found that despite different last names and lives worlds apart, he and the famed novelist Theo Haas were brothers?
Once they did, the race would be on to get to Haas first. When that happened and the photos were retrieved, then everything Father Willy and his villagers had done and died for would either become a very public justification for the army to continue its barbarous rampage or vanish into thin air at Conor White’s bidding.
To Marten, neither was acceptable. Theo Haas had to be reached and warned, told he was in grave danger and instructed to take the photographs to the police. On second thought, that could lead to unintended consequences if they fell into the hands of someone who recognized their importance and sold them to the tabloids or simply posted them on the Internet. If that occurred, the government of Equatorial Guinea would have achieved exactly what it wanted without having lifted a finger. No, he had to handle the whole thing delicately and with caution, while at the same time remembering that the life of Theo Haas might soon be in severe jeopardy. What Marten had, or hoped he had, was a small window of opportunity before the others realized who Haas was and what his brother, in all probability, had done.
He was in already in Paris. Berlin was a short plane ride away. He had to get there as quickly as he could and without attracting attention.
7:42 A.M.
18
7:45 A.M.
Marten walked hurriedly across the terminal looking for an electronic airline departure board and a listing of the next flight to Berlin. Suddenly the idea that someone might be following him, a thought he had dismissed as foolish only moments earlier, became a very real problem. The last thing he needed was for someone tailing him to see him board a plane to the German capital and report it.
He glanced over his shoulder.
No sign of the jowly man. No sign of the man in khakis and blue golf shirt. No sign of Anne Tidrow or her gray-haired friend. Maybe he was being overly cautious. If he was, so be it.
Thirty feet ahead was a departure board. Again he glanced over his shoulder. All he saw was strangers. Seconds later he was there and studying the departure list.
Twenty yards behind him a bearded young man in jeans and a PARIS, FRANCE sweatshirt with a backpack over one shoulder stopped and raised a hand casually to his mouth as if to stifle a cough.
“This is Two,” he said quietly into a tiny microphone in his sleeve. “He’s stopped at a departure board and is studying it.”
“ Thank you, we’ll take it from here .” A female voice came over a tiny headset in his ear.
7:59 A.M.
Marten entered a café area filled with travelers and went to the counter. He selected a croissant and a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, and went to a distant table near a large window overlooking the tarmac and sat down. He took a moment to collect himself, then casually looked around for someone he might recognize. He saw only faceless travelers and airport personnel. Finally he took a bite of croissant and a sip of coffee, then slid the Musikfone bag from his suitcase and took the packaged cell phone from it. Another sip of coffee and he tore open the packaging and brought out the phone. A moment more and he stood up, glanced indifferently around, then moved away from the table to stand near the window and flicked open the phone. He punched in an access number and the PIN code on his phone card. Quickly he entered a second access number.
“International directory, please, for Berlin.” A moment later an operator came on. “Telephone number for Theo Haas, please,” he said. “I don’t have the address.” He waited, then, “You’re certain, no listing at all . . . I see. Yes, thank you.”
He clicked off and looked around once more. Then, with a glance at his watch, he again dialed his access number and PIN code and punched in a second number. As he did, he turned his back to the room. An everyday traveler making a cell phone
Once they did, the race would be on to get to Haas first. When that happened and the photos were retrieved, then everything Father Willy and his villagers had done and died for would either become a very public justification for the army to continue its barbarous rampage or vanish into thin air at Conor White’s bidding.
To Marten, neither was acceptable. Theo Haas had to be reached and warned, told he was in grave danger and instructed to take the photographs to the police. On second thought, that could lead to unintended consequences if they fell into the hands of someone who recognized their importance and sold them to the tabloids or simply posted them on the Internet. If that occurred, the government of Equatorial Guinea would have achieved exactly what it wanted without having lifted a finger. No, he had to handle the whole thing delicately and with caution, while at the same time remembering that the life of Theo Haas might soon be in severe jeopardy. What Marten had, or hoped he had, was a small window of opportunity before the others realized who Haas was and what his brother, in all probability, had done.
He was in already in Paris. Berlin was a short plane ride away. He had to get there as quickly as he could and without attracting attention.
7:42 A.M.
18
7:45 A.M.
Marten walked hurriedly across the terminal looking for an electronic airline departure board and a listing of the next flight to Berlin. Suddenly the idea that someone might be following him, a thought he had dismissed as foolish only moments earlier, became a very real problem. The last thing he needed was for someone tailing him to see him board a plane to the German capital and report it.
He glanced over his shoulder.
No sign of the jowly man. No sign of the man in khakis and blue golf shirt. No sign of Anne Tidrow or her gray-haired friend. Maybe he was being overly cautious. If he was, so be it.
Thirty feet ahead was a departure board. Again he glanced over his shoulder. All he saw was strangers. Seconds later he was there and studying the departure list.
Twenty yards behind him a bearded young man in jeans and a PARIS, FRANCE sweatshirt with a backpack over one shoulder stopped and raised a hand casually to his mouth as if to stifle a cough.
“This is Two,” he said quietly into a tiny microphone in his sleeve. “He’s stopped at a departure board and is studying it.”
“ Thank you, we’ll take it from here .” A female voice came over a tiny headset in his ear.
7:59 A.M.
Marten entered a café area filled with travelers and went to the counter. He selected a croissant and a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, and went to a distant table near a large window overlooking the tarmac and sat down. He took a moment to collect himself, then casually looked around for someone he might recognize. He saw only faceless travelers and airport personnel. Finally he took a bite of croissant and a sip of coffee, then slid the Musikfone bag from his suitcase and took the packaged cell phone from it. Another sip of coffee and he tore open the packaging and brought out the phone. A moment more and he stood up, glanced indifferently around, then moved away from the table to stand near the window and flicked open the phone. He punched in an access number and the PIN code on his phone card. Quickly he entered a second access number.
“International directory, please, for Berlin.” A moment later an operator came on. “Telephone number for Theo Haas, please,” he said. “I don’t have the address.” He waited, then, “You’re certain, no listing at all . . . I see. Yes, thank you.”
He clicked off and looked around once more. Then, with a glance at his watch, he again dialed his access number and PIN code and punched in a second number. As he did, he turned his back to the room. An everyday traveler making a cell phone
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