The Broker

10

After a few days of dreaming about the money, Critz began spending it, at least mentally. With all that cash, he wouldn’t be forced to work for the sleazy defense contractor, nor would he be forced to hustle audiences on the lecture circuit. (He wasn’t convinced the audiences were out there to begin with, in spite of what his lecture agent had promised him.)

Critz was thinking about retirement! Somewhere far away from Washington and all the enemies he’d made there, somewhere on a beach with a sailboat nearby. Or maybe he’d move to Switzerland and stay close to his new fortune buried in his new bank, all wonderfully tax free and growing by the day.

He made a phone call and got the flat in London for a few more days. He encouraged Mrs. Critz to shop more aggressively. She, too, was tired of Washington and deserved an easier life.

Partly because of his greedy enthusiasm, and partly because of his natural ineptitude, and also because of his lack of sophistication in intelligence matters, Critz blundered badly from the start. For such an old hand at the Washington game, his mistakes were inexcusable.

First, he used the phone in his borrowed flat, thus making it easy for someone to nail down his exact location. He called Jeb Priddy, the CIA liaison who had been stationed in the White House during the last four years. Priddy was still at his post but expected to be called back to Langley soon. The new President was settling in, things were chaotic, and so on, according to Priddy, who seemed slightly irritated by the call. He and Critz had never been close, and Priddy knew immediately that the guy was fishing. Critz eventually said he was trying to find an old pal, a senior CIA analyst he’d once played a lot of golf with. Name was Daly, Addison Daly, and he’d left Washington for a stint in Asia. Did Priddy perhaps know where he was now?

Addison Daly was tucked away at Langley and Priddy knew him well. “I know the name,” Priddy said. “Maybe I can find him. Where can I reach you?”

Critz gave him the number at the flat. Priddy called Addison Daly and passed along his suspicions. Daly turned on his recorder and called London on a secure line. Critz answered the phone and went overboard with his delight at hearing from an old friend. He rambled on about how wonderful life was after the White House, after all those years playing the political game, how nice it was being a private citizen. He was anxious to renew old friendships and get serious about his golf game.

Daly played along well. He offered that he, too, was contemplating retirement — almost thirty years in the service — and that he caught himself looking forward to an easier life.

How’s Teddy these days? Critz wanted to know. And how’s the new president? What’s the mood in Washington with the new administration?

Nothing changes much, Daly mused, just another bunch of fools. By the way, how’s former president Morgan?

Critz didn’t know, hadn’t talked to him, in fact might not talk to him for many weeks. As the conversation was winding down, Critz said with a clumsy laugh, “Don’t guess anybody’s seen Joel Backman?”

Daly managed to laugh too — it was all a big joke. “No,” he said, “I think the boy’s well hidden.”

“He should be.”

Critz promised to call as soon as he returned to D.C. They’d play eighteen holes at one of the good clubs, then have a drink, just like in the old days!

What old days? Daly asked himself after he hung up.

An hour later, the phone conversation was played for Teddy Maynard.

Since the first two calls had been somewhat encouraging, Critz pressed on. He’d always been one to work the phones like a maniac. He subscribed to the shotgun theory — fill the air with calls and something will happen. A rough plan was coming together. Another old pal had once been a senior staffer to the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, and though he was now a well-connected lobbyist, he had, allegedly, maintained close ties to the CIA.

They talked politics and golf and eventually, much to Critz’s delight, the pal asked what, exactly, was President Morgan thinking when he pardoned Duke Mongo, the biggest tax evader in the history of America? Critz claimed to have been opposed to the pardon but managed to steer the conversation along to the other controversial reprieve. “What’s the gossip on Backman?” he asked.

“You were there,” answered his pal.

“Yes, but where did Maynard stash him? That’s the big question.”

“So it was a CIA job?” his friend asked.

“Of course,” Critz said with the voice of authority. Who else could sneak him out of the country in the middle of the night?

“That’s interesting,” said his pal, who then became very quiet. Critz insisted on a lunch the following week, and that’s where they left the conversation.

As Critz feverishly worked the phone, he marveled once again at his endless list of contacts. Power did have its rewards.

Joel, or Marco, said goodbye to Ermanno at five-thirty in the afternoon, completing a three-hour session that had gone virtually nonstop. Both were exhausted.

