“Unlikely, but it would depend on the situation.”
Conor White and Carlos Branco stood on the balcony of a modest fourth-floor apartment on Rua do São Filipe Néri. In the distance, long shadows cast by the setting sun accentuated the wide Tagus River and the boat traffic on it. Illuminated, too, in bright yellow light, was the towering Golden Gate–like 25th of April Bridge carrying vehicles to and from areas to the south, the Algarve among them.
Inside, through the sliding glass door, they could see Patrice and Irish Jack in the living room. They were already comfortable in jeans and tight black T-shirts, drinking coffee and playing cards. Over the rooftops on the building’s far side rose the Four Seasons Ritz, where Congressman Ryder would make his base sometime the next morning. It was a four-minute walk at most, thirty seconds by car.
White studied Branco carefully, as if trying to take his full measure. How much experience he had, his thought process, the way he moved. If he could fully trust him. Clearly what Sy Wirth had told him—that Loyal Truex, not himself, had set this up—seemed to be true. From all appearances he was a skilled professional. It was one of the very few things Wirth hadn’t screwed up. The speed of it meant that Truex had been in direct contact with Washington and that Branco’s hire would have been done by Lisbon’s CIA station chief. It was a roundabout, but in intelligence terms, correct way of keeping White out of any direct contact with Washington. That way they all were protected, which had been the idea from the beginning.
“What do you see?” Branco asked calmly.
“An accomplished resource whose name is not on the Agency payroll or listed anywhere on its books or records. A freelancer for hire who is paid out of the chief of station’s private account and is used to working that way.”
“Good.” Branco smiled.
“How much do you know about what’s going on?”
“Little to nothing. I’m a simple painter who has been assigned to Congressman Ryder’s RSO security detail. My job is to help set up his quarters at the hotel before he arrives and then be with him for the rest of his stay.”
“Painter? As in paint him as a target.”
Branco smiled. “Make sure all of his communication lines are bugged and that he is under real-time surveillance wherever he goes.”
“You are aware there are two others involved.”
“A Nicholas Marten and a Ms. Anne Tidrow. At some point they will attempt to meet with the congressman. When that happens, I am to pull back and take the RSO detail with me. Then you and your cardplaying friends will move in and do whatever needs to be done.”
Again Conor White studied him. “You know Lisbon well.”
“You are asking if I know how and where to work our threesome into an isolated situation but so they won’t realize it. And in a way where there can be no interference from the police or problems with accidental witnesses.”
White nodded.
“In a city like this there are all kinds of unexpected trapdoors. One only needs to know when they will be needed, and after that how to put them in play.”
“You can do that.”
“I am, as you said, an accomplished resource. Preparation is everything. It’s a discipline in which I am quite skilled.”
White crossed the balcony to look out at the river. For a long moment he stared at it, his mind elsewhere. Finally he turned back to Branco. “Do you know what Marten and Anne Tidrow look like?”
“I was provided with Marten’s British passport photo and the Tidrow woman’s corporate photograph. By now, either through the passage of time or on purpose or both, they will have changed their appearance. We will have to take that into consideration.”
“They will be coming over that”—he nodded toward the 25th of April Bridge—“from the Algarve. Maybe they’re already here, maybe not. When they are here, now or later, can you find them?”
“Undoubtedly the congressman will know how to reach them and will do so at some point after he arrives. His room will be bugged, his cell phones monitored the minute he lands. When he makes contact, we can move.”
“Carlos.” White took him by the arm. “I don’t want to wait that long. Marten and Anne are the principal targets. If we can locate them before the congressman gets here, we won’t need to involve him at all. It would be much cleaner that way.” He paused and then smiled deliberately. “It’s something you might find quite lucrative.”
“You mean a bonus.”
“Yes.”
“Paid by who?”
“Me to you, personally. Fifty thousand euros in cash within thirty-six hours of the job’s completion. No one else will know. Not your chief of station, not even my own people.”
“How can I be sure you will keep your word?”
“You know who I am. You would have checked on me before you took the assignment. A man in our line of business who doesn’t honor his promises doesn’t last very long, and I’ve been around for quite some time.”
“I can’t guarantee success.”
“Then we will return to the original plan. You understand, of course, that if that were to happen you would be out a lot of money. ”
“I will do what I can.”
Again Conor White smiled. “I know you will.”
8:02 P.M.
83
17 RUA DO ALMADA. SAME TIME.
Who Raisa Amaro really was or worked for was impossible to know, at least in the first few minutes—and, Marten guessed, probably not even in a lifetime. What she did do was play the part of the discreet hostess exceedingly well. Which was how she had met them at the door. Elegantly dressed in a tailored navy suit under a shock of coiffed red hair, she’d introduced herself, inquired about their trip, then immediately taken them up in a small elevator to the sensual luxury of a top-floor apartment, acting all the while as if the sole purpose of their visit were an illicit affair.
