He took a breath and turned the light back at Anne, then helped her past the barricade and into the passageway beside him, his eyes close on her purse that she’d slung crossways over her chest. The purse that carried the prized contraband—the photographs and the 35 mm film strips of the Memorandum.
He took a moment to look at her before moving on in an attempt to judge her psychological state. Her eyes were clear and intent, as they had been ever since she’d found him on the phone with the president. Hopefully, with sleep, the episode she’d suffered the night before had passed and the most he had to concern himself with now was the ticking clock of the present. She’d had a few changes of underwear, but she still wore the jean outfit she’d had on since Erlanger’s house in Potsdam. It was worn and dirty and in desperate need of washing, but under the circumstances it didn’t matter. That he was in the same clothes he’d worn since Berlin didn’t matter, either. At the moment they might well have been thrust back in time, as much refugees as anyone who had passed that way those many years before. The only difference now was the enemy. They were fleeing the agents not of Hitler’s death machine but of their own country.
“What are you looking at?” she said finally.
“Trying to make sure you weren’t afraid of rats.”
“Only the human kind.”
“Me, too.” He swung the light into the passageway ahead.
“Nicholas.”
“What?” He looked back.
“Thank you for last night. I kind of lost it.”
He smiled gently. “I cried in Berlin. You cried in Lisbon. Now we’re even, so forget it.”
“I won’t forget it.”
“We have a congressman to meet.”
“I know.”
He watched her for a heartbeat longer. “Let’s get to it,” he said finally, then turned the light and they moved on.
9:52 A.M.
102
FOUR SEASONS HOTEL RITZ. SAME TIME.
Joe Ryder and his RSO special agents, Tim Grant and Chuck Birns, sat alone wrapped in towels in the men’s sauna in the hotel’s spa. Grant and Birns had stood by as Ryder spent several minutes in the lap pool; then the three retired to the men’s changing room area and afterward into the sauna, where Ryder took the men into his confidence, telling them what was happening and what needed to be done.
By nothing more than coincidence, Special Agent Grant’s physical build was almost the same as Joe Ryder’s. Months ago and at the suggestion of a friend in the Secret Service, he had dyed his hair the color of Ryder’s and had it styled in the same manner, then bought a pair of the same kind of rimless glasses the congressman wore. When he put them on, he was very nearly Ryder’s double, and unless a person knew each man well, it would be hard to tell them apart, especially from a distance. It was a game Grant had no trouble in playing, and he had done it more than once in Iraq getting Ryder safely through potentially dangerous situations.
The plan was to act it out again here. Grant, wearing Ryder’s clothes, would leave the spa and take the elevator to the lobby, very publicly pick up a copy of the International Herald Tribune from a table near the concierge desk, then take the elevator up to Ryder’s suite. In the meantime, Ryder, dressed in Grant’s clothes, and Agent Birns would return to the pool area and exit through glass doors that opened onto a small formal garden. Crossing it, they would go down a short flight of steps, climb a low fence, and enter Eduardo VII Park. Afterward they would walk to the nearest street, hail a taxi, and ask the driver to take them to the Café Hitchcock in the Alfama district, the restaurant where Ryder had told Lisbon/RSO detail leader Anibal Da Costa he had planned to go for lunch.
Partway there they would tell the driver that they’d decided to do a little shopping before lunch and ask him to pull over. When he did, they would get out, wait for him to drive off, then immediately take another cab to Rua Serpa Pinto, getting out several blocks from the Hospital da Universidade and walking the rest of the way. In the meantime Agent Grant would have changed from Ryder’s clothes into jeans and a light jacket, gone down the back stairs and crossed into the park himself, then flagged down a cab and gone directly to the area where the hospital was. But he would use it only as a reference point for the driver, saying he was going to visit a friend on a street nearby where he had been before but whose exact name he couldn’t remember. When they reached the area he would arbitrarily choose a street, tell the driver to stop, and then get out, saying he would know the building when he saw it. Like the others, he would wait for the driver to leave, then find his way to the hospital on foot, meeting Ryder and Birns just inside the rear entrance. Hopefully close to the appointed 11:00 A.M.
