The Hadrian Memorandum

“Yes, we do.” Gertrude Prosser’s voice suddenly crackled through his earpiece. “His name is Nicholas Marten. He’s a landscape architect from Manchester, England. Checked into the Mozart Superior just after one this afternoon.”

“Landscape architect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find out where he was before he came to Berlin-if he came directly from Manchester or from somewhere else-and if he has a criminal record. I want to know about the firm he works for. How established they are, what kind of clients they have. All of this is to be kept confidential and within my department only. No information, I repeat, no information is to reach the media. Total blackout.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hauptkommissar,” Handler suddenly called to him.

“Yes.” Franck clicked off and looked up.

Handler and the dogs were stopped at a construction Dumpster thirty feet ahead in a work area near the Reichstag. The Malinois were dancing in circles, confused.

“She stopped here,” Handler said. “Spent a few minutes, then moved on. I don’t know if the man was with her or not.”

“Which way?”

“Toward the river, I think.”

“You think?”

“There’s too much construction debris and a great deal of plaster and cement dust. They’ve lost the scent.”

Franck stared at him, clearly upset.

“I’m sorry, Haupkommissar.”

“It’s alright, Handler. It’s alright. We’ll take it from here. Thank you.”

9:12 P.M.

33

9:45 P.M.

Anne Tidrow and Nicholas Marten walked quickly along Friedrichstrasse. Heads down, they dodged in and out of leisurely strolling pedestrian traffic as best they could without calling attention to themselves. Four minutes earlier they’d disembarked from the Monbijou at the Weidendamm Bridge dock on the city side of the Spree, then crossed back over it, going in the same direction they had earlier. The entire route, boat ride included, had consumed nearly two hours, while taking them in what was little more than a large circle that brought them right back into the city and the hornet’s nest that was the police dragnet.

“This is crazy,” Marten breathed as two motorcycle officers cruised slowly past surveying the pedestrians. “How much further?”

“We’re almost-”

“You speak English?” A man with a closely trimmed beard suddenly locked step with them. He was maybe thirty and fashionably dressed in a beige suit and fitted black T-shirt.

They said nothing, just kept walking.

“English, yes? I’m trying to help you,” he insisted.

Anne glanced at him. “What do you want?”

He smiled and lowered his voice.” I got some good stuff. Pure coke, none of this street shit.”

“No, thank you.”

“What about him?” he nodded at Marten. Marten kept his head down and said nothing. “She speak for you?” he pressed.

Still Marten said nothing, just kept walking.

“I’m talking to you, man. Come on, this is good stuff. Not easy to find.”

“Please leave us alone.” Marten glanced at him sharply, then looked away.

Suddenly the man narrowed his forehead. “I’ve seen you someplace before, and not long ago.”

Abruptly Marten stopped, grabbed the man’s collar, and pulled him close. “I’m a cop. A detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Want me to pull one of the local gendarmes over, let him check you out?”

“Let go of me, man. Let me go!” The man squealed and tried to pull away.

Marten fixed him with a stare, then shoved him backward. “Get the hell out of here. Now!”

The man stared a half second, then turned and walked quickly away in the opposite direction, disappearing in the sidewalk crowd.

Anne looked at him and grinned. “A cop?”

Immediately Marten took her by the arm. “Wherever we’re going, get us there as fast as you can.”

10:10 P.M.

The apartment was utilitarian at best. The top floor of an old three-story brick- building on an alley off Ziegelstrasse. There were two small, meagerly furnished rooms, plus a tiny kitchen and bath. The bedroom was in the back. It had a double bed, a worn overstuffed chair, and a chest of drawers. A small window opened onto an air shaft with an iron fire ladder that led to the roof. The other room, a kind of sitting room/dining room/library, was in the front, where two narrow floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the alley with a glimpse of Ziegelstrasse at the end of it.

The chipped, red-painted cupboard in the kitchen had been recently stocked with a variety of canned soups and meats along with two boxes of dry cereal, a jar of mustard, and one of strawberry jam. The refrigerator held a pound of ground coffee, a small wheel of cheese, a liter of milk, some fresh-sliced ham, several apples, two loaves of dark bread, a half-dozen bottles of mineral water, and eight bottles of Radeberger Pilsner beer. In all, enough to keep them fed, as Anne said, “for several days or more.”

“Several days?” Marten protested as they walked through the darkened front room to take refuge in the back bedroom.

“I’m doing my best to get us out of this mess. It’s not easy. It may take a little time.” Anne turned on a small bedside lamp. Its warm glow was welcome against the dark of the rest of the apartment, purposely kept that way to avoid drawing attention from the alley below. “You might even say thank you, for God’s sake.”

Marten’s reply was slow. “Thank you,” he said finally, then walked off down the hall to stand in the doorway to the front room and stare silently into it, alone with his thoughts.

“You’re welcome,” she said after him, then opened her purse and took out a designer T-shirt and started to undress. She took off her jacket and jeans, then her shirt and bra, folding them all neatly and setting them in a pile on top of the chest of drawers. She’d just pulled on the T-shirt when she felt a presence and turned to find him standing in the doorway looking at her.

“What the hell’s going on?” he said quietly. “Whose place is this? Who are you?”

“I’m tired. I want to sleep,” she said.