The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [96]
“Marten’s aware that he’s being tracked,” he said. “The Cessna was on approach, then suddenly veered off in a cloud deck and reported radio trouble. There is something of a disorder in the Málaga tower as a result.”
“The transmitter was new. It was functioning perfectly.”
“And then it went dead. Almost at the exact same moment the pilot aborted her landing. Either it was found and disabled or simply stopped working at a con ve nient moment. But whatever happened makes no difference. The Cessna is gone. Málaga tower is attempting to locate it by its transponder reading, but it will take time. Maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours. Who knows?”
Kovalenko suddenly leaned in close, his face inches from the German detective’s, his eyes seeming to pull back into his skull in a way that was wholly unnerving. “Hauptkommissar, that little tracking device, no bigger than your pinky finger—its condition and where it was placed on the aircraft were your responsibility.”
“I neither selected it nor placed it. I simply ordered it done and it was.”
“It was your responsibility, Hauptkommissar. The Cessna is gone. So is Marten.”
“Then I will find him.”
“If he’s not already on the ground somewhere and vanished. Then where will we be, Hauptkommissar, you and I? Most particularly to Moscow.”
Franck’s black eyes flashed angrily at Kovalenko’s attempt to shift the blame to him, but he said nothing. Instead he stood up and slid a cell phone from his jacket, then punched in a number.
“At this point they won’t have much fuel remaining,” he said quietly, then turned to the phone as a male voice answered. “This is Franck. I want an immediate Europe-wide aeronautical APB on a Cessna 340, fuselage registration D-VKRD, last seen approaching AGP, Málaga Airport, Spain. Contact me with the coordinates the moment the aircraft’s transponder signal is located or when the pilot requests permission to land, whichever is first. I want information only. No contact is to be made with the aircraft itself. All agencies are requested to stand by for further instructions. No action is to be taken without my permission. Confirm.”
“Roger, copy. Confirmed, sir.”
Franck clicked off without another word, then looked to the Russian. “If, as you suggest, Nicholas Marten manages to land somewhere without our knowledge, then recovers the photographs and disappears into the mist, we would be dealing with the concept of fate we discussed earlier. Yours and mine especially, as far as Moscow is concerned. To paraphrase you, Kovalenko—we go about the business at hand until our true fate catches up and then—that’s that. Put more directly, unless something happens within a very short time, we will both soon be dead.”
5:31 A.M.
60
CESSNA, D-VKRD. AIRSPEED 190 MILES PER HOUR.
ALTITUDE JUST OVER 11,200 FEET. 5:57 A.M.
“Where are we?” Marten was talking to Brigitte without looking at her, his eyes on the sparkling lights of a city below.
“Passing over Gibraltar. Following the coastline west, as you asked.”
“Good.”
“It would be helpful if you told me where you want to land.”
“I’ll tell you when we get there. The same as I’ve I said all along.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was still nearly an hour to sunrise. Faro, Marten had to remember, was in Portugal, not Spain, and the time zone there was an hour earlier, meaning it was now approaching five in the morning Portuguese time. From what he remembered of the Google map he’d studied earlier, Gibraltar was probably a hundred and fifty miles from Faro in a direct line. By following the coast they could easily add another forty or fifty miles to the trip. Meaning it would be sometime after six when they reached Faro, and that was important. If they arrived too early, the airport terminal would be relatively quiet, making it difficult for two