Read The Hadrian Memorandum Online
Authors: Allan Folsom
The Land Cruiser came down the hill slowly, its windshield wipers beating a steady rhythm against the light rain. The white Ford was tight behind it.
The task of getting the congressman and his people from the accident scene to the U.S. Embassy was commanded by plainclothes GOE Sergeant Clemente Barbosa, a raw-boned man in his midthirties who rode in the shotgun seat. His driver, Eduardo, was several years younger and fully intent on the roadway ahead and the traffic, streets, and buildings around them. His world, like Barbosa’s, was in the moment, nowhere else. The same was true for the four armed, uniformed GOEs in the tail car.
Ryder and Grant rode in the seats directly behind Barbosa and Eduardo. Marten and Anne were in the third row. The passenger compartment where they all were was shielded from outside view by the Toyota’s dark-tinted windows. In the few moments before the GOE arrived, Marten, Anne, Ryder, and Grant had examined the situation. The consensus was that none wanted to chance going to the embassy, if for no other reason than that at some point they would have to leave it and, no matter how well guarded they were, White would know when they would be leaving and where they would be going. The same as he undoubtedly did now. The difference was that if they moved soon, meaning in the next few minutes, they would have an element of surprise they wouldn’t have once they were in the confines of the embassy.
The idea of disappearing into a large crowd—as Marten and Grant had planned before the accident, when they would have abandoned the laundry truck and dashed into the heavily populated Baixa district to lose themselves in it—still seemed best. Even as the rain toyed with them, this was still the tourist season and crowds were everywhere, most especially where they were headed: Rossio Square, where Ryder and Agent Birns had stopped earlier that morning to change cabs. It was a place, Ryder was certain, that would be filled not only with tourists but also with readily available taxis.
So Rossio was the site where they would make their move. Grant would ask Barbosa to pull over and stop, saying that Ryder wasn’t feeling well and needed some air. Barbosa would be reluctant but have no choice except to do as he had been asked. At that point they would simply open the doors and get out, with Ryder saying he needed a few minutes to walk the sensation off and Grant reassuring Barbosa that he was armed and that the congressman was perfectly safe. Seconds later they would be in the crowd and quickly disappear into it, splitting up as they went—Grant staying with Ryder to guard him, Anne and Marten going off in a different direction altogether. After that each group would find a taxi, take it to the civil aviation terminal at Portela Airport, then go to directly Ryder’s plane, where the pilots would be waiting and the aircraft cleared for takeoff.
Not a word was said as they reached the bottom of the hill and Eduardo turned the Land Cruiser onto Praça Dom Pedro IV, following the one-way streets around Rossio Square in a line of traffic. At that point the rain came down in earnest.
Irish Jack changed the speed of the Mercedes’s windshield wipers to keep up with the downpour and at the same time kept them a neat three vehicles behind the Ford tail car. Directly behind them was a silver Opel and then Branco and his men in the Alfa. He glanced at Patrice in the shotgun seat, then in the mirror at Conor White. Both men had their automatic weapons out and ready. His own M-4 Colt Commando rested in his lap. He looked back at the road in front of him just as the Toyota and Ford reached the far end of the square and began the run along its far side heading toward Avenida da Liberdade.
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Ryder glanced at Grant, then turned to look over his shoulder at Marten. “Now what?” he said quietly. Because of the rain, the crowds they were counting on for cover were gone. The big plaza was void of anything but pigeons.
Anne turned to look behind them. “Nicholas,” she warned. “Gray Alfa Romeo, several cars back.”
Marten looked. He saw the Alfa and the black Mercedes in front of it. “The Mercedes is Conor White’s car.” He turned back to Ryder and Grant. “They’re right on our tail,” he said sotto voce. “All due respect to the GOEs, we’re not going to get anywhere near the embassy.”
Immediately he looked at the barren square on his left, trying to decide what to do, find any avenue of escape. There was nothing but the open, rain-soaked plaza. He looked right, along the facade of shops and cafés they were passing, but nothing jumped out at him. If they told Barbosa and they sped off, White would realize they had been seen, drop back, change cars, and wait for later. The same would happen if they called in more police, because he was certain White or his people would be monitoring the GOE radio frequencies. Then, in the distance, he saw it. A big red
M
marking the entrance to a Metro station. He looked to Anne, then leaned forward to Ryder and Grant. “We’re going underground,” he said quietly, “now.”
Conor White sat forward, his black balaclava and MP5 submachine gun in his lap, preparing himself for the action that was to come in less than two minutes as they left the Rossio and started up Avenida da Liberdade toward the strike point at Rua Barata Salgueiro.
