The Hadrian Memorandum

34

HARRINGTON LAKE, CANADA, THE OFFICIAL COUNTRY

RETREAT OF THE PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA.

STILL FRIDAY, JUNE 4. 4:35 P.M.

President Harris walked down a country path with Canadian prime minister Elliot Campbell, Campbell’s wife, Lorraine, and Emiliano Mayora, the president of Mexico. The weather was warm with puffy clouds that occasionally darkened, suggesting rain later in the day. All were dressed casually for the walk that was purposefully about nothing, an opportunity for the leaders of the Americas northern-most countries to chitchat and spend a little unofficial time in one another’s company before getting back to the formal discussions of trade and mutual security that brought them there.

A conversation about fly-fishing had seen Prime Minister Campbell and President Mayora move ahead of the others, leaving President Harris alone with Mrs. Campbell. Cute and perky, she took the opportunity to ask him how he was doing personally, gently reminding him that he was quite a handsome man who had not been seen publicly with a woman since the death of his wife during his presidential campaign some two years earlier.

“Frankly, I haven’t had much time to think about it.” President Harris smiled graciously. “This is a big job.”

“That part I fully understand, Mr. President. Still, you do think about it. I saw the longing in your eyes as you spoke. For everything you do and have to do, you are lonely for companionship.”

This time John Henry Harris’s smile was more inward and delicate. “You’re very perceptive, Mrs. Campbell, I am lonely. But my longing is still for my wife. I miss her a great deal. I do my best not to think about it.”

“Mr. President,” a voice suddenly called from behind them.

Harris and Mrs. Campbell turned to see Lincoln Bright, the president’s chief of staff, press through the gaggle of Secret Service agents following them and come quickly forward.

“Excuse me, Mr. President, Madame Campbell.” Bright looked to the president. “Representative Ryder is calling from Qatar. It’s important.”

“I’ll take the call,” Harris turned to Lorraine Campbell. “Please excuse me for a few minutes. Tell the prime minister and President Mayora I’ll catch up with you all shortly.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

4:47 P.M.

President Harris took Joe Ryder’s call over a secure phone in the comfortably rustic guest quarters of the Harrington Lake estate.

“You’ve heard what’s happened in Berlin?” Ryder’s voice was filled with concern.

“The Theo Haas murder.”

“Yes.”

“I know about it, that’s all. Did Marten reach him before it happened?”

“Marten is wanted for his murder.”

“What?” Harris was astounded.

“It’s all over TV. In the Washington Post, New York Times, andin about every other major paper as well as on the Internet. I realize you’ve been busy and probably not tuned in to this stuff, and certainly no one would advise you. There would be no reason to; they wouldn’t know the connection.”

“My God, Joe, where the hell is he?”

“As far as I know, on the run in Berlin. There’s a woman with him. So far they haven’t released her name, or his, for that matter.”

“Then how do you know it’s Marten?”

“Someone took his picture with a cell phone. It’s not a very good likeness. But it’s him, or his double, without doubt. You showed me a photo of the two of you together when you suggested him for the job.” Ryder hesitated. “John, Mr. President. You can’t get involved. You can’t try to help him. Not even with your own people. You can’t risk the connection.”

President Harris stared off at nothing. “I know, dammit. He knows it, too.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing. Just wait and hope to hell he finds a way to get in touch with me.”

“Then what?”

“Something. I’m not sure. I’ll work on it.”

“What if he did kill Haas?”

“He didn’t.”

“You’re certain?”

“Damned certain.”

“I’m here for you, John. Whatever, whenever.”

“I know, Joe, we’ll work it out. And thanks. Thanks for being there in all this. I’ll call you when I have news.”

With that the president hung up and stared off, praying he was right, that Marten would find a way to get in touch with him. What he would do then, he truly didn’t know. At the same time, he knew he’d better have something to tell him.

4:52 P.M.

35

BERLIN. SATURDAY, JUNE 5. 1:27 A.M.

Marten slumped in the worn overstuffed chair watching Anne sleep on the bed across from him. A bottle of the Radeberger Pilsner in his hand, he wore boxer shorts and the light blue sport shirt he had on when he’d gone to meet Theo Haas in the park.

He took a sip of the beer and looked restlessly up at the ceiling. The apartment was warm, and Anne slept with only a sheet pulled up around her. She’d invited him to sleep beside her for no other reason than that the bed was the only place to rest. Instead he’d chosen the chair, chiefly because it gave him a clear view of the apartment’s front door. If anyone was coming through it, he wanted to see them before they saw him. Especially if they were police with orders to shoot.

1:32 A.M.

Marten took another drink of the Radeberger and looked at Anne across from him. He could just see her in the dark, sleeping on her side, her legs pulled up toward her chest in an almost fetal position. The CIA, he thought. Jesus, what department had she been in? Research, an operative, what? Whatever it was, it had certainly been important enough for her to still be connected to people who would shadow strangers for her, help her elude the police and provide a safe house and then somehow get them out, or at least try to get