The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [39]
9:07 A.M.
The Athlete was stopped midcorridor outside Hall 2B. Through the terminal’s glass wall he could see the British Airways London-bound aircraft pull back from the gate. He lifted a hand to his mouth. “This is Three,” he said quietly but with urgency. “Who’s got him?”
“This is Two. He came out of the gate area. Security swept in and we lost him. One?”
“I don’t have him.”
“There’s three of you out there! Somebody had to pick him up! Four, where are you?”
Silence.
“Four, repeat, where are you?”
Silence.
“This is One. Four isn’t answering.”
9:11 A.M.
Anne Tidrow watched Marten enter Hall 2D, then go into the boarding area, looking at the gate numbers as he went. No one had had to tell her he’d been lying about his British Airways flight to London and his connecting flight to Manchester. In the minutes before he’d seen her watching him from the upper balcony, she had seen him. He’d been about to enter a café area in Hall 2B when he’d stopped a uniformed Air France flight crew and asked directions. One of them had pointed in the direction of Hall 2D. Marten had nodded, then thanked them and gone into the café, where he’d purchased coffee and a croissant and soon afterward made a call on a cell phone.
9:15 A.M.
She saw him enter the section at Gate D55 and join the line of passengers boarding flight 1734 for Berlin. Ninety seconds later he handed an Air France gate attendant his boarding pass, then entered the jetway and disappeared from view.
A breath and she lifted her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cough.
“This is Four. I’m in Hall 2D. I thought I saw him come this way, then he took the escalator down and I lost him.”
“Roger, Four.” The voice of One came back.
Anne Tidrow watched for a moment longer as the last of the passengers slipped into the jetway and the Air France people closed the door behind them. She lingered a few seconds, then walked off. As she did she took a cell phone from her purse, flicked it open, then tapped in a number and waited for it to ring through.
Past lives, fond memories, old friends.
By the time Marten reached Berlin and entered the city—by taxi, private car, public transportation, or even if he walked—she would know where he had gone and where to find him.
22
BERLIN TEGEL AIRPORT. STILL FRIDAY, JUNE 4. 11:15 A.M.
Nicholas Marten exited Air France flight 1734 in a group of passengers. Suitcase in tow, he left the Gate A14 area and passed through the green NOTHING TO DECLARE customs archway into the crowded arrivals area, where people were gathered to meet travelers from incoming flights. Two minutes later he was outside in warm sunshine and walking toward the taxi area. A dozen paces more and he moved to the edge of the curb away from sidewalk traffic. He gave a quick glance around and unzipped the upper pocket on his suitcase and took out the dark blue throwaway cell phone. By now Theo Haas’s private phone number was etched in his memory. He punched in the number and waited. The phone rang four times, and then a recording clicked on. A husky male voice that he took to be Haas’s made a brief announcement in German. The recording ended and there was silence, followed by the usual beep signaling the caller to leave a message. For an instant he thought about identifying himself and mentioning Joe Ryder’s name, then decided against it and clicked off. Who knew what other party might retrieve Haas’s calls—wife, girlfriend, house man, secretary? Maybe he talked about personal business with people he knew well, maybe he didn’t. Besides, there was every chance Joe Ryder hadn’t yet reached him. Or maybe he’d tried and like Marten got only a recording. No, Marten thought, better to wait, call him a little later in the day. Immediately he clicked off, slipped the phone into his coat pocket, then walked off toward the taxi queue.
A gray-haired, matronly woman wearing a lightweight summer coat watched him go. She had been in a group of others waiting at Gate A14 to meet arriving passengers and had followed