French born and sixty-something, she was barely five feet tall; her livelihood seemed to revolve around the careful managing of this single piece of real estate that was little more than a very private stage designed for sexual intimacy. She expounded on the richness of her service by explaining that should a third-party plaything be required—male or female—she would be happy to provide one at short notice. In essence, Raisa Amaro was a handsomely paid madam of the first order who guarded the apartment as well as the front door to the building herself. A building, she explained, that she owned outright. If the edifice’s other tenants knew about her top-floor arrangement, they said nothing, knowing full well that as the proprietor Raisa—as she asked to be called—could and would evict them at any moment and for any reason at all, no matter what local ordinances there were against such things.
“Everything you will need for your stay is here. A day, a week, or longer, whatever is your pleasure,” she’d explained in French-accented English as she’d gracefully shown them around the expansive one-bedroom facility. “Marble bathroom with Jacuzzi tub, bidet, dual-head shower, imported soaps, perfumes, extra-thick towels with more in the linen closet, terry robes more luxurious than in any hotel in Europe. The bed is king-sized, the sheets silk, the pillows and comforter goose down. A wide selection of condoms is in the cabinet next to it.”
At that Marten and Anne had exchanged glances as the term “safe house” suddenly took on an entirely new meaning.
“There is a small hotel-type safe in the clothes closet; instructions on the door will tell you how to use it. The television in the front room receives one hundred and twenty channels in any number of languages. Breakfast is when you ask for it. If you want something you don’t see, pick up the phone and dial one-one. It is a direct line to my apartment on the ground floor.” At that point she’d led them into the kitchen.
“In the refrigerator you will find paté, cold cuts, a selection of cheeses, milk, champagne, and mineral water. Fresh fruit and desserts are on the side table. The coffee is automatic, ready to brew at the touch of a button. The telephone is there next to t
he refrigerator. There is another in the bedroom. The number is unlisted and is changed regularly. Use it to make and receive private calls. The line is patched through a commercial laundry that I own and where I do the books, so there is no record of any calls coming or leaving here.”
“I’m expecting a friend to be in touch. I wonder if he might have called before we arrived?” Marten asked carefully and with a glance at Anne, hoping her fears about Raisa had been calmed. From her return look it seemed that for now, at least, they had been. Still, he wasn’t quite sure about the situation. Neither Raisa nor the apartment was anything like he had expected, especially after the president had told him—“It’s not fancy, but it’ll do until Ryder arrives.”
“There.” Raisa pointed toward a small boxlike piece of equipment next to the kitchen phone. “An old-style answering machine. It lights up with a number when a call has come in.” She walked over and looked at it. “Right now it reads zero. So, no, there have been no messages.”
“What about a door key?” Marten asked.
“On the table in the entryway. It opens both the door to the apartment and the front door downstairs. Make sure both are locked behind you when you come or go. There are two”—she smiled—“in the event one of you needs some air. Quarrels and misunderstandings do come up, even at the most unlikely time.”
“Thank you,” Marten said, and they walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door.
“One other thing,” Anne said, as if it were an afterthought. “A computer or laptop with an Internet connection. At some point I will need to do a little work.”
“This is an old building, and the Internet we do not yet have. Soon, we hope.” She glanced at Marten, sizing him up, then looked back to Anne. “If I were you I would have left my work at home.”
With that she’d bid them good night and left, closing the door behind her.
Anne looked around at the sensual opulence. “I’d like to meet this old girlfriend. The string-puller who set all this up. She must be something.”
Marten grinned. “She is.”
“I bet.” She crossed to look into the bedroom, then turned back to Marten. “I’m tired and hungry. I could use some champagne and something to eat and a shower. In what order I don’t know. And then, if you don’t mind, I want to get some sleep. Alone.”
“You don’t think I planned this?” Marten raised an eyebrow. “There are far less dangerous ways to get a woman into bed.”
“Let me tell you something, darling. If a woman wants to have sex with you, she’ll let you know.” She fixed him with a deliberate stare. “Now be a good boy and turn on the television like you did in Berlin. Out of a hundred and twenty channels you ought to be able to find one that will give us some clue as to what’s going on in the world. Say, with Equatorial Guinea, or Joe Ryder’s trip to Lisbon, or maybe even what happened to Hauptkommissar Franck.”
With that she walked off and into the kitchen. A moment later Marten heard the refrigerator door open. Seconds after that there was the distinct pop of a champagne cork. Then there was silence. Two full minutes anyway.
“What are you doing?” he called finally.
“Drinking,” her voice came back.
“You do that alone, too?”
“Right now, yes.”
“I’d be careful if I were you. It could lead to a whole series of bad habits.”
Anne didn’t reply, and Marten didn’t carry it further. Finally he picked up the TV’s remote control and sat down on an overstuffed chair.
Click. He turned on the television.
Forty-seven channels later he found a Portuguese news station. A man and woman shared an anchor desk. Almost immediately the station went to a commercial. A half-dozen commercials later the picture came back to the male anchor and then quickly morphed into a photograph of Hauptkommissar Emil Franck. Next were live photos of a burned-out car near an apparently desolate beach with police and emergency vehicles everywhere. A female correspondent in a Windbreaker was doing a stand-up. The whole thing was chillingly reminiscent of the television news coverage and video of the burned-out limousine in Spain that had led to the discovery of the bodies of Marita and her students.
