The Hadrian Memorandum Part 8

4:55 P.M.

He arrived at the Reichstag building and turned back, retracing his steps. Still no green cap, no old man with a walking stick.

4:57 P.M.

He stopped at the far end of the park and once again turned back. What if Haas didn't show up? All he could do was call him and hope to h.e.l.l he answered and that someone else hadn't gotten to him in the meantime. It made him think of the ten-minute timetable Haas had given him. Why had he done that? Once again he wondered why the old man had insisted they meet in a place as public and crowded as this. Maybe it was simply that he felt safer meeting a stranger that way, especially in view of what had happened to his brother in Bioko. Still, a quiet restaurant or cafe would have accomplished the same thing.

Again Marten looked around. Still nothing. Then from the corner of his eye he saw a taxi suddenly turn out of traffic on Scheidemannstra.s.se and pull to the curb. A moment pa.s.sed, and the rear pa.s.senger door opened and an old man in a green cap carrying a walking stick got out. He closed the door with a ferocious bang and started into the park and toward a nearby bench. It was exactly five o'clock. Theo Haas had arrived.

24.

Anne Tidrow had been a good twenty yards behind Marten when he entered the park. She stayed with him until he reached the far end and turned back. At that point she stepped behind a group of chattering tourists and waited to see where he would go next.

She'd followed him to the Platz der Republik by cab, watching him turn the corner from Friedrichstra.s.se onto the boulevard Unter den Linden and walk several more city blocks until he reached the historic Brandenburg Gate. There, he'd turned right and then left before crossing into the park in front of the Reichstag. It was then she'd left the cab and pursued him on foot.

Her Lufthansa flight from Paris had touched down in Berlin a little more than an hour after his. Immediately she'd called her "past lives, fond memories, old friends" contact and learned that he'd taken a cab to the Hotel Mozart Superior and checked in, and that very soon afterward a private investigator had taken up residence in the lobby, carefully watching the comings and goings of people who pa.s.sed through it.

Twenty-five minutes later she'd checked into the nearby Hotel Adlon Kempinski, keeping a taxi at hire just outside. After a little more than three nail-biting hours and numerous cell phone exchanges with the private investigator in the Mozart Superior's lobby, he called to tell her that Marten had just left his key at the front desk and was on his way out. Seconds later he reported that he was following him up Friedrichstra.s.se toward Unter den Linden.

In less than three minutes-wearing dark gla.s.ses, her hair pulled back, and dressed as a tourist in jeans, athletic shoes, and a stylish denim jacket-she was in the hired cab rus.h.i.+ng in that direction, concerned all the while that the investigator would lose him if he suddenly hailed a pa.s.sing taxi himself. And then she'd seen him, just as he turned the corner and started down Unter den Linden.

She was now less than thirty yards away watching Marten approach an old man in a green cap with a walking stick who had just seated himself on a park bench. She saw Marten reach him and say something, then watch as the elderly gentleman studied him carefully before gesturing for Marten to sit down. She slowed, then stopped behind two boys kicking a soccer ball back and forth between them. She wanted to move closer in the hope of overhearing what was being said, but then determined it was too risky and stayed where she was. At this point the last thing she needed was for Marten to look up and recognize her.

How long she stood there watching she didn't know. All around her was activity-the boys with the soccer ball, children at a birthday party chasing each other, people flying kites in the light wind, dogs scampering after tossed Frisbees, lovers walking hand in hand oblivious to the world around them. Others, many still in business clothes who looked as if they'd left work early for nothing more than to enjoy the late-afternoon sun, lounged on benches or lay sprawled in the gra.s.s.

Suddenly, not twenty feet from the bench where Marten and the old man sat talking, there was a loud explosion of firecrackers, thirty or forty or more going off at once. People cried out in surprise. Startled children shrieked. Dogs barked. Even Marten reacted, jumping from the bench and staring in the direction of the explosions. In the next instant horror struck. A young, curly-haired man in a black sweater appeared from nowhere and went to the old man on the bench. A knife flashed in his hand. A second later he dragged it across the old man's throat, stared at his work for a heartbeat, then ran off toward Scheidemannstra.s.se.

