The Hadrian Memorandum

there as quickly as he could and without attracting attention.

7:42 A.M.

18

7:45 A.M.

Marten walked hurriedly across the terminal looking for an electronic airline departure board and a listing of the next flight to Berlin. Suddenly the idea that someone might be following him, a thought he had dismissed as foolish only moments earlier, became a very real problem. The last thing he needed was for someone tailing him to see him board a plane to the German capital and report it.

He glanced over his shoulder.

No sign of the jowly man. No sign of the man in khakis and blue golf shirt. No sign of Anne Tidrow or her gray-haired friend. Maybe he was being overly cautious. If he was, so be it.

Thirty feet ahead was a departure board. Again he glanced over his shoulder. All he saw was strangers. Seconds later he was there and studying the departure list.

Twenty yards behind him a bearded young man in jeans and a PARIS, FRANCE sweatshirt with a backpack over one shoulder stopped and raised a hand casually to his mouth as if to stifle a cough.

“This is Two,” he said quietly into a tiny microphone in his sleeve. “He’s stopped at a departure board and is studying it.”

“Thank you, we’ll take it from here.” A female voice came over a tiny headset in his ear.

7:59 A.M.

Marten entered a cafe area filled with travelers and went to the counter. He selected a croissant and a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, and went to a distant table near a large window overlooking the tarmac and sat down. He took a moment to collect himself, then casually looked around for someone he might recognize. He saw only faceless travelers and airport personnel. Finally he took a bite of croissant and a sip of coffee, then slid the Musikfone bag from his suitcase and took the packaged cell phone from it. Another sip of coffee and he tore open the packaging and brought out the phone. A moment more and he stood up, glanced indifferently around, then moved away from the table to stand near the window and flicked open the phone. He punched in an access number and the PIN code on his phone card. Quickly he entered a second access number.

“International directory, please, for Berlin.” A moment later an operator came on. “Telephone number for Theo Haas, please,” he said. “I don’t have the address.” He waited, then, “You’re certain, no listing at all… I see. Yes, thank you.”

He clicked off and looked around once more. Then, with a glance at his watch, he again dialed his access number and PIN code and punched in a second number. As he did, he turned his back to the room. An everyday traveler making a cell phone call.

UNITED STATES EMBASSY, SUSSEX DRIVE,

OTTAWA, CANADA. 2:10 A.M.

A ringing telephone woke President John Henry Harris from an on-again, off- again sleep, his mind churning over the cumbersome details of a new trade agreement he’d come here to resolve with the prime minister of Canada and the president of Mexico. Through the fog of sleep he looked at the four telephones arranged on his nightstand. Two were hardwired. Two were cell, one red, the other slate gray. It was the gray phone that was ringing. He knew before he picked it up who was calling.

“Cousin,” he said in the dark as he clicked on, tugging at a pajama top that had twisted awkwardly across his chest while he slept. “Where are you?”

“Paris.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“I was concerned. I’ve been briefed on the war in Bioko and the rest of the country. I’m glad you’re safely out.”

“So am I.” Harris could hear the emotion in Marten’s voice. As quickly it was replaced by urgency. “There are photographs of SimCo mercenaries, Striker’s private security contractor in Equatorial Guinea, secretly supplying arms to the rebels. SimCo’s headman, a Brit named Conor White, was one of them.”

“What?”

“Theo Haas’s brother, Father Willy Dorhn, the priest you sent me to see, took them. He’s dead. Murdered by the army. I don’t know why White’s people are involved with the insurrection, but they are, and I’m all but certain it’s at Striker’s directive.”

“These photographs, they’re clear-cut? There’s no mistaking who the people in them are or what they’re doing?”

“No, none. I’ve seen them myself.”

“Where are they? Who has them?” Harris flicked on a table lamp and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“That’s what everybody wants to know. The E.G. army interrogators and Conor White himself. Nobody can find them, but I think I know where they are.”

“Nicholas, cousin.” The president got up and crossed the room barefoot. “I want, I need,” he said emphatically, “to have those pictures in my possession as quickly as possible and without anyone knowing. If the Striker people find out they’ll cover their asses in a hurry. Hadrian’s, too. If they’re leaked to the media we’ll have a major international incident on our hands.”

PARIS, CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT.

“I’m aware of that.” Marten turned from the window to look casually around as if he were in the middle of a dull conversation. Satisfied no one was within hearing distance, he turned back.

“It’s just after eight in the morning, Paris time. I’m going to try to make a nine- thirty flight to Berlin, where Theo Haas lives. His phone number is unlisted. I need you to get it for me.”

“I don’t understand,” the president said.

“I think his brother forwarded the photos to him. He may have them in his possession and be planning to do something with them himself or he may have them and not know it. If Father Willy sent them by mail, maybe they haven’t even arrived. I don’t think the others have considered Berlin yet because he and Haas have different last names and there would be no reason to make a connection. It means I have a head start. At least by the few hours it takes until they figure it out and get moving.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Who else do you have?”

There was silence, and Marten knew the president was considering the ramifications of what might happen if he asked for the help of the CIA or other security agencies and because of it Hadrian or Striker or both learned what was going on and where and why.

“I will get you the Haas telephone number.”

“Good. Now there’s more,” Marten pressed him. “Haas may or may not have