The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [70]
“As far as I know, still in Malabo.”
“You have his cell number?”
Anne nodded.
Deliberately Marten walked over and picked up her purse, then fished out her BlackBerry and dropped it in her lap. “Call him. Ask him where he is.”
“Alright.” Anne picked up the BlackBerry and punched in a number. She waited a few seconds; then they both heard a male voice on the other end. It was sharp and curt, the British accent unmistakable.
“Yes.”
“It’s Anne. Where are you?” She paused as he said something, then, “I just wanted to know where you were if I needed you.” Another pause, then, “I’m still in Berlin. But don’t come here. I’m alright. Never mind what you see in the media.” There was a long pause as White said something more, then, “Yes, I think so. What?” Another pause, then, “No, I don’t think, Conor, I know,” she said testily, then finished. “I’ll be in touch.”
Marten watched her click off, then get up and put the Black-Berry away. “Where is he?” he said.
Anne hesitated.
“Where?”
“Madrid, Barajas Airport.”
“Madrid?”
“Yes.”
Marten leaned in so that his face was inches from hers. “The next time you talk to him, tell him from me that it was all for nothing. The people he killed didn’t know a damn thing about the photographs. I never said a word.”
Anne looked at him genuinely, even vulnerably. “Think whatever you want. But I didn’t know. Whatever Conor White did, he did on his own, or maybe, as I said before, at the urging of Sy Wirth or the people at Hadrian.”
Marten glared at her hatefully, then took a breath and crossed the room to again stare out the window. “When the hell are we getting out of here?”
“A van is picking us up”—she looked at her watch—“in five minutes.”
“Where?”
“Outside, on Ziegelstrasse.”
“A van is coming here?”
“Yes.”
“To do what, run us right past the noses of the five thousand cops looking for us?”
“Hopefully.”
“Hopefully?”
“The Hauptkommissar is getting closer. He must have interviewed people on the tour boat. Police are starting to put up roadblocks near the dock where we got off. If what I’ve put together doesn’t work, we can both look forward to spending the next thirty years in a German prison.”
Marten’s eyes fixed on hers. “God damn you. Your company. Hadrian. Conor White. All of you.”
“I’m sorry.”
8:50 A.M.
42
9:12 A.M.
The van had been there right on time, parked at the curb at the end of the alley where it met Ziegelstrasse. It was white and reasonably new. A man introduced by Anne as Hartmann Erlanger was at the wheel. He was probably in his late fifties and slim with thinning gray hair. He wore frameless glasses and a light brown cardigan over dark brown slacks, all of which gave him the appearance of a retired professor or antiques dealer, the role he seemed to be playing. Or at least that was what Marten remembered before he was ushered into the vehicle’s rear compartment and past a collection of a dozen or so straight-backed antique chairs. Immediately Erlanger removed an interior panel to reveal a tiny, cramped space over the left rear wheel.
“Get in, please,” he said in heavily accented English. “The police are stopping traffic at intersections, checking identification. I was lucky to get through. If we are stopped, please do not move, make no sound at all. Hold your breath if you can.”
Marten climbed in and twisted around, trying to make his six-foot-tall body somehow conform to the microscopic area. Then Erlanger put the panel back in place. Marten heard him lock it, and like that he was alone in the pitch black.
He remembered hearing Erlanger speak to Anne in English seconds later. “How is your German? There is every chance we will be stopped on the way out.”
He heard Anne begin to say something in German, and then the driver’s door slammed closed and Erlanger started the engine. Seconds later the van moved off.
Whatever else Anne had done, or hadn’t, or was involved with, there was no question that she had balls. Apparently she was going to sit up front with Erlanger as they attempted to pass through Franck’s roadblocks. Probably play Erlanger’s wife