Marten saw the a.s.sailant just as a woman screamed. In an instant he was at the old man's side. He lifted his slumped head, held it gently, then slowly set it back down and raced off after the curly-haired attacker. In three steps he was at the curb. Then, dodging traffic, he darted hazardously across Scheidemannstra.s.se, and chased after him at a dead run heading toward the Brandenburg Gate.

5:16 P.M.

25.

5:18 P.M.

Marten could see him forty yards ahead nearing the Brandenburg Gate. As he reached it he glanced back, and Marten saw his face clearly. It was young and thin, with wild narrow-set eyes under that great shock of black curly hair. Who was he? Why had he wanted to kill Theo Haas? And so viciously and in public? Had he been sent by Conor White? Or by the Equatorial Guinean army? Had he trailed him from his apartment? Did it mean someone already had the photographs and Haas knew it, and knew who they were, and they wanted him silenced quickly, before he told someone? If so, why hadn't he tried to kill Marten, too?

Marten ran harder, trying to stay with him. He saw the young man weave in and out through the cars, tour buses, taxicabs, and tourists congesting the area in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Again he glanced back. Again Marten saw his face. It was grim and wild and strangely triumphant. In that instant he had the gut feeling that he was chasing not a professional killer but a madman.

5:20 P.M.

Anne Tidrow was probably twenty seconds behind Marten and running nearly as hard. She saw him cut into a throng of tourists and then disappear within them. She kept going, pus.h.i.+ng through the crowd, but not seeing him.

The sudden murder of the old man had thrown everything into turmoil. Who was he? Did he know about the photographs? If so, what had he told Marten before he was killed, and in what direction, if any, had he pointed him? If she lost Marten now and he went after the pictures instead of back to his hotel, she might never find out.

She kept on, taking the same route Marten had, moving into the thick of the crowd that was suddenly abuzz with tension in the wake of one man chasing another through them. She kept going, wis.h.i.+ng now she had brought at least one of her contacts with her. For a moment she lost sight of him and almost panicked. Then there he was, less than a dozen feet in front of her, stopped in the congregation of tourists and beside a line of waiting taxis looking furiously around for the killer. Instinctively she started to look for him herself, thinking, like Marten, that he was hiding somewhere in the throng.

Suddenly came a violent rush of sirens. Green-and-white Berlin police vehicles screamed in from all directions. In seconds uniforms were everywhere, shoving through the crowd, looking for the murderer. For a moment she was uncertain what to do: confront Marten about the old man, in the event he darted off in the confusion and she lost him for good, or take a chance and stay back, see where he went next. Suddenly it made no difference. People were gesturing toward Marten.

The instant was horrific as both she and he realized what was happening. People had seen him tear through them in a wild rush. They thought he was the one the police were chasing and were pointing him out.

Anne moved, and fast. In a heartbeat she was at Marten's side, taking his arm. "Come on, darling," she said loud enough to be heard by people around her, "we're late." Abruptly she pulled open the door to a waiting taxi.

"Hotel Mozart Superior, right away, please," she said to the driver, then shoved Marten into the cab and got in beside him.

"Of course," the driver said in accented English, then moved the taxi off quickly, closely following another cab through the melee. In seconds they were gone and traveling back down Unter den Linden in the direction of Marten's hotel.

5:24 P.M.

"Where the h.e.l.l did you come from?" Marten stared at her, astounded by her presence, by everything that had just happened, and by what was happening now. "How did you know I was in Berlin, or where I was in the city, or where I'm staying?"

