The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [54]
8:22 P.M.
He reached the house and set the shovel alongside the front door, giving it a second glance as he did, wondering if more graves would have to be dug that night. A deep breath of resolve and he took a black balaclava from his jacket pocket, pulled it on, then opened the door and went inside.
The five “guests” were as he had left them, sitting in the glow of lantern light on a rustic wooden bench in the room that was once part kitchen, part dining area. By now he knew them by name—Marita, Gilberto, Rosa with the big glasses, Luis, the red-haired Ernesto. All were as pale, terrified, and silent as they’d been when he’d gone out. Except for Marita, they all stared at the floor. Her eyes had been on him the moment he stepped through the door. They were filled with defiance and hatred.
Irish Jack stood at the end of the bench, his arms crossed over his chest. Patrice was in front of them, feet apart, his arms behind him. Both wore the jeans and pullover sweaters he did. Both had automatic pistols in Kevlar holsters strapped to their thighs. Both wore the same kind of black balaclava he did.
“Who is ready to talk about the photographs?” White said in his crisp British accent.
“For the hundredth time, we cannot tell you what we don’t know,” Marita spat angrily.
Conor White looked at the frightened, sullen faces and scratched his head. “Maybe we’re making this too hard,” he said evenly and with that reached up and pulled off his balaclava. This was the first time he had been without it, and he could see their surprise as they recognized him from the bar in the Hotel Malabo. “Gentlemen”—he looked to Patrice and Irish Jack and nodded—“a little politeness, please. No reason to alarm these people any further.”
Immediately both men removed their balaclavas and tucked them into their belts.
White moved a little closer. “You now see we are forthright and mean you no harm. All this has come about because of the civil war in Bioko. The photographs are very important to the oil company that employs us. Our job is to recover them, and right away. Once we do you will be free to go.”
Suddenly Rosa looked up and boldly repeated Marita’s words. “We cannot tell you what we don’t know.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can.” White hesitated for a moment, then looked to Patrice. “We need to speed this up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Patrice took a half step to stand right in front of them. He looked from one to the other to the other, turned toward Marita, then abruptly reversed his move and stepped in front of Rosa. A gasp went up from the others as a second later Irish Jack moved behind her to take hold of her shoulders in an iron grip White himself couldn’t escape from.
“Marita!” Rosa cried out.
In the next instant Patrice slid the automatic from his holster and slid it up under her nose.
White’s eyes went to Marita. “Where are the photographs?”
Marita’s eyes went to Rosa in horror, then came back to him. “For God’s sake, we don’t know! We’ve told you that over and over!”
“That’s too bad.”
Conor White nodded at Patrice. Irish Jack stepped to the side and Patrice pulled the trigger. There was an ear-shattering roar and Rosa’s head exploded, her oversized glasses disappearing behind her, her body collapsing like a rag doll across the bench.
White gave them no chance to recover, just walked over to Marita. “The photographs. Where are