The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [97]
Marten glanced at the gauge on the instrument panel. It read close to empty.
The last thing he wanted was to put down somewhere between where they were and Faro, because the minute he gave the order to land, Brigitte would have to contact the tower, and once they were down they would be vulnerable. Never mind that the people in two planes he suspected had followed them to Málaga might still be on their tail; if Brigitte was a CIA plant arranged through Erlanger in Berlin, she might well silently alert someone on the ground and an operation to tail them would be in force when they arrived. That kind of chance he was prepared to take in Faro because he knew exactly where they were going afterward; he’d just have to hope they could find a way to leave the airport quickly and unnoticed. But landing at an unknown airport along the way was no good. He looked to Brigitte.
“How soon before we need fuel?”
“An hour. A little more if we throttle back and slow down.”
“Then slow us down,” he said without hesitation. If they made it to Faro they would be landing on fumes, but it was a chance he was willing to take.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Anne’s voice rang out from behind him.
He turned to look at her. She was sitting back, her arms folded over her chest. “I’m not exactly in the mood to end up in the Atlantic.” She smiled demurely.
“If it makes you feel any better, neither am I.”
“How comforting.” She smiled again.
“Isn’t it?”
6:00 A.M.
61
STRIKER OIL GULFSTREAM G550. SOMEWHERE OVER
NORTHERN SPAIN. AIRSPEED 510 MILES PER HOUR.
ALTITUDE 31,300 FEET. 6:14 A.M.
“I understand, Conor, there was nothing you could do,” Sy Wirth said with uncharacteristic calm, his ear to his Conor White–only, blue-tape BlackBerry. “I assume you’re still on the ground at Málaga?”
“Yes, sir,” White’s voice came back. “There’s a lot of traffic. The tower is having difficulty picking up the transponder signal from the Cessna. It’s a complicated procedure that’s out of my hands. Even my man in air traffic can’t force it. I’ve pushed him as hard as I can. We’re cleared for takeoff the moment we isolate the signal.”
“I’ll call you back.” Abruptly Wirth clicked off, set the blue-tape BlackBerry on the worktable in front of him, and picked up his other BlackBerry. Immediately he punched in a number and waited for it to connect through.
“I know, Josiah, they’ve lost the signal. My people are on it.” Despite the hour Dimitri Korostin was right there, clearly expecting his call. “It’s much too early to have to deal with your problems. You’re making me begin to think an Andean gas field is hardly worth it.”
“A field the size of the Santa Cruz–Tarija is worth as many problems as you have to solve. That is, if you still intend to deliver as promised. So fuck you, and find out where the hell Marten’s plane is.”
“Fuck you, too. I’ll let you know when I have something.” With that the Russian clicked off.
Sy Wirth set the BlackBerry down and poured himself a cup of coffee from the thermos the flight attendant had provided. When he had it, he sat back and tried to relax. He could worry, but it wouldn’t help. Dimitri’s people were in the air and on Marten’s tail. So far, and despite Marten’s clever maneuverings, they’d tracked him every step of the way, so there was no reason to believe they wouldn’t pick him up again soon. There was little doubt Conor White and his team would find him in due course, too, but Dimitri’s people would find him faster and with a lot less noise.
Unfortunate as losing the Cessna’s signal was, it was strangely working in his favor and was why he hadn’t raised his voice to White. Why upset someone who’s