbathing. Is it your fault Theo Haas had such a hobby?”
Suddenly Kovalenko stepped into the driver’s cubicle and punched a button. Immediately the car slowed, then stopped mid-tunnel. He turned back and gestured with the machine pistol. “Take off your fucking clothes, tovarich. If I have to I will even check your asshole!”
124
They came out of the Martim Moniz Metro station in bright sunshine, damp sidewalks and puddles the only suggestion that a rainstorm had passed. A silver Peugeot was parked at the curb across the street, and Kovalenko nodded toward it.
Marten looked at him in surprise, if not admiration. “The train could have been sent in from the other direction. How did you know which way it would come?”
“It’s my business to know.”
Five minutes later Kovalenko was driving them past the Intendente Metro station and away from the city center. Two ambulances were parked outside it with two police cars behind them.
“Waiting for Branco’s delivery,” Marten said quietly. “I feel bad about Ryder’s RSO detail. They were good men, both of them.”
“Like I said, it’s a dirty business.” Kovalenko kept his eyes on the road. Thirty seconds went by, and then he looked at Marten. “I want you to know I’m very upset about the memory card. You did something with it. And don’t tell me again you lost it. Where the hell is it?”
“What if I were to promise you the pictures will never be made public, nor will the CIA have them. None of them. ‘The photographs and memory card you were after were either destroyed or never existed.’ That’s how the official record will read. The memory card you recovered is the only one there was. Knowing that, you can take it back to Moscow with a clear conscience and let your people examine it themselves. Soon everyone will smile and make jokes about what you’re paid to do, but you’ll be off the hook.”
Kovalenko glared at him. “You design gardens in England. The photographs and most probably the memory card are now in the hands of a United States congressman. That means every security agency in Washington will know about them. So how can you promise such a thing?”
“Because I can. From me to you, Yuri.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.”
Kovalenko looked off in disgust and then back at the road. They were traveling up a long tree-lined boulevard. Traffic was moving normally; people were chatting on street corners, going in and out of shops and offices, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The way life usually is in cities, people getting on with their own lives and for the most part wholly unaware of what murderous intrigues may be going on around them, or in the subways beneath their feet.
Suddenly Marten grew wary. “Where the hell are we going?”
“To the airport. I’m sending you home and hope you stay there for many years. As I said to you a long time ago, tovarich, go back to your English gardens. This other kind of life does not suit you.” Abruptly he looked at him. “I trust you haven’t lost your passport.”
“Yuri.” Marten was more than apprehensive. “I can’t go to an airport, not to a commercial