The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [198]
“You know about Raisa.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I, thank you. We’ll talk about it later.”
And that had been the extent of it. Then the president had hung up, after saying he would get back to him when he had more information.
After that he’d gone back to work at Fitzsimmons and Justice, still terribly troubled by what had taken place in Portugal and by the ongoing war in Equatorial Guinea that seemed to have no end. Tiombe’s forces pushed hard against Abba’s one day, with Abba’s people countering the next. He was disturbed as well—perplexed was more the word—by what had happened to Conor White. That a man like White had simply given up without a fight and let himself be killed made no sense. Still, troubled as he was, he knew there was nothing he could do about any of it so he tried to shift his life back into everyday mode. Twenty-four hours later President Harris called instructing him to fly to Portland, Maine, the following morning. A Secret Service agent would pick him up at the airport and drive him to a place where they would meet. He should be prepared to spend several days.
The driver eased the Town Car over a wooden bridge and then up a heavily forested hill. Here and there Marten glimpsed armed men among the trees, a periphery guard of Secret Service agents. At the top of the hill the road evened out and the thick woods gave way to cleared meadow. At the end was a large Victorian farmhouse set in a grove of conifers. Several black SUVs were parked in front. As they neared, he saw a sniper, and then a second, take up positions on the building’s rooftop. Then they were there, and two men in Windbreakers and blue jeans stepped out from between the SUVs. One of them opened the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Marten,” he said. “The president is waiting for you.”
They were sitting around a large conference table in the home’s living room as he was ushered in. President Harris, Congressman Ryder, a man he recognized as Attorney General Kotteras, several others he didn’t know, lawyers, he assumed, and Anne. Most were dressed casually. Anne wasn’t. She wore a conservative business suit, her dark hair cut a little shorter than he remembered, expensive makeup done to perfection. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the room. He could almost read her thoughts. “So this is your ‘old girlfriend,’ darling. You’ve been using me the whole fucking time, you cocksucker.” On the other hand, there was the slightest hint of a sparkle in her eyes, as if beneath everything, she appreciated it all, even admired him for doing it.
“Mr. President, Congressman, Anne,” he said formally.
“Please sit down,” the president said as formally, then introduced the attorney general. The distance was still there, more so in person, Marten thought, than when Harris had called him in Manchester. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
The president looked at him. “The people here are aware that I asked you to go to Bioko to meet with Father Dorhn because of his brother’s concern for him and for what he feared might be going on between the Striker Oil and Hadrian companies in Equatorial Guinea. In that regard you should know that President Tiombe resigned his office early this morning and has left the country. Abba and his people have taken over. The announcement will be made public tomorrow. We, the United Nations relief services, and a number of other countries are sending in humanitarian aid as we speak. The politics of it we will address after we see how Abba sets up his new government and determine if he is a man we want to trust and support, a consideration which, at the moment, seems to be running in his favor.
“I’m aware that you and Ms. Tidrow are greatly concerned about the welfare of the tribal people. As you know, I saw the CIA briefing video. Congressman Ryder and Mr. Kotteras have seen it, too. We’ve