The Hadrian Memorandum Part 11

31.

BERLIN. STILL FRIDAY, JUNE 4. 8:30 P.M.

The tour boat Monbijou Monbijou had left the landing at 8:02, motored up the Spree to a turning point, and was now headed back into a city beginning to come alive for the night. The initial fears Anne and Marten had had about being seated on the upper deck and therefore open to view from sh.o.r.e had been quieted by the sheer number of other pa.s.sengers surrounding them, easily eighty in all plus two harried, white-jacketed waiters rus.h.i.+ng back and forth to the lower deck to retrieve drinks and snacks in an attempt to keep the topsiders happy. If much of Berlin had been psychologically pained by the murder of Theo Haas, that mood wasn't evident here. In all probability that was because most of the pa.s.sengers were English-speaking foreigners unaware of the emotional magnitude of the crime and its effect on the city. had left the landing at 8:02, motored up the Spree to a turning point, and was now headed back into a city beginning to come alive for the night. The initial fears Anne and Marten had had about being seated on the upper deck and therefore open to view from sh.o.r.e had been quieted by the sheer number of other pa.s.sengers surrounding them, easily eighty in all plus two harried, white-jacketed waiters rus.h.i.+ng back and forth to the lower deck to retrieve drinks and snacks in an attempt to keep the topsiders happy. If much of Berlin had been psychologically pained by the murder of Theo Haas, that mood wasn't evident here. In all probability that was because most of the pa.s.sengers were English-speaking foreigners unaware of the emotional magnitude of the crime and its effect on the city.

Still, Marten was concerned, chiefly about the people seated nearby. He was afraid they might have seen his picture on television or be getting fresh information from the cell phones and other electronic gadgets seemingly everyone had despite the fact they had come on board to relax and enjoy the sights. Yet, so far at least, none had even looked his way, leading him to think that maybe Anne hadn't been as foolish as he thought when she'd tossed him the Dallas Cowboys Dallas Cowboys baseball cap and told him to put it on. baseball cap and told him to put it on.

The public aside, or even the police who might be watching through field gla.s.ses from the embankment as they pa.s.sed, the thing that troubled him most was Anne herself. The questions he'd put to her earlier-who she really was and what her motivations were-remained unanswered, primarily because they were in public and trying to keep a low profile. So he'd let it go, at least for now.

For a time he'd simply watched the city as they pa.s.sed by and thought about what he would do next, a sticky problem in itself because he both needed her and wanted to get rid of her at the same time. Then her BlackBerry had sounded. She'd answered and said quietly, "I am, yes. It's alright. No, not so far. Not certain just yet. Yes. Okay."

She'd clicked off immediately and was putting the device in her purse when it rang again. She clicked on, said a generic "Hi," gave the second caller very nearly the same information as the first, then clicked off and put the phone away. Afterward she'd smiled and kissed his cheek, taking his hand as if they were the lovebirds they'd portrayed to the police on the street. Not once had she mentioned either call.

If Marten had seen the text memo she'd sent earlier to Sy Wirth and copied to Loyal Truex and Conor White, he might have understood.

Meeting with our short-list candidate in Berlin. He is somewhat reluctant to join the firm so will need more time to help persuade him to change his mind. Home office execs joining us here to help in the process would only complicate things. More later.

What it had been was an affirmation that she'd trailed Marten to Berlin, had located him, and wanted no interference from any of them. That she had sent the text before before the murder of Theo Haas only complicated things, because with Haas's death everything changed. Suddenly Marten had become a prime suspect in his murder, and very soon, if not already, the police would know she had been with him shortly afterward. Once they had traced them to the Adlon, they would know her ident.i.ty as well. And what the h.e.l.l would Messrs. Wirth, Truex, and White do about that once they learned of it? the murder of Theo Haas only complicated things, because with Haas's death everything changed. Suddenly Marten had become a prime suspect in his murder, and very soon, if not already, the police would know she had been with him shortly afterward. Once they had traced them to the Adlon, they would know her ident.i.ty as well. And what the h.e.l.l would Messrs. Wirth, Truex, and White do about that once they learned of it?

But Marten had known nothing of that communication at all. What he would know was that in the last minutes she had received two brief calls that she had replied to ambiguously. Who they had been from or what they were about he could only guess, and she intended to leave it that way. Then, just seconds later, her BlackBerry had chimed a third time. She'd taken it from her purse, read a brief text message, then clicked off. What it had been about Marten wouldn't know, either, but from the way he looked at her, it was clear the run of recent communications was beginning to trouble him enough that she was afraid he might bolt from her the first chance he got. To ease his concern, and hers, she was about to tell him what had been in the text when the world around them suddenly got in the way.

"Would you mind, sir?" one of the white-jacketed waiters, a fiftyish man with curly eyebrows and a mustache, had stopped beside them. He carried a tray on which were balanced a half-dozen large gla.s.ses of beer and was looking directly at Marten, who, on the aisle seat, was closest to him.