Suddenly he felt a dark shadow descend from the car’s ceiling and settle around him like some precursor of doom. What the hell is this? he said to himself. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. He tried to shake it off, but the shadow remained. In the next instant he had a soul-chilling premonition that he was right, that things were about to go horribly wrong. The way they had gone wrong ever since Nicholas Marten arrived in Bioko. Until then everything had gone smoothly. Then, and almost immediately, the trouble with the photographs had begun and everything started to come apart.
“Jesus Christ!” Irish Jack shouted.
Fifty yards in front of them the big Toyota suddenly pulled to the curb. The tail car came in right behind it. In a blink the Land Cruiser’s passenger doors opened. Ryder and Grant got out, followed by Marten and Anne. The driver and front-seat passenger got out at the same time. Marten looked at them, pointed toward the Mercedes, and said something. Then he, Anne, Ryder, and Grant dashed into the Metro.
“Take down the GOEs,” White said coolly. “We’re going in after them.”
“Stay with Anne and Ryder,” Marten yelled at Grant as they came into the station and headed toward a long flight of stairs that led to the Metro trains below. Immediately he turned back, lifting the Glock from his jacket and holding it tight against his side. The Metro entrance framed everything. The Mercedes pulled up behind the tail car as the uniformed GOEs piled out of it, their weapons coming into full view. The next happened in a millisecond. Three men wearing black balaclavas and business suits jumped from the Mercedes, their flame-and sound-suppressed automatic weapons already firing. Clemente Barbosa and Eduardo went down almost in silence. So did the four uniformed GOEs, their weapons never discharged. The horror didn’t stop there. The three came running into the Metro station after them.
Glock in hand, his heart pounding, Marten reached the stairs and started down. He could see Anne, Ryder, and Grant mixed in with other travelers as they neared the bottom. He looked back to see Conor White reach the top of the stairs and start down after him. The balaclava gone, his suit jacket open, he was concealing something beneath it. An instant later he saw Patrice and Irish Jack come in behind him and follow him down. Like White, their balaclavas were gone and their suit jackets were open, and each was holding something out of sight beneath it. In between them and himself were probably twenty or more travelers.
Marten shoved the Glock into his belt and pulled the dark blue cell phone from his jacket. He hit the speed dial and prayed he’d entered the right number and that it was still in service. It rang once, then again, then once more. Finally a familiar voice answered.
“Ya,”
Kovalenko said in Russian.
“You here? In Lisbon?” Marten demanded.
“Where the hell is my memory card?”
“I need your damn help. Are you here or not?”
“I’m your guardian angel, always around when you need me. We Russians have big ears and wide eyes. I was going to meet you where you are going, the U.S. Embassy. Your friend Mr. Logan, with the books and dogs. It was kind of you to include his business card in the envelope you gave me when you switched the memory cards. Even then you were thinking you might need my assistance.”
“I was and I do.” Marten kept on down the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped around an attractive young woman and pushed past a large, overweight man, trying to put as many people between himself and Conor White and his killers as possible. “We’re in the Rossio Metro. White and two of his mercenaries are coming after us. They just killed a half-dozen cops. We need help, and soon, or I’ll be dead and your memory card will end up in White’s trophy case.”
Marten looked up. He saw Ryder, Anne, and Grant stop at a ticket kiosk. Grant bought tickets and motioned for him to join them. The backpack was tucked under his arm, the MP5K at the ready, and he was being very cool. No need to alarm the other people crowding the station. People they would keep between themselves and White and his men until they could board a train. He looked up at a large Metro station guide. The next station in one direction was Martim Moniz. Baixa/Chiado was in the other. That was the one he chose because he guessed it would be the most crowded.
“We’re going to try to make the Baixa/Chiado station. “Look for us there.” There was no reply. Only silence. “Kovalenko. Kovalenko! Jesus Christ, are you there?”
Carlos Branco had seen the Toyota and the tail car suddenly pull over and stop. Had seen Marten and the others jump out and point at White’s Mercedes, then run with the others into the Metro. Had seen the GOEs react as the Mercedes slid to a stop behind them. He knew what was going to happen and got out of there fast, racing the Alfa Romeo past the Metro entrance just as White and the others jumped from the car.
At the top of Rossio Square he stopped and looked back, then called Moyer on his cell phone. There was no time for clandestine meetings or secure phones. Moyer needed to know what was going on right then.
“The wheels have completely come off,” he said. “White has taken down six GOEs in front of the Rossio Metro station and chased Marten, Ryder, and the others into it. There will be more people killed before it’s over. What do you want me to do?”
For the briefest moment Moyer said nothing. Then he spoke, calmly and quietly. “Complete the project.”
There had been no need to reply. Branco simply clicked off and looked at his men. They probably had sixty seconds at best before a GOE SWAT team arrived and closed off everything. They had to get to the Rossio station and inside it before that happened.
