approached two elderly men chatting outside a bar. They looked at her and then at each other, then back to her. The first man, plump, with a wrinkled hat and a dark suit with even more wrinkles, smiled. Then a finger came up and he pointed behind them and up a narrow alley. Anne grinned and nodded, then patted him gently on the cheek and came back to the car.
“It’s called “Granada.” Up the alley in the back.”
“How the hell did you do that?”
“You may remember I was in El Salvador, darling.” She slid in next to him. “A little Spanish goes a long way in this world, even in Portugal. Besides, a good CIA op, retired or not, can sell almost anything to anyone. It’s in their blood.”
“What did you sell?”
“A smile… from a not so unattractive forty-two-year-old woman.”
10:59 A.M.
68
HOTEL LARGO, FARO, PORTUGAL. 11:02 A.M.
Ten minutes earlier Sy Wirth had checked in, gone to his room, and immediately put in a call to Dimitri Korostin only to get the Russian’s voice mail. It was the fourth call and voice mail response in the thirty-odd minutes since his Gulfstream had touched down at Faro International Airport. Each time he’d left word for Korostin to call him back immediately. So far he’d had no reply.
He called again. Once more he got the voice mail. This time he left no word, just clicked off. This was crazy. They’d been in contact ever since he’d left Berlin. Now, at the most crucial moment of all, there was nothing but silence.
Conor White’s Falcon had landed, and he and the others were at the airport waiting for word and ready to go. But to w here? Korostin’s men should have long ago been on the ground. By now, theoretically at least, they would know where Marten was. But theoretically was just that, nothing. He couldn’t send White after Marten if he didn’t know where he had gone. And he couldn’t know that without Korostin telling him. The whole thing was very nearly a replay of what had happened when Marten dodged them all at the airport in Malaga, disabling the hidden transmitter and flying off for parts unknown. Now he was on the ground somewhere here with all kinds of land routes open to him. If they’d lost him this time there was every chance he would recover the photographs and disappear into the countryside. Then what? Sit back and wait for the pictures to be made public?
Then, and maybe darker still, there was Korostin himself. He knew how important the pictures were. What if his people already had Marten? If they retrieved the photographs and looked at them out of sheer prurient interest expecting to see illicit sex, it wouldn’t take long for them to realize what they really had, and Wirth would never know until it was too late. By then Korostin would have not only the pictures but also the Santa Cruz-Tarija gas field. Depending on what he did with the photos-turning them over to the Russian government would be the worst-he might very well lose the Bioko field as well.
He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face, then stared at himself in the mirror. What had he done? The idea that Korostin might somehow double-cross him had never entered his mind. This was his own doing. His alone. Even his chief counsel, Arnold Moss, had no idea he’d made a deal with Korostin. Only Conor White knew someone else was involved, but he had no idea who it was.
Wirth cursed himself with every word he knew. Why he had so blindly trusted the Russian? Inviting him to secretly partake in the greatest triumph of his life had been insane. It was like taking a lover and trusting her with all kinds of intimate secrets only to have her destroy your marriage and family and afterward run off with the company.
Half panicked and full of rage, he went back into the other room and picked up the BlackBerry, determined to try Korostin again. No sooner was it in his hand than it rang.
“Yes,” he snapped.
“Faro. Where the hell are your people?”
“To where? Do they know where Marten is?”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Trust you?”
“The terms of our contract, Dimitri. I am to be there when the pictures are recovered. They are to be brought directly to me unopened.”
“That’s my business.”
There was a click and Wirth’s BlackBerry went dead.
11:15 A.M.
Sy Wirth sat at a corner table in the hotel’s Santo Antonio restaurant staring blankly out over the harbor. The two BlackBerrys were on the table in front of him, the one with the blue-tape closest. A waiter came and took his order-coffee and fresh fruit. Maybe he was being crazy. Maybe Dimitri had been right when he told him to calm down. There was a big payoff for him, so why would he double-cross Wirth, especially as he had promised during their meeting in London that the Santa Cruz-Tarija gas field could be the first of many deals they might work on together. Why would he do something stupid and jeopardize the future? Moreover, the photographs would have to be in some kind of package, meaning that he and his men might not even look at them. Just deliver them as promised. They would know what they were because Marten would have them in his possession.
So take it easy, he told himself. Calm down. So far everything they had plotted from Berlin to here, even with the delays, had worked. Now came the waiting game; it happened in almost every business transaction, and as anxiety-provoking as it was, it wasn’t unreasonable.
He glanced at the blue-tape BlackBerry. Conor White was nearby and waiting. He could wait a few minutes longer.
Wirth picked up the other BlackBerry, hit the speed dial, and called Arnold Moss’s personal cell phone. It was almost five twenty in the morning in Houston. Whether Moss was up or not made little difference. If things were going to come off as planned, at some point soon White would go into action, and Wirth needed to officially cover the state of affairs. It was something his general counsel would understand immediately and afterward dictate for transcription to be included in the Striker corporate record under MINUTES OF THE DAY.
