by Allan Folsom
“What?”
“Theo Haas’s brother, Father Willy Dorhn, the priest you sent me to see, took them. He’s dead. Murdered by the army. I don’t know why White’s people are involved with the insurrection, but they are, and I’m all but certain it’s at Striker’s directive.”
“These photographs, they’re clear-cut? There’s no mistaking who the people in them are or what they’re doing?”
“No, none. I’ve seen them myself.”
“Where are they? Who has them?” Harris flicked on a table lamp and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“That’s what everybody wants to know. The E.G. army interrogators and Conor White himself. Nobody can find them, but I think I know where they are.”
“Nicholas, cousin.” The president got up and crossed the room barefoot. “I want, I need,” he said emphatically, “to have those pictures in my possession as quickly as possible and without anyone knowing. If the Striker people find out they’ll cover their asses in a hurry. Hadrian’s, too. If they’re leaked to the media we’ll have a major international incident on our hands.”
PARIS, CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT.
“I’m aware of that.” Marten turned from the window to look casually around as if he were in the middle of a dull conversation. Satisfied no one was within hearing distance, he turned back.
“It’s just after eight in the morning, Paris time. I’m going to try to make a nine-thirty flight to Berlin, where Theo Haas lives. His phone number is unlisted. I need you to get it for me.”
“I don’t understand,” the president said.
“I think his brother forwarded the photos to him. He may have them in his possession and be planning to do something with them himself or he may have them and not know it. If Father Willy sent them by mail, maybe they haven’t even arrived. I don’t think the others have considered Berlin yet because he and Haas have different last names and there would be no reason to make a connection. It means I have a head start. At least by the few hours it takes until they figure it out and get moving.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Who else do you have?”
There was silence, and Marten knew the president was considering the ramifications of what might happen if he asked for the help of the CIA or other security agencies and because of it Hadrian or Striker or both learned what was going on and where and why.
“I will get you the Haas telephone number.”
“Good. Now there’s more,” Marten pressed him. “Haas may or may not have learned about his brother’s death. Either way, he doesn’t know me, so there’s no reason for him to trust me. But he does know and trust Joe Ryder. Ryder needs to call Haas right away and tell him to expect to hear from me. He doesn’t need to tell him what it’s about, just say I’m the person who met with his brother in Bioko and I want to meet with him as soon as I get to Berlin.”
“Nicholas, Ryder is with a congressional group in Iraq looking into the Striker/Hadrian situation. I don’t know how quickly I can reach him or how soon he can get in touch with Haas.”
“I know you’ll do the best you can. In the meantime I need Haas’s phone number.”
“Call me back in thirty minutes.”
8:14 A.M.
Marten clicked off and turned from the window. As he did he saw a familiar face watching him from a balcony on the floor above.
Anne Tidrow.
Instead of feigning surprise, or turning away in the hopes he wouldn’t recognize her, she smiled and waved easily, as if they were old friends. When he’d last seen her she had been on her way out of the airport with her gray-haired companion. Now she was back, apparently alone. If she was following him, this was the time to find out.
He smiled genially, then motioned for her to come down and join him.
19
8:17 A.M.
Marten watched her as she came down the escalator. Still in the dark slacks and tailored jacket she’d worn on the plane, she seemed slimmer, less severe, and more athletic than when they’d met at the Hotel Malabo. For the first time he noticed the long taper of her neck and the muscular strength of it. Clearly she kept in good physical condition and, from the way she held herself, was proud of it.
“I was on my way to the railway station for a train into the city when I saw you,” she said as she reached him. “I wondered how you were after the long flight.”
“Anxious to get home and back to work,” he said lightly. “I have a flight that leaves in less than an hour.”
“To England. Manchester, isn’t it?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“I also know where you work. The landscape design firm of Fitzsimmons and Justice.” She smiled. “Conor White told me. He has access to information most people don’t.”
“Why would either of you be interested in where I live or work?”
“Because, Mr. Marten, neither he nor I felt you were being completely honest with us when we talked in Malabo. We are concerned about our employees in Equatorial Guinea, and you seemed to have had some other reason for being there, aside from collecting information on plants, that is. So Mr. White did a background check on you and—”
“Found I was telling the truth,” he said, finishing her sentence, “that I was in Bioko to look over native flora for clients at home.” He paused, taking the slightest moment to study her. She was intelligent and equally bold and clearly used to getting whatever it was she was after. “I have to assume it’s why you were on the plane, out of concern for your employees, following me to make sure Mr. White’s background check was accurate. And why, instead of leaving the airport with your friend, you were watching me from up there.” He gestured toward the balcony above.
She grinned. “I was leaving Bioko for Paris anyway. So I took the assignment.”
“In that case, you should be happy to report that my flight to Manchester connects through London, so there’s no need to chase me all the way there. That is, unless you’re interested in property in the north of England. Have you been to Manchester before?”
“No.”