"For the people next to your wife," he said with a smile. "Sure," Marten said, taking one and then another of the gla.s.ses. One, two he handed them to Anne, who then pa.s.sed them on to a middle-aged Australian couple seated next to them.

"Ten euros will make it," the waiter said.

The Australian woman dug in her purse and handed a twenty-euro bill to Anne, who handed it to Marten, who pa.s.sed it to the waiter. Change came back the same way, and then a three-euro tip went back to the waiter, who said, "Dankeschon," and moved off to deliver the remaining beverages to a foursome two rows forward.

"Thank you." The Australian woman smiled at Anne.

"Our pleasure." Anne returned the smile, then gave it a minute and looked to Marten. Lowering her voice, she gave him the gist of the text message. "Our accommodations are ready, darling. Get off at the next landing."

8:38 P.M.

32.

HOTEL ADLON, ROOM 647. 8:42 P.M.

Hauptkommissar Emil Franck watched veteran police dog trainer Friedrich Handler lead two eager Belgian Malinois into the bathroom, remove their leashes, and show them the bathrobe and towels Anne Tidrow had used after her shower. Both animals nuzzled and sniffed and then for a moment stood motionless. Handler nodded, and as one they backed up, leaving the confines of the bathroom to explore the hotel room itself. In thirty seconds they had covered it, stopping first at the clothes closet, then moving to the chair near the television, then finally sniffing around the bed. An instant later they headed for the door. Handler leashed them again. Then, with a nod from Franck, he opened the door and they went out.

8:47 P.M.

The dogs led them down a set of rear stairs and to the Adlon's back entrance on Behrenstra.s.se. Outside, the Malinois turned left and then left again onto Wilhelmstra.s.se, tugging Handler and Hauptkommissar Franck in the direction of Unter den Linden. In less than a minute they had crossed the boulevard and were going in the direction of the Spree.

"Hauptkommissar." A male voice came through a tiny receiver in Franck's right ear.

Franck lifted his police radio and slowed, letting Handler and the Malinois move ahead. "Yes."

"Hannah Anne Tidrow is on the board of directors of the AG Striker Oil and Energy Company of Houston, Texas. The same AG Striker company that is under contract to the U.S. State Department in Iraq."

Franck looked puzzled. "She's currently on the board?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want to know more about Striker. Where their operations are outside of Iraq. If they have offices in Germany or elsewhere in the EU. Next, do we have a make on her companion?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Yes, we do." Gertrude Prosser's voice suddenly crackled through his earpiece. "His name is Nicholas Marten. He's a landscape architect from Manchester, England. Checked into the Mozart Superior just after one this afternoon."

"Landscape architect?"

"Yes, sir."

"Find out where he was before he came to Berlin-if he came directly from Manchester or from somewhere else-and if he has a criminal record. I want to know about the firm he works for. How established they are, what kind of clients they have. All of this is to be kept confidential and within my department only. No information, I repeat, no information is to reach the media. Total blackout."

"Yes, sir."

"Hauptkommissar," Handler suddenly called to him.

"Yes." Franck clicked off and looked up.

Handler and the dogs were stopped at a construction Dumpster thirty feet ahead in a work area near the Reichstag. The Malinois were dancing in circles, confused.

"She stopped here," Handler said. "Spent a few minutes, then moved on. I don't know if the man was with her or not."

"Which way?"

"Toward the river, I think."

"You think?"

"There's too much construction debris and a great deal of plaster and cement dust. They've lost the scent."

Franck stared at him, clearly upset.

"I'm sorry, Haupkommissar."

"It's alright, Handler. It's alright. We'll take it from here. Thank you."

9:12 P.M.

33.

9:45 P.M.

Anne Tidrow and Nicholas Marten walked quickly along Friedrichstra.s.se. Heads down, they dodged in and out of leisurely strolling pedestrian traffic as best they could without calling attention to themselves. Four minutes earlier they'd disembarked from the Monbijou Monbijou at the Weidendamm Bridge dock on the city side of the Spree, then crossed back over it, going in the same direction they had earlier. The entire route, boat ride included, had consumed nearly two hours, while taking them in what was little more than a large circle that brought them right back into the city and the hornet's nest that was the police dragnet. at the Weidendamm Bridge dock on the city side of the Spree, then crossed back over it, going in the same direction they had earlier. The entire route, boat ride included, had consumed nearly two hours, while taking them in what was little more than a large circle that brought them right back into the city and the hornet's nest that was the police dragnet.

"This is crazy," Marten breathed as two motorcycle officers cruised slowly past surveying the pedestrians. "How much further?"

"We're almost-"

"You speak English?" A man with a closely trimmed beard suddenly locked step with them. He was maybe thirty and fas.h.i.+onably dressed in a beige suit and fitted black T-s.h.i.+rt.

