The Hadrian Memorandum

“What do you think?”

“They know we’re here and watching,” he said in his distinct French-Canadian accent, “and have found a way around us.”

“That’s what I think, too.” White glanced around, then lifted the microphone. Again he spoke quietly. “Where is the van now?”

“Rua Antonio Maria Cardoso.”

“Which way is it going?”

“Just city streets. No way to tell. As I said, sit tight. My guy’s a good rider.”

10:13 A.M.

104

10:14 A.M.

“Senhor, a motorcycle has been following us for the last minutes,” the heavyset, middle-aged electrician said over his shoulder as he guided the blue van down a series of narrow cobblestone streets. He wore white coveralls and a Servico Eletrico de Sete Dias baseball cap and was clearly nervous.

Quickly Marten moved forward from where he and Anne had been crouching among the electrical supplies to look into the van’s side mirror. The motorcycle was two hundred feet back with a small car in between. It looked like a Japanese street racer, a Suzuki maybe. Very fast, with tremendous acceleration. Its rider was a man, or so it appeared. He wore jeans, a dark jacket, and a full helmet and visor, making it impossible to see his features.

“How close are we to the hospital?”

“About five minutes.”

“If he’s still with us after the next turn, pull over and stop and let him pass. We’ll see what happens then.”

The driver started to look back at Marten.

“Don’t,” Marten warned. “I don’t want him to think you’re talking to someone.”

The driver looked back to the road, his anxiety growing. “I’m just an electrician, senhor. Doing a favor for Raisa. I have three school-age children.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tomas.”

Marten smiled. “Don’t worry, Tomas. You’ll be fine. So will your children.”

10:15 P.M.

Moses had pulled from the curb and was heading the Mercedes toward Rua Antonio Maria Cardoso, the street where the van was last seen, when Branco’s voice crackled through their headsets.

“Congressman Ryder’s not in his hotel room,” he said firmly. “He came back from the pool and went up to his room. Then he vanished. The same with his RSO detail.”

“What?” White snapped, giving a quick glance to Patrice beside him. Irish Jack had turned and was looking at him from the shotgun seat.

“They’re nowhere in the hotel. Not that we can determine, anyway.”

“They’re moving all at once,” Patrice said. “Somehow they’ve communicated. It means they have an agreed-upon time and destination.”

White looked off, staring at nothing. Five seconds later he turned back. “Branco,” he said softly into the microphone, “you’re an accomplished resource who would have done his homework before he moved his surveillance team in. Who owns or manages the building on Rua do Almada?”

“A Raisa Amaro. Lives on the first floor. She’s French. Been in Lisbon for fifteen years. She also owns a commercial laundry close to the waterfront. She went there about seven thirty this morning.”

“The name and address of the laundry.”

“Give me a minute.”

White’s eyes were locked on nothing. He was thinking, planning the next step. This was like a fast-moving combat situation where every possible situation had to be considered, sorted out, and then acted upon.

Branco clicked back on. “A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa. Avenida de Brasilia, 22, at Cais do Sodre. As I said, it’s close to the waterfront.”

“Thank you.”

10:16 A.M.

“He’s still coming.”

Tomas turned the van left onto Largo da Academia Nacional de Belas Artes. The motorcycle rider followed at a distance.

“Pull over,” Marten said.

“Alright, senhor.” Tomas slowed, then pulled the van to the side of the street and stopped beside a row of parked cars. The motorcycle rider slowed as well as he approached, then suddenly sped up and passed, turning at the far end of the street to disappear from view.

“Get out and put up the hood as if you’re having engine trouble.” Marten reached down and touched the Glock in his waistband.

Tomas did. Quickly and nervously.

Marten slid up to look in the van’s side mirror. They had stopped on a narrow cobblestone street in what appeared to be a relatively fashionable neighborhood. For a moment there was no movement at all, and then a car followed by a taxi turned the corner and approached, the bright midmorning sun flashing off their windshields. In seconds they had passed and the street was quiet again. Maybe there’d been no threat at all, Marten thought. Maybe the motorcycle rider had been doing nothing more than simply going his own way.

He was about to tell Tomas to get back in the van when the motorcyclist slid into view at the far end of the street. Seemingly he’d circled the block and come back. He slowed as he came toward them, then stopped at the side of the roadway.

“Dammit,” Marten breathed and looked to Anne. “He’s back. Stopped at the end of the street behind us.”

Anne slid up beside him and looked in the mirror. “He thinks we’re in the van but he’s not sure. He’s waiting for us to move. The minute we do, he’ll follow. In the meantime he’ll call for backup, probably is now.”

Marten looked out at Tomas, his head poked under the hood. “Tomas,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Close the hood and get back behind the wheel.”

Tomas hesitated, then stood upright and closed the hood. As he did, he hesitated, looking back down the street toward the motorcycle rider.