9:59 A.M.
Ryder and Birns came out through the pool area doors, crossed the formal garden, went down the steps to the low fence, and climbed over it. Two minutes later they were in Eduardo VII Park walking under an umbrella of palm and conifer trees. Ryder wore Grant’s beige slacks, blue dress shirt, and light blue blazer. Birns wore a summer-weight tan business suit with a white shirt open at the collar. In his right hand was a briefcase. Inside it was a Heckler & Koch MP5K 9 mm compact submachine gun with a thirty-round clip and fitted with a laser sight. In the event of an attack all he needed to do was point the briefcase at his target; a red laser dot would spot on the subject. After that it was easy. Simply pull the trigger in the briefcase’s grip and let the weapon do its job.
10:02 A.M.
The two stepped out of the park where it met Rua Marguês de Fronteira. Less than thirty seconds later they saw a taxi coming toward them through traffic. Birns cautioned Ryder back, then stepped into the street to flag it down. The taxi sped past, then twenty yards later suddenly pulled over and stopped.
“Let’s go,” Ryder commanded.
10:04 A.M.
“You speak English?” Ryder asked as they climbed in.
The driver looked at them in the mirror and gave a cheery “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Café Hitchcock. In the Alfama district.”
“Of course, sir,” the driver said, and they drove off.
103
10:05 A.M.
The car was a black Mercedes S600 sedan with smoked glass windows and, as Conor White had asked, United Nations license plates. Their driver was a handsome young black man called Moses, from Algeria, he said. He had a 9 mm automatic pistol mounted in a clip under the dashboard. The car itself had a 510 horse power V12 engine. It could go from 0 to 60 in 4.5 seconds. Its top speed through narrow city streets was unknown.
Irish Jack had parked the gray BMW on a side street a block from the U.S. Embassy. Less than a minute later, at eight thirty-seven, Moses met them with the Mercedes. Conor White was dressed in a tailored pin-striped navy suit with a light blue French-cuffed shirt and a striped maroon tie fastened with a Windsor knot. Patrice and Irish Jack wore conservative blue suits, white shirts, and ties. Each man carried a hard-shell briefcase holding his primary weapon of choice. For Patrice and Irish Jack, highly modified 45 mm M-4 Colt Commando submachine guns with sound and flame suppressors. For Conor White, two modified MP5 submachine guns, also with sound and flame suppressors. Each man, too, carried a concealed sidearm beneath his suit coat. Burst-firing 9 mm Beretta automatic pistols for Patrice and Irish Jack. The short-barrel 9 mm SIG SAUER semiautomatic for Conor White.
All three wore team ratio units and constantly monitored the on-and-off banter between Carlos Branco’s men watching the building at number 17 Rua do Almada. So far their communication had been little more than idle chatter; nothing seemed to be happening. That fact alone made White increasingly nervous. What were Anne and Marten—by now he was convinced it was indeed Marten who had been seen entering the building at close to one in the morning—doing? Waiting for communication from Ryder? Planning something else? So far he had no sense of any of it. Ryder was under Branco’s personal observation. His electronic surveillance team monitoring communications to and from the apartment building had reported no t
ransmittals or receptions they could attribute to either Anne or Marten.
By nine fifty Moses had made two passes down Rua do Almada. There had been no sign of police, just a few pedestrians, several people in the park, two of which had to be Branco’s men, and normal everyday traffic. The quiet had made White bold enough to want to go in right then and take care of business. The Mercedes sedan, the UN plates, the men inside dressed like diplomats. Even if the police came by on patrol, it would be easy enough to simply let them pass, then go inside, do what had to be done, and quietly leave. But doing so might somehow alert Joe Ryder and would put Branco in the situation of having to kill him himself. That, in turn, risked a firefight with Ryder’s personal RSO bodyguards. Something like that would be loud and messy, and who knew how it would turn out? So going in after Anne and Marten was not a reasonable option. All he could do was wait until they made their move and Ryder made his in an attempt to join them. What he had to do was have patience, something every soldier in every war ever fought had had to have. Hurry up and wait. It was the unwritten heart of les règles de guerre, the rules of war.
