shoot him right now!” he ordered.
Branco stopped. So did his men.
White sat motionless, staring into the distance.
Marten glanced at Kovalenko. “Cover me.”
Kovalenko nodded. Marten waited a half beat, then rushed the kiosk, fully expecting White to make a sudden move. But he didn’t. Then Marten was in the kiosk and on top of him. All he saw was a tableau-White sitting in the center of the kiosk, half his face in light, the rest in deep shadow, a newspaper in his hands, the MP5 and a 9 mm SIG SAUER semiautomatic resting on a stack of magazines next to him. It might as well have been a still photograph.
Marten pushed the Glock against White’s head, then eased over and carefully slid the weapons out of reach. He was still expecting a trick, a sudden move. None came. White just sat there staring at nothing, his chest rising and falling as he breathed. In a heartbeat the fight, the life, everything, seemed to have gone out of him. Marten lowered the Glock.
Kovalenko stepped in beside him. “What the hell happened?”
Marten shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“ ‘He’s dead.’ What was he talking about? The guy you shot in the tunnel?”
“Maybe.”
Marten looked to the newspaper in White’s hand, as if that might have had something to with it. It was a copy of that morning’s copy of the
Kovalenko glanced at Carlos Branco. “One of White’s men is dead inside the tunnel. The bodies on the platform. Several appear to be people caught in the crossfire. Another is from White’s team. The last is Ryder’s RSO guy.”
“I know,” Branco said.
“Marten and I are taking the train car out. When we get to where we’re going, I’ll send it back.” He looked to Marten. “Give me the pistol.”
Marten’s eyes came up to Kovalenko’s. “Why? What the hell are you going to do?”
“Just give it to me.”
Marten glanced at Branco and then at his men. Finally and reluctantly he did as Kovalenko asked. The Russian took it, pulled out a handkerchief, then wiped off Marten’s fingerprints and put the gun down next to White. Still the Englishman didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge their presence.
“Get on the train, tovarich.” Kovalenko gestured with the machine pistol. “I want to talk about my memory card.”
Marten looked at White once more, then walked off toward the train car. Kovalenko followed him inside and pressed a button. The doors closed and the car started back up the track the way it had come. Then they heard the boom of a single gunshot.
Marten looked at Kovalenko. “White. Branco shot him.”
The Russian nodded. “White was CIA. Branco was freelancing for them.”
“Then why did he kill him?”
“The chapter had to be ended, tovarich. They would be afraid of what might come out if he was put on trial.”
“The police think I killed Franck and Theo Haas. They’re going to have the same problem with me if I get caught. Branco would have known that. Why didn’t he take care of me, too?”
“Because I paid him not to. He makes a lot of money not doing things.”
“Anne got away, Ryder got away. And then he lets me go. What happens to him now?”
“He goes to his handler and says, ‘We took care of White. His shooters are dead, too. Sorry, the rest didn’t quite work out the way it was supposed to, but call me the next time you need me.’ And they will. It’s a dirty business all around.”
Marten let out a sigh of disbelief, then looked back down the track toward the Rossio station. A tiny iris of bright at the end of a dark tunnel.
“Take off your clothes,” Kovalenko said behind him.
“What?” Marten whirled around. The machine pistol was pointed at his chest.
“Strip search, tovarich. Take off your clothes! Socks, skivvies included. Turn everything inside out!”
“I don’t have the memory card.”
“Ms. Tidrow, no doubt, had the photographs, which would now be in the possession of Congressman Ryder. And very soon put into a diplomatic pouch. But you wouldn’t have given her the memory card because you didn’t really trust her. I saw that in Praia da Rocha. It means you kept it yourself.”
“You’re right, Yuri. I did have it. But I lost it. I’m not sure where.”
Anger flashed across Kovalenko’s face. “You plotted nicely to leave a trail I could follow, and you knew I would come once I realized you had made the switch. You counted on me helping you because you knew things were going to get tough. In doing that you would have also known such help would come with a price. I cannot go back to Moscow empty-handed, tovarich. If I do I will soon be out of a job. Maybe worse.”
“You’re not going empty-handed. You have a memory card. It shows any number of lovely young women sunbathing. Is it your fault Theo Haas had such a hobby?”
Suddenly Kovalenko stepped into the driver’s cubicle and punched a button. Immediately the car slowed, then stopped mid-tunnel. He turned back and gestured with the machine pistol. “Take off your fucking clothes, tovarich. If I have to I will even check your asshole!”
124
They came out of the Martim Moniz Metro station in bright sunshine, damp sidewalks and puddles the only suggestion that a rainstorm had passed. A silver Peugeot was parked at the curb across the street, and Kovalenko nodded toward it.
Marten looked at him in surprise, if not admiration. “The train could have been sent in from the other direction. How did you know which way it would come?”
“It’s my business to know.”
Five minutes later Kovalenko was driving them past the Intendente Metro station and away from the city center. Two ambulances were parked outside it with two police cars behind them.
“Waiting for Branco’s delivery,” Marten said quietly. “I feel bad about Ryder’s RSO detail. They were good men, both of them.”
“Like I said, it’s a dirty business.” Kovalenko kept his eyes on the road. Thirty seconds went by, and then he looked at Marten. “I want you to know I’m very upset about the memory card. You did something with it. And don’t tell me again you lost it. Where the hell is it?”
“What if I were to promise you the pictures will never be made public, nor will the CIA have them. None of them. ‘The photographs and memory card you were after were either destroyed or never existed.’ That’s how the official record will read. The memory card you recovered is the only one there was. Knowing that, you can take it back to Moscow with a clear conscience and let your people examine it themselves. Soon everyone will smile and make jokes about what you’re paid to do, but you’ll be off the hook.”