"I know everything, darling. You're keeping a lover. I want to meet her," Anne scolded Marten sharply and loudly enough to be heard by the driver. "In Paris you told me you were taking a British Airways flight to London. But that was after you'd already asked an Air France crew the directions to another gate. You do things like that, you'd better be careful no one sees you. Who, or what, should I expect to meet? Let me guess, a long-legged blonde, about twenty-four, with big t.i.ts."

Suddenly she looked up and saw the driver watching them in the mirror. "Would you please turn on the radio? We'd like to have some music."

"American?"

"Anything, thank you."

Immediately the driver turned on the vehicle's radio and tuned it to a satellite channel and U.S. country music boomed out.

Marten glared at her. "I asked you how you knew where I was and where I'm staying."

"You may remember that I sit on the board of directors of a rather large oil company. We have friends everywhere."

Marten glanced at the driver, then looked back to Anne and lowered his voice, uncertain the music would mask their conversation. "You followed me from Malabo to Paris to Berlin and now to here. Why?"

Anne looked to the driver and gave him a big smile. "I like it. Turn it up!"

He grinned back and did as she asked; the music blared.

Immediately Anne turned to Marten. "I want the photographs. And don't say 'what photographs?' "

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. And you know where they are. The old man told you."

Marten smiled evenly. "Too bad your hearing wasn't as good as your eyesight. The subject of photographs never came up."

Just then Garth Brooks's "Friends in Low Places" boomed from the taxi's radio, and Anne leaned in close. "I want the pictures, Mr. Marten. I'll pay you what you want for them."

"Whatever these pictures are, they obviously mean a lot to you. Why?"

"Don't play with me," she snapped. "You know what the pictures are of and who is in them. I want them back because the safety and well-being of our people in Equatorial Guinea depends on it."

"Which people are 'our people,' Ms. Tidrow? The fellow chasing me through Charles de Gaulle Airport? The Striker Oil board of directors? SimCo mercenaries? Certainly not your friend President Tiombe or his army that is slaughtering people by the hundreds even as you and I cruise around Berlin."

"Striker Oil employees, Mr. Marten. People who work for us have always been treated as family. We guarantee their security anywhere they are working." She softened a little. "Please, Mr. Marten. The photographs are very important to me personally. I want them back."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"Then why did you tell me you were going to London and you came here instead? A few hours later you met with the old man in the park. That meeting was about the photographs. Who he is, or rather was, I don't know. Whoever he was, he told you where to find them. I don't know who you work for or why. But whatever they're paying you I'll pay you a lot more."

"Let me tell you something about the 'old man,' Ms. Tidrow," Marten said quietly. It was clear that neither she nor Conor White had yet made the connection between Father w.i.l.l.y and Theo Haas. It meant they were guessing that he knew about the photographs and where they were. "He was a rather famous German author who had written, among many things, several very good books on the design of city parks. You verified that I was a landscape architect, so it shouldn't surprise you that I changed my plans and came to Berlin when he agreed to see me at the last minute. I met him in the park so that he could discuss his work."

"I don't believe you, Mr. Marten." What little softness there'd been was suddenly gone.

"That's unfortunate, but you don't have much choice."

Just then the taxi pulled sharply to the curb and stopped. Immediately Anne turned to the driver. "What is it?"

The driver turned down the music, looked in the mirror, and smiled. "Where you asked to be taken, madame. The Hotel Mozart Superior."

In that next breath, Marten leaned forward and handed him a hundred-euro bill. "Please take the lady back to her hotel, or wherever she's staying."

Quickly he opened the door and looked to Anne. "Thanks for caring, darling. I'll get rid of her myself. Long legs, big t.i.ts, and all."

Then he was out of the cab and entering the Hotel Mozart Superior. A second later the taxi pulled away.

5:38 P.M.

26.