10:09 A.M.
They had just taken seats at a small outdoor café on Rua Garrett and were ordering coffee to wait it out when they heard the alarm. One of Branco’s lookouts was extremely concerned about two people who had suddenly appeared from the basement entrance of the building at the end of the block and climbed into an electrician’s van that had been parked there for nearly a half hour. Seconds later the vehicle pulled away.
“Couldn’t tell if it was two men or a man and a woman. One of them wore a pulled-down hat,” a male voice spat in Portuguese. “Blue van, Serviço Elétrico de Sete Dias, with white and gold lettering. Moving north toward Travessa do Sequeiro.”
Immediately they heard Branco cut in. “Bernardo. Pick it up! Pick it up! Pick it up!”
“Excuse me,” Conor White said politely and left the table. He walked past several customers and crossed to where Moses waited in the parked Mercedes. Safely out of earshot, he lifted his right arm, pressed the KEY TO TALK button on the small microphone in the sleeve of his jacket, and spoke into it. “Branco,” he said quietly. “Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
“Was it them?”
“Don’t know. Sit tight. We’ll find out.”
“Don’t lose that van.”
“I have a man on a motorcycle right behind it.”
“Where is Ryder?”
“Went for a swim, then back to his room. Wants a car at eleven thirty to go to a café in the Alfama district.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Across the Baixa quarter from where you are.”
“Which way did the van go?”
“I—Wait, what?” Branco paused, as if he were listening to some other transmission, then came back on. “It just turned onto Calçada de Combro.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s not heading to the Alfama district.”
“Stay on it to wherever it stops. Then just watch, don’t do anything. See who gets out and where they go afterward. If it is Marten and Anne I want immediate confirmation.”
Conor White clicked off the microphone, went back to the table, and sat down next to Patrice and Irish Jack. “You heard?”
Patrice nodded.
“What do you think?”
“They know we’re here and watching,” he said in his distinct French-Canadian accent, “and have found a way around us.”
“That’s what I think, too.” White glanced around, then lifted the microphone. Again he spoke quietly. “Where is the van now?”
“Rua António Maria Cardoso.”
“Which way is it going?”
“Just city streets. No way to tell. As I said, sit tight. My guy’s a good rider.”
10:13 A.M.
104
10:14 A.M.
“Senhor, a motorcycle has been following us for the last minutes,” the heavyset, middle-aged electrician said over his shoulder as he guided the blue van down a series of narrow cobblestone streets. He wore white coveralls and a Serviço Elétrico de Sete Dias baseball cap and was clearly nervous.
Quickly Marten moved forward from where he and Anne had been crouching among the electrical supplies to look into the van’s side mirror. The motorcycle was two hundred feet back with a small car in between. It looked like a Japanese street racer, a Suzuki maybe. Very fast, with tremendous acceleration. Its rider was a man, or so it appeared. He wore jeans, a dark jacket, and a full helmet and visor, making it impossible to see his features.
“How close are we to the hospital?”
“About five minutes.”
“If he’s still with us after the next turn, pull over and stop and let him pass. We’ll see what happens then.”
The driver started to look back at Marten.
“Don’t,” Marten warned. “I don’t want him to think you’re talking to someone.”
The driver looked back to the road, his anxiety growing. “I’m just an electrician, senhor. Doing a favor for Raisa. I have three school-age children.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tomás.”
Marten smiled. “Don’t worry, Tomás. You’ll be fine. So will your children.”
10:15 P.M.
Moses had pulled from the curb and was heading the Mercedes toward Rua António Maria Cardoso, the street where the van was last seen, when Branco’s voice crackled through their headsets.
