The Hadrian Memorandum by Allan Folsom Read Free Book Online Page A

Marten said politely and patiently, wholly aware of the hawk-faced soldier and how completely his presence affected the others. Whoever he was, he was dark-skinned but clearly not a black African like the rest. He looked more than anything like a sharp-featured Hispanic and was older than he first appeared. Fifty at least, maybe even sixty. Moreover, his uniform bore no insignia other than that of the Equatorial Guinea army. There were no service ribbons, no oak leaf clusters or stars or bars, no indication of rank at all. Yet clearly he was a superior officer, a col o nel or even a general. Who he was or why he was here Marten had no way to know. But it didn’t matter. He had been ordered to tell his story once more, and he did, being careful to leave out nothing.
    “My name is Nicholas Marten. I’m a landscape architect. I live in Manchester, in the north of England. I came here on a five-day trip to . . .”
    The whole time Marten talked, the hawk-faced soldier studied him. Watched his eyes, his hands, his body language, even the placement of his feet, as if something Marten might inadvertently do would reveal more about him than the tale he was telling.
    And the whole time Marten ignored him, just looked at the major and repeated what, by now, he knew by heart. When he was done he sat back, his eyes still on the major, praying that was all, that he had passed the test and they would believe him and let him go.
    “Thank you.” The major smiled easily, and Marten relaxed. He had done everything they asked, genially and politely. Had cooperated at each step. Trouble was the microphone was still there, inches from his face. What else could they possibly want?
    Suddenly the major’s smile vanished and he leaned close. “Where are the photographs the priest gave you?”
    “What?” Marten was caught completely off guard. How could they know about Father Willy’s photos? It was impossible; there had been no one there but Father Willy and himself.
    “The photographs Father Dorhn gave to you.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “The photographs Father Dorhn gave to you,” the major repeated.
    “The father gave me no photographs.”
    The major stared at him for a long and very silent moment. Then, with a glance at the hawk-faced soldier, he looked back to Marten. “Stand up, please,” he said.
    Marten didn’t move.
    “Stand up. Remove your clothes.”
    “My clothes?”
    “I am becoming impatient.” The major’s bloodshot eyes bore into Marten’s. His face glistened with sweat. The tribal scar covering half of it looked more fearsome than ever.
    Marten stood slowly. They’d searched him before and found nothing. What the hell were they going to do now?
    He glanced around the room. Everyone in it, even the goat, was staring at him. Suddenly the heat felt unbearable, and for a moment he thought he might faint. Then he recovered. If he was going to convince them he knew nothing of the photographs, he had to do exactly as the major had ordered and do it without fear or insolence. He had to prove he was a man of conviction no matter what they had in mind.
    “Alright,” he said finally. Immediately his hand went to his shirt. One by one he undid the buttons, then took off his shirt and dropped it by his side. Without hesitation he undid his belt, then opened his fly, unzipped his trousers, and dropped them.
    The major stared at him impassively, then nodded at his under-shorts.
    You want those, too, Marten thought. Okay, you got them. Quickly he lowered his shorts and dropped them on the floor.
    Now he stood naked, his clothing scattered at his feet. A white man alone in a sweltering, ramshackle room in the middle of a sweltering, ramshackle city, surrounded by seven armed black African jungle fighters, one hawk-faced ranking military officer of unknown nationality, and a goat.

10
    5:18 P.M.
    “Where are the photographs the priest gave you?” the major said once again.
    “I don’t know