The Hadrian Memorandum

them out, of the city.

At forty-two, she was seven years older than he was, but looking at her now she might have been a child. She’d told him she’d been married, and he wondered if she had children herself. If so, how many? And how old? And where were they now? For all he knew they could be in high school or college or in their early twenties and out on their own.

1:40 A.M.

He finished the Radeberger and took the empty bottle into the kitchen. He was exhausted and wired tight at the same time. The idea of sleep seemed impossible. The murder of Theo Haas had been horror enough, but the combination of circumstances that made him a prime suspect was beyond imagination. That a top cop like Franck had been assigned to the case made it all the worse. His credentials aside, his physical bearing, his body language, and the intense look in his eyes as he’d addressed the television cameras had chillingly reminded Marten of his mentor on the Los Angeles Police Department, the late Commander Arnold McClatchy, who had been one of the most revered, relentless, and feared homicide detectives in California history. Like McClatchy, Franck had the entire department at his disposal, and like McClatchy, Marten was certain, once he’d taken on a case he wouldn’t let go until, one way or another, his man was brought to the ground.

Then there was the other thought. Poor as his photograph was, it was everywhere. What if the guys on the LAPD still hunting him saw it and got in touch with Franck? Then what? A little cop-to-cop talk and suddenly a couple of detectives show up from L.A. waiting for Franck to get him. And when he does, he keeps it quiet and hands him over to them. The next day his body is found in a ditch somewhere. Nobody knows who did it. It would save the Berlin PD a big noisy trial and a lot of expense. It made him want to kick himself for blurting to the jerk-off dope dealer on the street that he was an L.A. cop. What if the police caught the guy and he brought it up?

It had been a stupid thing to do.

Just plain stupid.

1:42 A.M.

Marten set the bottle on the kitchen counter and was starting toward the bedroom when he heard sirens approaching. He stopped and listened. What were they? Fire? Ambulance? No, police, he was certain. They grew nearer. He went into the front room and stood beside one of the narrow windows to peer out at the dimly lit alley below. The sirens were closer still. He counted one, two, and then three, all traveling close together. Instinctively he listened for the sound of a circling helicopter. What would he do if they pulled up outside?

“What is it?” Anne called from the other room.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Christ, maybe he should tell her to get up and get dressed. But then what? Go out the tiny air-shaft window in the dark and up the fire ladder to the roof? Why? If the police knew where they were, they wouldn’t have a chance to begin with.

He moved farther back from the window, giving him a view of the alley where it met Ziegelstrasse. The sounds grew louder, the shrillness bouncing off the old brick facades of the neighboring buildings. His heart was pounding. If they came, they came. Just give up. There was nothing else to do.

The sounds grew louder and louder. Then they were right there on top of him. He expected to hear the screech of brakes, the instant cutting of sirens, the slam of doors as armed police jumped from the cars. Instead he caught the briefest glimpse of flashing lights. And then, like that, they passed, taking their noise with them.

For a long moment he just stood there in the darkness listening to the pounding of his heart and the sound of his own breath. Suddenly he wondered about his emotional state, if things were beginning to get to him that shouldn’t, or at least that he should have control over. Thinking, too, that this was no time or place for such fragility. It was far too dangerous.

“You need to sleep.” Anne’s voice floated out of the darkness nearby. He started and looked up.

He saw her in the light-spill from the streetlights, standing in the doorway watching him. Her dark hair tucked behind her ears, she was barefoot and still wearing nothing but the T-shirt and panties.

“You’re overtired,” she said quietly.

“I know.” His voice was barely a murmur.

“Come to bed.”

Marten stared at her.

“Please.”

“Alright,” he said finally, then left the window and followed her down the narrow hallway into the bedroom.

1:48 A.M.

36

BERLIN POLICE HEADQUARTERS,

PLATZ DER LUFTBRUCKE. 2:02 A.M.

“Why this took so long to reach me, I don’t know. But I promise you I will find out.” Hauptkommissar Emil Franck sat behind his serviceable steel desk in his very utilitarian office, his black eyes cold and unblinking.

Two uniformed motorcycle officers stood in front of him; Detectives Gerhard Bohlen and Gertrude Prosser were to his left. For a moment he stared at the motorcycle officers, then pressed the PLAY button on a digital recorder in front of him. A short silence was followed immediately by a recorded conversation between a motorcycle officer and a Funkbetriebszentrale, a central radio dispatcher at police headquarters.

MOTORCYCLE OFFICER: West for West 717.

DISPATCHER: West 717, go ahead.

MOTORCYCLE OFFICER: Male and female pedestrians with resemblance to fugitives on Schiffbauerdamm, approaching Weidendamm Bridge at Friedrichstrasse. Copy.

DISPATCHER: I have it, West 717.

There was a several-second pause and then:

MOTORCYCLE OFFICER: Ah, West for West 717, again, Dispatch. Cancel that. They’re just two lovebirds playing suck face.

DISPATCHER: I have it, West 717.

Immediately Franck’s right index finger shot out and punched the STOP button. The player went silent, and he looked up at the two motorcycle officers across from him.

“Your first call came at 19:38:44 hours,” he snapped at the officer designated West 717. “Why did you cancel it?”

“It seemed like nothing. They saw us. They didn’t care. Hardly the style of fugitives, Hauptkommissar.”