“Well, if you should happen to come, I would be happy to show you around. Conversely, should you have need for landscape design for either your home or business in Texas, you know where to reach me. Fitzsimmons and Justice, Manchester, England. We’re in the phone book and we’re expensive, but we do excellent work. Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to miss my flight. Please give my regards to Mr. White.” With that Marten nodded and started off.
“Which airline?” she called after him.
He looked back, “Why, you want to come with me?”
“No, but I might have you followed.”
“Help yourself.” He grinned. “British Airways.” Then he turned and continued on.
8:22 A.M.
Marten’s study of the departure console had been fortunate in more ways than one. In trying to find the next flight to Berlin, he’d also seen the next flight to Manchester via London, something he’d noted with envy because he would have much preferred going there. Nonetheless it had stuck in his mind and was a welcome immediate and reasonable destination to give to Anne Tidrow. He doubted she believed him, though. She’d been far too blasé in telling him that neither she nor White had fully believed him in Malabo. It had been the same when she’d asked what airline he was taking on his flight home. Maybe she’d been joking about having him followed, but most likely she wasn’t. Clearly they believed he knew something about the photographs and weren’t about to let go until they were certain, one way or the other.
The Air France flight from Malabo brought them to Terminal—or Hall, as it was called—2F. The British Airways flight to London left from Hall 2B at 9:10. That gave Marten precious few minutes to walk from one terminal to the other, buy a ticket to London, find a place where he could call the president back, make the call, and then get to the departure gate. Once there he would wait until passengers began to board, then suddenly duck into a n
earby kiosk as if he needed something at the last minute, then go out the other side and make his way to Hall 2D and the 9:30 Air France flight to Berlin. It was a lot of maneuvering but hopefully enough to throw off Anne Tidrow or anyone else who might be following him and let him make the Berlin flight unnoticed.
The thing about Ms. Tidrow, when he’d caught her watching him, was that her reaction had been to simply smile and wave. Afterward, when he’d directly accused her of following him, she’d admitted it and said why. Or at least partially why. Honesty in situations like that was always best. Or at least partial honesty. The trouble was, most people didn’t do it. They hesitated and made up a story and certainly didn’t look you in the eye when they told you the way she had. Maybe that kind of confidence came from sitting on the board of directors of a large oil company or maybe it came from somewhere else. Just where, or what that was, he had no way of knowing.
8:44 A.M.
Marten stopped at the rear of the line entering the security checkpoint, then moved away and took the blue cell phone from his bag and a pen and small notebook from his jacket. He glanced around, then repeated the dialing procedures he had used earlier.
UNITED STATES EMBASSY, OTTAWA, CANADA. 2:44 A.M.
President Harris picked up at the first ring. “I just got off the phone with Joe Ryder. He’ll be calling Theo Haas momentarily. Here’s Haas’s private number. You have something to write with?”
“Yes.”
“030-555-5895.”
“Thank you.”
“After you’ve seen Haas, Ryder wants to speak with you. I do, too. Call me and I’ll get us plugged in on some kind of secure conference call. Don’t know just how it’ll work yet because he’s traveling, but I’ll have it operating by the time you call.” The president hesitated. “Nick, Nicholas, cousin. I did a quick run-through on your friend Conor White. He won his stripes as a top British commando. He’s got the Victoria Cross and a chest full of other military honors to prove it. Be damned careful, huh? I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“I wouldn’t want to lose me, either. I’ll call you when I have something to report.” President Harris heard Marten click off. He looked at his watch. It was two forty-five in the morning. Eight forty-five in Paris.
20
8:48 A.M.
Marten showed his British Airways boarding pass at the security checkpoint, then set his suitcase on the luggage conveyor, took off his belt and put it in a plastic tray with a number of coins from his pocket, and stepped through the metal detector. A moment later he retrieved his belt and coins, collected his suitcase, and walked off toward his boarding gate, B34. Not once, from the time he’d stepped into line at the ticket counter until now, had he seen anyone in particular watching him. It didn’t mean they weren’t there. It simply meant he hadn’t seen them.
8:50 A.M.
Ahead, to Marten’s right, was Gate B34 where a long line of passengers was in the process of boarding the London flight. To his left were toilets, a combination bookstore/newsstand/convenience store, and next to it a sandwich shop. He continued purposefully on and joined the line at Gate B34.
Twenty feet in front of him a slim, athletically built middle-aged man in a sport coat and blue jeans stood in the crowd waiting to board and at the same time absently watched Marten come toward him. Now he raised his hand as if to stifle a cough or clear his throat.
“This is Three. He’s just joined the passenger queue waiting to board,” he said softly into a microphone in his sleeve.
A male voice floated through an earpiece barely visible in his left ear. “This is One. Thank you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Stay with him and board behind him. Make sure he is on the aircraft when it pulls back from the ramp.”
“Right.”
Seconds earlier, by luck or by instinct, Marten had looked up and seen a middle-aged, athletic-looking man in sport coat and jeans, standing near the front of the line watching him and at the same time moving his lips as he held a hand to his mouth. Now Marten saw him drop his hand and casually move aside to speak with a uniformed British Airways agent near the boarding gate.
