The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [71]
Marten moved gingerly, trying to find some sort of comfort in his cramped, traveling prison. For a time he thought he had managed it and relaxed as best he could. Then the van hit a pothole in the roadway and he shot straight up, banging his head against the top of the enclosure. Seconds later they slowed and came to a stop. He heard a mix of voices and then that of a sharp-edged, authoritative male speaking German. Erlanger’s voice came next. They were at a police checkpoint.
Now what?
Suddenly he heard the van’s rear doors open. Then someone climbed inside. He held his breath as Erlanger had asked. There was the scrape of the antique chairs as they were moved aside. Immediately there was a thump on the van’s far wall, as if someone had hit it with a fist. Then came more. The vehicle’s interior paneling was being checked. Seconds later there was a bang on the outside of the panel just above his head. In the next instant he heard Anne say something in German, her voice calm and accommodating. Several seconds passed, and then he heard footsteps retreating and the sound of the rear doors closing. There was another exchange between Erlanger and the authoritative male. A silence followed, and then the van moved off.
Marten exhaled.
One checkpoint down. How many more to go?
9:32 A.M.
9:40 A.M.
Hauptkommissar Franck sat alone in a dark gray Audi parked along Lichtensteinallee in the Tiergarten, Berlin’s sprawling urban park. He stared blankly out at the drizzle and listened to the crackle of radio transmissions from his people in the field, most particularly the force he’d sent out in the last hour following his conversation with the Monbijou’s waiter. His description of the man and woman who had gotten off the tour boat at the Lustgarten dock, coupled with the reference he’d made to the Dallas Cowboys baseball cap the man had been wearing, all but matched the account the shamed motorcycle officers had given him in their report.
As a result he’d made a computerized grid of the surrounding area, then set up roadblocks at intersections and sent two hundred plainclothes and uniformed officers into it in a block-by-block search. Afterward he’d climbed into his car and driven here, then parked and waited.
Now he lifted a small container of orange juice, took a sip, and put it back in the car’s cup holder. The gray sky, the drizzle. He should be home sleeping, especially after the long night. Under other circumstances the suspects would already be in custody. Meaning he could get up late, have a cup of coffee with his wife, then go to the gym before meeting with the media. But these weren’t other circumstances.
“We need to talk.” He still heard the throaty female voice he’d heard when he’d answered his cell phone in the early-morning hours.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Same place?”
“Yes.”
The place had been a darkened café just off Taubenstrasse near Gendarmenmarkt Square. The time, 3:30 A.M. It had been just the two of them, half seen in a chiaroscuro of near black-and-white created by the spill from a streetlamp outside. Elsa was older, as he was, but still exhilaratingly handsome, intellectually and sexually. The sexual activity between them had stopped years before, and he knew better than to try to relight it. Especially now and under the circumstances.
“This Nicholas Marten,” she’d said as she had walked behind the bar to pour them each a small cognac and then come around it to sit on a stool next to him.
“What about him?”
“Allegedly there