It took Marten four minutes to get to his room and start putting his things together. Anne Tidrow's arrival had been a surprise, but nothing like the sudden murder of Theo Haas. Her personal motivations aside, her quick wit, spiriting him out of there when the crowd was pointing him out to the police thinking he was the man they were looking for, had been deeply appreciated. The trouble was, Haas had been a national icon and the hunt for his killer and anyone connected to him would be ma.s.sive. He had to get out of Berlin and Germany as quickly as possible, before the police investigation began in earnest and witnesses in both the park and at the Brandenburg Gate began describing him in detail. There was something else, too. It wouldn't be long before the police would discover that Theo Haas and Father w.i.l.l.y were brothers and immediately wonder if the two murders were connected. If that were made public, Anne Tidrow, Conor White, and the E.G. army's hawk-faced officer would no longer be guessing why he had come to Berlin. They would know for certain.

What that meant, the police notwithstanding, was that very soon it would be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, for him to leave Germany, let alone Berlin, without one of them close on his tail. And that he couldn't permit under any circ.u.mstance because now he did know, or at least thought he knew, where the pictures were.

Sitting on the park bench in the Platz der Republik, watching him the way Father w.i.l.l.y had in the rain forest, trying to judge whether or not to trust him, Theo Haas had, in a very roundabout way and in the manner of his brother, pointed him in the direction of the photographs: "Livros usados, Avenida Tomas Cabreira," he'd said with a smile. "The town of Praia da Rocha in the Algarve region of Portugal. A man named Jacob Cadiz. He collects things." Seconds later, before Marten had the chance to question him further, the firecrackers had gone off. A second beat after that the curly-haired man struck and Haas was dead.

5:47 P.M.

Marten finished packing his suitcase and zipped it closed. There would be no official checkout, no formal notice of leaving, nothing, just go and let the hotel track him down later. One final glance around to make sure he'd left nothing behind, then he went to the door, opened it, and froze.

"I believe this is yours, Mr. Marten." Anne Tidrow stood alone in the hallway. Immediately she pressed the hundred-euro bill he'd given to their taxi driver into his hand. "I can afford my own cab fare. May I come in?"

"I-" Marten hesitated.

"Thank you," she said and stepped into the room, closing the door behind them.

He stared at her. "Now what?"

"I have another taxi waiting. It's at the side door. I suggest we use it, and sooner rather than later."

"We?"

"After you left the cab, the driver turned his radio from country music to the news. It seems your murdered friend was not just an author but the famed n.o.bel laureate Theo Haas. A n.o.bel laureate who was last seen alive talking to someone in Platz der Republik who, according to witnesses, looked a lot like you. I'm sure that once our driver friend realizes it, he will be more than happy to describe that person to the police, then tell them who was with him and where he took them. Would you like me to explain it further?"

"No." Marten said. The police had moved more quickly and efficiently than he'd thought they would. It wouldn't be long before they'd know who he was and would be right here in this room collecting evidence. Like it or not, he and Anne Tidrow were suddenly joined at the hip. Worse, she had her teeth into him and wasn't about to let go, no matter the consequences. It gave him little choice but to go along with her.

"Just where is this other taxi taking us?" he said.

"My hotel."

"How do you know that afterward this driver won't inform the police?"

"Because I'm paying him five hundred euros not to."

5:50 P.M.

27.

HOTEL ADLON KEMPINSKI, ROOM 647. 6:15 P.M.

Marten stood near the window staring out. Not a hundred yards away, backlit by the late-afternoon sun, was the Brandenburg Gate with a number of police vehicles still clearly in sight. That they'd come back to the same area they had left barely an hour earlier was something he hadn't realized when they arrived because they'd come in through the luxury hotel's rear entrance on Behrenstra.s.se and then taken a back stairwell to avoid using the elevators.

He turned to look at Anne. She had her suitcase open on the bed and was hurriedly packing it. "Some choice of hotels. I count four police cars and three police motorcycles, and that's just those I can see."

She stopped and looked at him. "How did I know you were going to come this way? I just wanted a place reasonably close to yours."

"You should have stayed in Malabo. Better yet, Texas."