Right then he knew. Whatever he’d thought before, there was no question now, he was being watched. But by whom? Conor White and Anne Tidrow’s people? Operatives under the direction of the Army of the Republic of Equatorial Guinea?
And there wasn’t just one. The man had been communicating with someone, which meant there were two of them at least, maybe more.
8:52 A.M.
The ranks of boarding passengers were lessening rapidly as people entered the aircraft. The Athlete, as Marten had decided to call him, was still talking with the British Airways employee, gesturing as if he had some problem with his ticket or seating arrangement or something similar. Every so often he looked off, as if he were becoming frustrated with the direction of the conversation. That glance away and then back, Marten knew, was carefully calculated to keep an eye on him. See where he was in line. Make certain he was moving forward with the remaining passengers, whose number by now had dwindled to fewer than two dozen. Athlete or no Athlete, if Marten was going to get out of there, he had to do it soon.
“Excuse me.” He turned to a young woman in line behind him. “I have a splitting headache and need to get something for it before I get on the plane. Would you mind holding my place in line? I’ll be right back.”
With that he was gone, leaving the boarding area and crossing to the bookstore/newsstand/convenience store on the other side of the corridor.
Immediately the Athlete turned from the airline agent and raised his hand to his mouth. “He just left the boarding area and has gone into a newsstand across from it!” he blurted into his hidden microphone.
“Stay with him! Stay with him!”
8:55 A.M.
Marten entered the store in a rush looking for another exit. He pushed around a magazine stand and then past a rack filled with toiletries. No time to think about the Athlete—just find the exit and get out of there. But where? There was no other egress. In front of him was a wall of bestselling books. To his right, a large magazine rack. To his left, a floor-to-ceiling case of PARIS, FRANCE T-shirts and caps.
“Christ!” he said to himself and turned to look for another way out. As he did, the Athlete came into the store and stood in the entryway, his eyes scanning the room. Immediately Marten looked away. The only exit was the doorway where the man was. To use it he would have to walk right past him. The clock was fast ticking down. If he missed the Berlin flight, there was every chance people employed by Striker/SimCo or agents from the Equatorial Guinean army would be at Theo Haas’s doorstep before he was. Athlete or not, he had no choice but to go out past him and go now.
He was turning, starting to move, when a nearby door suddenly opened and a female clerk came out of a back room pushing a service cart piled with magazines and boxes of candy. In an instant Marten was past her and into the room looking for a service exit. All he saw was shelves full of supplies.
Immediately the clerk came in behind him. “Sir,” she said with a French accent, “you’re not allowed in here!”
“Sorry,” he said and turned back, disheartened. Then he saw an exit door to the side, a crash bar mounted across it just below a bright red warning sign.
EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, it read, in French and English.
Marten studied it. Go through it and the alarm goes off. People come running from everywhere. Perfect.
8:59 A.M.
21
9:03 A.M.
Marten walked quickly, suitcase in tow, the blaring of the emergency exit alarm and the rush of security personnel toward the convenience store diminishing behind him as he left Hall 2B and moved through the throng of apprehensive travelers drawn by the sudden activity and toward Hall 2D and his destination, gate D55 and his 9:30 Air France flight to Berlin.
To his right, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on other terminals across the way. Through t
hem he could see that the bright, cloud-pocked sky of earlier had become completely overcast and large droplets of rain were splattering on the glass. Suddenly, even as he rushed for the plane and at the same time tried to evade the Athlete and his unseen players, the idea of rain brought memories of the storm in Malabo that he had feared might keep him grounded there for days. It was a reflection that carried with it the haunting memories of Bioko itself: Father Willy and the young boys clubbed to death by army troops; the bodies of the woman and children caught in the branches of the floating tree; the venomous features of the soldiers murderously pursuing him through the rain forest; the deadly, piercing eyes and tribal-scarred face of the army major who had interrogated him; the preposterous entrance of President Tiombe into the bar at the Hotel Malabo and the awful, chilling stare with which he had fixed Marten as he moved on.
Only one word could express his feelings about all of it.
Anger.
The people of Equatorial Guinea were victims of machinery and measures and dynamics far beyond their control. More infuriating still was the numbing realization that there was so very little that could be done about it. Father Willy had tried, done the very best he could, and he was dead because of it. Yet the thing was, no matter the outcome, he had tried, which was what Marten, in his own way, was attempting here. If he could somehow retrieve the photographs and get them to President Harris and Joe Ryder, it might be ammunition enough to pressure Striker and Hadrian and SimCo to stop arming the rebels and at the same time force Tiombe to pull back his forces, a combination that could quickly lessen the barbaric scope of the fighting. It wasn’t much, but if he could do it, it was something. And to Marten, as he hustled toward gate D55, that little bit of something meant everything.
9:07 A.M.
The Athlete was stopped midcorridor outside Hall 2B. Through the terminal’s glass wall he could see the British Airways London-bound aircraft pull back from the gate. He lifted a hand to his mouth. “This is Three,” he said quietly but with urgency. “Who’s got him?”
