Kovalenko glared at him. “You design gardens in England. The photographs and most probably the memory card are now in the hands of a United States congressman. That means every security agency in Washington will know about them. So how can you promise such a thing?”
“Because I can. From me to you, Yuri.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.”
Kovalenko looked off in disgust and then back at the road. They were traveling up a long tree-lined boulevard. Traffic was moving normally; people were chatting on street corners, going in and out of shops and offices, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The way life usually is in cities, people getting on with their own lives and for the most part wholly unaware of what murderous intrigues may be going on around them, or in the subways beneath their feet.
Suddenly Marten grew wary. “Where the hell are we going?”
“To the airport. I’m sending you home and hope you stay there for many years. As I said to you a long time ago, tovarich, go back to your English gardens. This other kind of life does not suit you.” Abruptly he looked at him. “I trust you haven’t lost your passport.”
“Yuri.” Marten was more than apprehensive. “I can’t go to an airport, not to a commercial airline anyway. I try to check in, the police will have me in handcuffs before I can turn around.”
“Why, for the murders of Franck and Theo Haas?”
“Yes.”
Kovalenko smiled. “As much as I’d like to see you in jail for stealing my memory card, don’t worry about the police. It’s why we left the Glock with Conor White. It’s the gun that killed the Hauptkommissar. The authorities know he was in Praia da Rocha that same day. It also happens to be the gun that killed two of Branco’s gunmen here in Lisbon. Last night, I believe.” He looked at Marten accusatively. “Correct?”
“What was I supposed to do, let them kill me? It’s why you gave me the thing in the first place.
Kovalenko grinned. “If the police miss connecting the dots, Branco will help them, and rather quickly, I imagine, because he knows where I’m taking you. As for Theo Haas, his murderer was captured before Franck and I left Berlin.”
“What?” Marten was flabbergasted.
“The killer was a young man.”
“With curly hair. I know, I chased him.”
“When he was caught he confessed right away. Franck ordered it kept quiet. He wanted the photographs. You knew where they were. At least that’s what we thought, so better to keep the pressure on. With luck some police agency would spot you and follow you until we got there. Which is exactly what happened and how we found you.”
“Did you ever think that maybe I could have been shot dead in the process?”
“Sure, that could have happened.”
“Christ!” Marten looked off, burning. Almost immediately he looked back. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did the kid murder Theo Haas? He give a reason?”
“Yes.” Kovalenko nodded. “He hated his writing.”
125
NEW HAMPSHIRE. THURSDAY, JUNE 10. 8:03 P.M.
Nicholas Marten watched the newly leafed-out trees fly past in the summer twilight. Sugar maples, he thought, with some conifers in between and here and there oaks. The driver slowed and turned the Lincoln Town Car down a gravel road and through a thick stand of birch. The evening was gray, and a chill hung in the air. There were puddles in the roadway, and the surrounding forest was soggy from rain. More was promised.
Three days had passed since Kovalenko put him on a British Airways flight out of Lisbon for Manchester. As he had been promised, there had been no interference from the police, at least none that he knew of. He’d boarded the flight without incident and six hours later was back in his top-floor loft on Water Street that overlooked the River Irwell.
Physically and mentally exhausted, the reality that he was finally home barely registering, he’d immediately picked up the phone to call Anne after having failed to reach her from Heathrow Airport in London during the layover for his connecting flight to Manchester. Each of his half-dozen calls then had been answered by her voice mail, and the same had happened again here. Consequently he’d left a message giving her his home number and saying he’d returned there safely. Frustrated and increasingly anxious about her fate and Ryder’s, he’d taken a shower, had a sandwich and a cold beer, then tried her once again with the same result. Afterward he’d gone to bed and slept without moving for ten hours.
The call had come early the following morning. Not from Anne but from President Harris. Ms. Tidrow and Congressman Ryder had, he’d said, arrived safely back in the country courtesy of a private jet she had arranged through an investment banker in Zurich. She was currently in the protective custody of federal marshals and being held at an undisclosed location. Congressman Ryder was in protective seclusion as well. Neither his family, his office, nor the media knew he was back in the country. Both were to be secretly debriefed by a special assistant appointed by U.S. Attorney General Julian Kotteras. Kotteras wanted Marten’s testimony as well, as did Harris. Was he prepared to come to the States to give it? His answer was “of course,” and he was asked to stand by for further directives. The president’s demeanor had been matter-of-fact, if not distant, and Marten hadn’t known why, because they’d never had anything but a warm, even brotherly relationship. The reason, he thought, was either the pressure of something else altogether, or because of what had happened to Raisa. He brought it up.
“You know about Raisa.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I, thank you. We’ll talk about it later.”
And that had been the extent of it. Then the president had hung up, after saying he would get back to him when he had more information.
After that he’d gone back to work at Fitzsimmons and Justice, still terribly troubled by what had taken place in Portugal and by the ongoing war in Equatorial Guinea that seemed to have no end. Tiombe’s forces pushed hard against Abba’s one day, with Abba’s people countering the next. He was disturbed as well-perplexed was more the word-by what had happened to Conor White. That a man like White had simply given up without a fight and let himself be killed made no sense. Still, troubled as he was, he knew there was nothing he could do about any of it so he tried to shift his life back into everyday mode. Twenty-four hours later President Harris called instructing him to fly to Portland, Maine, the following morning. A Secret Service agent would pick him up at the airport and drive him to a place where they would meet. He should be prepared to spend several days.
The driver eased the Town Car over a wooden bridge and then up a heavily forested hill. Here and there Marten glimpsed armed men among the trees, a periphery guard of Secret Service agents. At the top of the hill the road evened out and the thick woods gave way to cleared meadow. At the end was a large Victorian farmhouse set in a grove of conifers. Several black SUVs were parked in front. As they neared, he saw a sniper, and then a second, take up positions on the building’s rooftop. Then they were there, and two men in Windbreakers and blue jeans stepped out from between the SUVs. One of them opened the door.