Patrice and Irish Jack caught up with White at the bottom of the stairs. They could see Grant hand Marten a rail ticket, and then the two followed Anne and Ryder through the glass-paneled entry gates into the station proper. Beyond them were the trains, and once they reached those and got on, everything would be lost. Moreover, he knew the GOE would respond to the killing of its officers with extreme prejudice and very fast. There was no time to finesse anything.
They moved fast toward the entry gates to the train platforms. “RSO’s got a backpack,” White said quietly, his eyes locked on their targeted foursome. “Anne’s got a big purse. Ryder and Marten are carrying nothing. The photographs and the rest will be with the RSO or Anne. Take them down first and recover the goods. Then take out Ryder. I’m guessing Marten’s still armed with whatever he used to kill Branco’s men. I’ll take him. Whatever happens, don’t let any one of them get on a train. When we’re done, split up and take the next train out. Either direction. We’ll meet at the plane.”
Two steps more and they were at the entry gates. A woman in front of them slid her ticket into a receptacle and went through. White, Patrice and Irish Jack followed, shoved past her, and started after their prey.
“Hey! Você três! Batente!” Hey! You three! Stop! A voice called out in Portuguese.
Irish Jack looked to the side. A uniformed Metro guard was coming toward them. Irish Jack smiled, opened his jacket, and took out the M-4 Colt Commando. The guard’s eyes went wide with fear.
“No!” he yelled and tried to turn away. It was too late. Irish Jack fired a short, silent burst. The guard’s body slammed backward into a wall behind him and dropped to the floor, his blood flung everywhere.
“Go!” White commanded, and they started for the platform area. Somewhere a woman screamed. Commuters watched in horror and puzzlement as the three well-dressed men raced past them.
“Here they come!” Grant yelled and shoved Ryder ahead of him toward a Metro car just entering the station. “Everybody back, please!” he yelled at the crowd of commuters. “Everybody back!”
Marten caught a glimpse of Conor White, then saw Patrice rush forward, an M-4 in his hands, shoving people aside. “Look out!” he yelled and raised the Glock to fire. An elderly couple were right in his sights and he had to step away. By then Patrice was gone in the swell of people on the platform—people who were beginning to panic. They’d heard the woman’s scream and there were men rushing through them with guns.
The train stopped and the doors opened. Travelers started to get off. Grant shoved Ryder through them, the backpack tight under his arm, his finger on the MP5K’s trigger.
Now Marten caught sight of Patrice: He was rushing forward toward Grant and Ryder. Then he saw Irish Jack shoving in from the side. He pushed Anne forward after Grant and Ryder, then swung the Glock at Irish Jack. The mercenary saw him and ducked into the crowd. At the same time, Patrice pulled up, raising the M-4. People shrieked. Grant whirled and lifted the backpack. The MP5K’s red laser dot fell on Patrice’s chest a split second too late. There was a burst of silenced M-4 fire and Grant’s head blew apart, his body twisting around wildly to collapse among horrified passengers.
People ran screaming in every direction, some using cell phones trying to call for help. Marten grabbed Anne and rushed her toward the train, stopping only to pick up Grant’s backpack and press it into her arms. “There’s a machine pistol in there. Stay with Ryder. Get him to the plane.”
“No!” she yelled, her eyes locked on his. Love. Fear. Horror. Everything. Before, in the hospital, it had been a parting with hope and without an end. They both knew that if Marten stayed behind now there was every chance he would be dead within seconds.
“Fuck it, Anne! You know what to do! Get Ryder the hell out of here! Now!”
Their eyes locked for the briefest instant; then she bolted into the car, trying to find Ryder. She saw him in the crush just as the doors closed and the train began to pull out. Through the window she glimpsed Irish Jack rushing toward them through the crowd. Then she saw Marten twenty feet away, the Glock up ready to fire. People shrieked, racing to get out of the way. Then Irish Jack disappeared in the melee and Marten was shoving through people trying to find him.
The train picked up speed. Suddenly Patrice stepped out of nowhere only feet from it, his finger closing on the M-4’s trigger.
“Get down!” Anne yelled and shoved Ryder to the floor as a burst of silent automatic-weapon fire raked the windows, obliterating them. She grabbed the backpack and got up. Patrice was gone. A half-dozen or more people were on the floor. Some were dead, others moving. Ryder was trying to help a blood-splattered woman on the floor next to him. They were nearly to the tunnel. Outside she saw Marten looking for Patrice. He didn’t see Irish Jack move in just feet behind him, his M-4 up, readying to fire. In one motion she turned the backpack and squeezed the MP5K’s trigger. The 9 mm slugs ran across the Irishman’s formidable chest; his body danced in a semicircle, then toppled onto the platform to the screams of the terrified people around him. She turned to look for Marten and saw him. Their eyes met. Then the train was in the tunnel and the station disappeared from view.