The Hadrian Memorandum

“What photographs?”

“Those, in the package under your arm. The postmaster confirmed that he personally delivered mail to the house on a regular basis. Among the pieces was a large envelope sent from Equatorial Guinea, which he remembered because of the stamps.” Franck smiled forcefully. “He often did personal favors for Jacob Cadiz. He liked him.”

If Marten was wary before, he was more so now. “Why are there no other police?”

“They know I prefer to work alone. It makes less noise.”

“Then why him?” Marten indicated Kovalenko, then looked back to Franck. “Who else does the Hauptkommissar work for? Mother Rus sia? Hadrian? SimCo? Or is it Striker Oil?”

“The photographs, please.” Franck lifted the Heckler & Koch and started toward them.

“The Hauptkommissar and I met in Berlin.” Kovalenko started forward as well. “Later we had a dialogue with an old friend of Ms. Tidrow. You seem to have found our transmitter. By shutting it down you succeeded in helping to throw off the others following you. There are others, you know. They may well be on their way here now.” Kovalenko’s eyes went to Franck and then back to Marten. He kept moving, slowly, carefully, keeping pace with the German.

“Your photographs seem to be quite a popular attraction. The reason why we are here so soon and the others are not is that the Hauptkommissar is highly respected inside the European Union, especially where the police are concerned. We knew you were on approach to Faro quite some time before you landed. We knew you had rented a car in the city. What make, what color, its registration number.” Again Kovalenko looked to Franck, then back to Marten. “You shouldn’t have driven so many times along Avenida Tomas Cabreira or parked your car where you did. The local police are very good at following up on things. They told us where you went. The postmaster helped with the rest.”

Suddenly Anne understood why there were no police. “Nicholas,” she said, “the Hauptkommissar is CIA.”

Kovalenko half-smiled. “Is that true, Emil? You have another employer?”

“Only those you know.” Abruptly Franck twisted the submachine gun toward Anne. “Please step away from Mr. Marten.”

Marten started to move between Anne and the German.

“Don’t, tovarich,” Kovalenko warned. Suddenly he was sliding a Glock automatic from his waistband.

Marten froze where he was.

“The photographs, please.” Franck was right in front of him, the machine gun leveled at his chest. “You are wanted for the murder of Theo Haas. You were found here and refused to surrender. No one will be surprised that you were shot because of it.”

“Give him the pictures, tovarich,” Kovalenko said quietly. “Do it.”

Franck saw the Russian suddenly step behind him. In a millisecond everything that had happened since they’d met in Berlin flashed across his mind in a hellish collage. Kovalenko’s every move, every gesture, even his attitude had been choreographed to perfection: the arrogance, the measured antagonism, the egotism and competitiveness that seemingly came with the job; the constant references to, and deferral to, Moscow; the fear of reprisal, his personal conceit. All were in character and were expected and put him off guard. They knew he was a double agent and probably had for decades, even before the Berlin Wall came down.

A split second later the Glock in Kovalenko’s hand came to a rest behind his ear. The steel felt cold. He wanted to do something, but it was too late. Until our true fate catches up and then-that’s that. He thought of his wife and children. Prayed they would be alright without him. Then he heard a pop and there was a flash of searing white light.

The body of Hauptkommissar Franck dropped to the ground as if some terrible force of gravity had overwhelmed it. Marten and Anne jumped at the suddenness of it.

“Ms. Tidrow was quite correct, tovarich, the Hauptkommissar was CIA.” Kovalenko kept the Glock in his hand. He was calm, wholly matter-of-fact, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His tone and his manner were the same as they had been years before when he’d done very nearly the same thing from point-blank range and in front of Marten in St. Petersburg, Rus sia.

Immediately he retrieved Franck’s machine gun, loosened its strap, and threw it over his shoulder. Done, he looked to Marten.

“If you would help me please, tovarich.” He twisted the Glock toward Franck’s body. “I’m afraid you will have to carry him yourself.”

Marten stared at him, then handed Anne the photographs, picked up Franck’s body, and carried it toward the Peugeot.

Kovalenko opened the trunk, and Marten laid Franck inside. He looked at him just as Kovalenko closed the lid. The once fearsome uber-cop with the shaved head, leather jacket, and immense reputation was now stone dead with half of his skull blown away. A mutilated corpse, nothing else. Murdered where he had stood. How many times had he seen that as a homicide investigator in L.A.? Someone who had been alive one minute was lifeless the next. Yet this was different. Franck had not been killed at random, or because he was a gang member, or for money or drugs or over a woman, but for something much larger. The same something Father Willy and Marita and her students and God only knew how many hundreds or thousands of Equatorial Guineans had been killed for. Maybe Theo Haas, too, but he still wasn’t sure about that. The trouble was, he had no idea what that something was.

Oil?

Maybe.

At the moment it was the god of everyone on the planet. But something didn’t fit. SimCo was arming the rebels, not trying to protect Striker’s workers from them.

“The photographs, tovarich.” Kovalenko turned the Glock automatic toward Anne and the envelope in her hands. “Any number of interested parties thought he might have mailed them. They were right. Let’s get out of this sun and see what they are.”

Marten looked at him and then at the Glock. “After all this time you need that with me?”

Kovalenko smiled. “For now, tovarich, I think it is best.”

12:35 P.M.

72

Ninety seconds later they were inside the house, the front door closed, standing in the hallway. Franck’s submachine gun was slung over Kovalenko’s shoulder, the Glock still in his hand. Anne and Marten stood in front of him, the envelope open, the photos spread out on the wooden table. Marten turned them over one by one.

“Him,” Kovalenko said suddenly and pointed a finger at a photo of Conor White. “This man is Conor White.”

“I know,” Marten said.

“He’s one of those following you.”

“As I suspected.”

“You know him, then?”

“I met him in passing.” Marten glanced at Anne.

“Be very careful, tovarich. He is a highly decorated former British combat officer with a great deal to lose personally if these”-he touched the stack of photos-“are made public.”

“I know that, too.”