“Anne,” he said quickly over his shoulder.
“I know. The Hauptkommissar.” Her reply was sharp and close by.
Marten turned to see her standing near the door, her purse over one shoulder, one of the room keys in her hand. He stood up in surprise and alarm. “Where are you going?”
“I took down the phone number here. I’ll call you later.” Immediately she twisted the lock, pulled open the door, and was gone.
“Jesus Christ!” Marten blurted and went after her.
84
He came out into the hallway on the run expecting to hear the whir of the elevator. He didn’t. It was silent. Then he heard sounds in the stairwell beside it. Abruptly he looked over the side. She was already two flights down and moving fast.
He took the stairs two at a time. Down three flights, then four. He caught up to her on the ground floor in the entryway near Raisa’s apartment just as she reached the front door. He grabbed her and pulled her back.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Going out.” She wrenched free of his grip.
“To where?”
“To think. To be alone.”
“You can do that in the apartment. Go in the bedroom. Shut the door. I won’t bother you.”
She said nothing, just stood there staring at him, breathing heavily. He saw fire and fear and uncertainty in her eyes. At the same time, there was a deep, almost animal-like resolve. She was going to do whatever it was she had set out for, and he knew keeping her from it would be next to impossible. Still, he had to try. He couldn’t have her going out in the streets, not now. Not after Franck’s body had been found.
“Want to talk about it?” he said quietly.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Give me a chance.”
Her eyes fixed on his. All the emotions were still there. “I have something to do. Please don’t interfere.”
“You get caught by the police, we’re both done. Joe Ryder won’t try to help. He wouldn’t dare even acknowledge us. If Conor White and his friends get you, you won’t live an hour.”
“Then I better not get caught,” she said coldly. In an instant she was past him and out the door and into what was now twilight. Marten watched her cross quickly into the park and then she was gone, swallowed up in the shadows.
“Quarrels and misunderstandings.” A familiar voice rang out from behind him. Startled, he whirled around.
Raisa stood in the doorway of her apartment, her arms folded over her chest. The navy suit was gone. In its place she wore a rose-colored silk robe and red slippers that nearly matched her hair. “The thing I warned you about a short while ago. At some point she’ll come back. And when she does, she’ll want to fuck you. You can be sure of it.”
Marten cocked his head. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, my love.”
Of course he had, but it surprised him nonetheless. What she had said and the way she’d said it—easily and without embarrassment—as if she were one of those people who just knew things. Suddenly he saw her not so much as the provider of a safe house, or the professional madam she’d turned out to be, but rather some kind of diminutive French-born earth mother. One who might or might not be more than a little crazy but who understood life and human behavior in ways others might not and wasn’t above verbalizing it.
“I saw her face,” Raisa continued, “her eyes, her demeanor. Something troubles her a great deal. It’s why she left, to try and resolve it. When she does, or even if she fails, she will come back completely drained by whatever has happened and be looking for a release of the most profound kind. In my experience nothing does that better than a good fuck, especially when it’s done with someone you like and trust.” Raisa Amaro smiled tenderly. “Be gentle with her.
But not too gentle. For a little while at least she will want to forget everything. Good night, Mr. Marten.”
With that she gathered her robe, went back into her apartment, and closed the door.
Marten stood frozen. Whatever Raisa said about Anne coming back and what would happen when she did hadn’t fully registered. Nor had whatever reason had caused her to leave. What overrode everything was the danger out there on the street. He damned himself for having let her go. Instinct told him to go after her right then. Find her quickly. Fight with her if he had to but bring her back before the police or Conor White and his people found her. The trouble was, if he rushed out after her he would have to guess where she’d gone and in doing so would have no choice but to ask strangers if they’d seen her. Something that multiplied the risk to himself a hundredfold. It was a gamble he didn’t dare take. Joe Ryder was counting on him to deliver the photographs; so was the president.
He went to the door and looked out toward the park. The evening lights had come on, and he could see a few people still mingling there. Anne was not among them. He watched for a moment longer, then finally turned and went back up the stairs to the apartment.
9:18 P.M.
85
FOUR SEASONS HOTEL RITZ, THE RITZ BAR. 9:20 P.M.
Sy Wirth sat alone finishing his second Johnnie Walker Blue over ice. An attractive woman in a green dress walked up to the bar, ordered a Black Russian, and smiled seductively at him. He didn’t respond. Instead he signed his tab, then got up and made his way through the bustling lounge area toward the elevators in the lobby. It was nearly nine thirty at night local time, almost three thirty in the afternoon in Houston.
9:24 P.M.
The elevator door opened; Wirth stepped out and walked down the hallway toward his tenth-floor room. His electronic key unlocked the door, and he went in. A hallway light was on. So was one on the nightstand beside the bed. The maid had turned down the sheets. A writing desk was in front of a large sliding glass door that opened onto an outdoor terrace overlooking the dark expanse of Eduardo VII Park.