“Congressman Ryder’s not in his hotel room,” he said firmly. “He came back from the pool and went up to his room. Then he vanished. The same with his RSO detail.”
“What?” White snapped, giving a quick glance to Patrice beside him. Irish Jack had turned and was looking at him from the shotgun seat.
“They’re nowhere in the hotel. Not that we can determine, anyway.”
“They’re moving all at once,” Patrice said. “Somehow they’ve communicated. It means they have an agreed-upon time and destination.”
White looked off, staring at nothing. Five seconds later he turned back. “Branco,” he said softly into the microphone, “you’re an accomplished resource who would have done his homework before he moved his surveillance team in. Who owns or manages the building on Rua do Almada?”
“A Raisa Amaro. Lives on the first floor. She’s French. Been in Lisbon for fifteen years. She also owns a commercial laundry close to the waterfront. She went there about seven thirty this morning.”
“The name and address of the laundry.”
“Give me a minute.”
White’s eyes were locked on nothing. He was thinking, planning the next step. This was like a fast-moving combat situation where every possible situation had to be considered, sorted out, and then acted upon.
Branco clicked back on. “A Melhor Lavanderia, Lisboa. Avenida de Brasilia, 22, at Cais do Sodré. As I said, it’s close to the waterfront.”
“Thank you.”
10:16 A.M.
“He’s still coming.”
Tomás turned the van left onto Largo da Academia Nacional de Belas Artes. The motorcycle rider followed at a distance.
“Pull over,” Marten said.
“Alright, senhor.” Tomás slowed, then pulled the van to the side of the street and stopped beside a row of parked cars. The motorcycle rider slowed as well as he approached, then suddenly sped up and passed, turning at the far end of the street to disappear from view.
“Get out and put up the hood as if you’re having engine trouble.” Marten reached down and touched the Glock in his waistband.
Tomás did. Quickly and nervously.
Marten slid up to look in the van’s side mirror. They had stopped on a narrow cobblestone street in what appeared to be a relatively fashionable neighborhood. For a moment there was no movement at all, and then a car followed by a taxi turned the corner and approached, the bright midmorning sun flashing off their windshields. In seconds they had passed and the street
was quiet again. Maybe there’d been no threat at all, Marten thought. Maybe the motorcycle rider had been doing nothing more than simply going his own way.
He was about to tell Tomás to get back in the van when the motorcyclist slid into view at the far end of the street. Seemingly he’d circled the block and come back. He slowed as he came toward them, then stopped at the side of the roadway.
“Dammit,” Marten breathed and looked to Anne. “He’s back. Stopped at the end of the street behind us.”
Anne slid up beside him and looked in the mirror. “He thinks we’re in the van but he’s not sure. He’s waiting for us to move. The minute we do, he’ll follow. In the meantime he’ll call for backup, probably is now.”
Marten looked out at Tomás, his head poked under the hood. “Tomás,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Close the hood and get back behind the wheel.”
Tomás hesitated, then stood upright and closed the hood. As he did, he hesitated, looking back down the street toward the motorcycle rider.
“Tomás, get in!”
“He’s scared to death,” Anne whispered.
“I don’t blame him, but we can’t sit here waiting to see what happens next.” Marten slid the Glock free of his waistband. “Give me your professional opinion. Is our pal one of White’s men or does he work for the Agency?”
“Take your choice.”
“Not just somebody curious.”
“No.”
Tomás opened the door and got in behind the wheel. Immediately Marten climbed into the seat beside him. “How do I get to Rua Serpa Pinto from here? You said it was close.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just tell me how to get there.”
“Up this street, past the fancy restaurant on the left. Then turn down Rua Capelo. At the end is the street you want. Number 25 is right there.”
“Thank you.” Marten looked over his shoulder at Anne. “Go with Tomás. I’ll meet you at the hospital. If I’m late, if something happens, follow up with Ryder yourself. Give him everything you have and go with him. His people will protect you.”