The Hadrian Memorandum by Allan Folsom Page A

call.
    UNITED STATES EMBASSY, SUSSEX DRIVE,
    OTTAWA, CANADA. 2:10 A.M.
    A ringing telephone woke President John Henry Harris from an on-again, off-again sleep, his mind churning over the cumbersome details of a new trade agreement he’d come here to resolve with the prime minister of Canada and the president of Mexico. Through the fog of sleep he looked at the four telephones arranged on his nightstand. Two were hardwired. Two were cell, one red, the other slate gray. It was the gray phone that was ringing. He knew before he picked it up who was calling.
    “Cousin,” he said in the dark as he clicked on, tugging at a pajama top that had twisted awkwardly across his chest while he slept. “Where are you?”
    “ Paris .”
    “Are you alright?”
    “ Yes .”
    “I was concerned. I’ve been briefed on the war in Bioko and the rest of the country. I’m glad you’re safely out.”
    “ So am I .” Harris could hear the emotion in Marten’s voice. As quickly it was replaced by urgency. “ There are photographs of SimCo mercenaries, Striker’s private security contractor in Equatorial Guinea, secretly supplying arms to the rebels. SimCo’s headman, a Brit named Conor White, was one of them .”
    “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