They said nothing, just kept walking.

"English, yes? I'm trying to help you," he insisted.

Anne glanced at him. "What do you want?"

He smiled and lowered his voice." I got some good stuff. Pure c.o.ke, none of this street s.h.i.+t."

"No, thank you."

"What about him?" he nodded at Marten. Marten kept his head down and said nothing. "She speak for you?" he pressed.

Still Marten said nothing, just kept walking.

"I'm talking to you, man. Come on, this is good stuff. Not easy to find."

"Please leave us alone." Marten glanced at him sharply, then looked away.

Suddenly the man narrowed his forehead. "I've seen you someplace before, and not long ago."

Abruptly Marten stopped, grabbed the man's collar, and pulled him close. "I'm a cop. A detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Want me to pull one of the local gendarmes over, let him check you out?"

"Let go of me, man. Let me go!" The man squealed and tried to pull away.

Marten fixed him with a stare, then shoved him backward. "Get the h.e.l.l out of here. Now!"

The man stared a half second, then turned and walked quickly away in the opposite direction, disappearing in the sidewalk crowd.

Anne looked at him and grinned. "A cop?"

Immediately Marten took her by the arm. "Wherever we're going, get us there as fast as you can."

10:10 P.M.

The apartment was utilitarian at best. The top floor of an old three-story brick-building on an alley off Ziegelstra.s.se. There were two small, meagerly furnished rooms, plus a tiny kitchen and bath. The bedroom was in the back. It had a double bed, a worn overstuffed chair, and a chest of drawers. A small window opened onto an air shaft with an iron fire ladder that led to the roof. The other room, a kind of sitting room/dining room/library, was in the front, where two narrow floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the alley with a glimpse of Ziegelstra.s.se at the end of it.

The chipped, red-painted cupboard in the kitchen had been recently stocked with a variety of canned soups and meats along with two boxes of dry cereal, a jar of mustard, and one of strawberry jam. The refrigerator held a pound of ground coffee, a small wheel of cheese, a liter of milk, some fresh-sliced ham, several apples, two loaves of dark bread, a half-dozen bottles of mineral water, and eight bottles of Radeberger Pilsner beer. In all, enough to keep them fed, as Anne said, "for several days or more."

"Several days?" Marten protested as they walked through the darkened front room to take refuge in the back bedroom.

"I'm doing my best to get us out of this mess. It's not easy. It may take a little time." Anne turned on a small bedside lamp. Its warm glow was welcome against the dark of the rest of the apartment, purposely kept that way to avoid drawing attention from the alley below. "You might even say thank you, for G.o.d's sake."

Marten's reply was slow. "Thank you," he said finally, then walked off down the hall to stand in the doorway to the front room and stare silently into it, alone with his thoughts.

"You're welcome," she said after him, then opened her purse and took out a designer T-s.h.i.+rt and started to undress. She took off her jacket and jeans, then her s.h.i.+rt and bra, folding them all neatly and setting them in a pile on top of the chest of drawers. She'd just pulled on the T-s.h.i.+rt when she felt a presence and turned to find him standing in the doorway looking at her.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" he said quietly. "Whose place is this? Who are you?"

"I'm tired. I want to sleep," she said.

"Yeah, well I'm tired, too."

"Please, not now."

She was starting past him for the bathroom when he put an arm out and stopped her. "You've got ten seconds to answer my questions. You don't, I'm walking out. I'll take my chances with the police." His eyes were fierce and unrelenting, his mind clearly made up.

She stared back at him. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"About the company. About you. All of it."

"I wouldn't know where to start."

"Try the beginning."

She watched him a beat longer, then relented. "Alright." She went back to the bed and sat down cross-legged on it, still dressed only in the T-s.h.i.+rt and panties, the nipples of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s protruding smartly through the s.h.i.+rt's soft cotton. If it was provocative, she didn't seem to care.

"My father owned Striker Oil. He bought it when it was a small oil services company in West Texas in the 1970s. My mother died when I was thirteen. I was an only child. He raised me himself. Took me all over the world with him while he tried to build the business, which meant anywhere there was oil or oil companies who needed management or exploration services. We nearly went under more than once. Then it caught hold. He took Striker public and did very well. I went to college in Texas and then into business. I got married and divorced. Shortly afterward my father had a stroke and put me on Striker's board of directors because he knew I would protect the company and because I knew more about it than anybody but him. Then he had a second stroke, and I left my job to take care of him. I stayed with him for four years until he died." Suddenly she stopped. "Boring, isn't it? Why the h.e.l.l don't we just leave it at that?"

Marten leaned back against the doorjamb. "What happened to the company then?"

She watched him for a long moment. He wanted to know everything and wasn't about to back down until he had it. If she was going to keep him with her, she had no choice but to continue.