The chilly air helped clear his head as he walked the narrow streets of Treviso. For the second day, he dropped by a small corner bar and ordered a beer. He sat in the window and watched the locals hurry about, some rushing home from work, others shopping quickly for dinner. The bar was warm and smoky, and Marco once again drifted back to prison. He couldn’t help himself — the change had been too drastic, the freedom too sudden. There was still the lingering fear that he would wake up and find himself locked in the cell with some unseen prankster laughing hysterically in the distance.

After the beer he had an espresso, and after that he stepped into the darkness and shoved both hands deep into his pockets. When he turned the corner and saw his hotel, he also saw Luigi pacing nervously along the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette. As Marco crossed the street, Luigi came after him. “We are leaving, immediately,” he said.

“Why?” Marco asked, glancing around, looking for bad guys.

“I’ll explain later. There’s a travel bag on your bed. Pack your things as quickly as possible. I’ll wait here.”

“What if I don’t want to leave?” Marco asked.

Luigi clutched his left wrist, thought for a quick second, then gave a very tight smile. “Then you might not last twenty-four hours,” he said as ominously as possible. “Please trust me.”

Marco raced up the stairs and down the hall, and was almost to his room before he realized that the sharp pain in his stomach was not from heavy breathing but from fear.

What had happened? What had Luigi seen or heard, or been told? Who, exactly, was Luigi in the first place and who was he taking orders from? As Marco yanked his clothes out of the tiny closet and flung them toward the bed, he asked all these questions, and many more. When everything was packed, he sat for a moment and tried to collect his thoughts. He took deep breaths, exhaled slowly, told himself that whatever was happening was just part of the game.

Would he be running forever? Always packing in a hurry, fleeing one room in search of another? It still beat the hell out of prison, but it would take its toll.

And how could anyone possibly have found him this soon? He’d been in Treviso only four days.

When his composure was somewhat restored, he walked slowly down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby where he nodded at the gawking clerk but said nothing, and out the front door. Luigi snatched his bag and tossed it into the trunk of a compact Fiat. They were on the outskirts of Treviso before a word was spoken.

“Okay, Luigi, what’s up?” Marco asked.

“A change of scenery.”

“Got that. Why?”

“Some very good reasons.”

“Oh, well, that explains everything.”

Luigi drove with his left hand, shifted gears frantically with his right, and kept the accelerator as close to the floor as possible while ignoring the brakes. Marco was already perplexed as to how a race of people could spend two and a half leisurely hours over lunch, then hop in a car for a ten-minute drive across town at breakneck speed.

They drove an hour, generally in a southward direction, avoiding the highways by clinging to the back roads. “Is someone behind us?” Marco asked more than once as they sped around tight curves on two wheels.

Luigi just shook his head. His eyes were narrow, his eyebrows pinched together, his jaw clenched tightly when the cigarette wasn’t near. He somehow managed to drive like a maniac while smoking calmly and never glancing behind them. He was determined not to speak, and that reinforced Marco’s determination to have a conversation.

“You’re just trying to scare me, aren’t you, Luigi? We’re playing the spy game — you’re the master, I’m the poor schmuck with the secrets. Scare the hell out of me and keep me dependent and loyal. I know what you’re doing.”

“Who killed Jacy Hubbard?” Luigi asked, barely moving his lips.

Backman suddenly wanted to go quiet. The mere mention of Hubbard made him freeze for a second. The name always brought the same flashback: a police photo of Jacy slumped against his brother’s grave, the left side of his head blown away, blood everywhere — on the tombstone, on his white shirt. Everywhere.

“You have the file,” Backman said. “It was a suicide.”

“Oh yes. And if you believed that, then why did you decide to plead guilty and beg for protective custody in prison?”

“I was scared. Suicides can be contagious.”

“Very true.”

“So you’re saying that the boys who did the Hubbard suicide are after me?”

Luigi confirmed it with a shrug.

“And somehow they found out I was hiding in Treviso?”

“It’s best not to take chances.”

He would not get the details, if, in fact, there were any. He tried not to, but he instinctively glanced over his shoulder and saw the dark road behind them. Luigi looked into his rearview mirror, and managed a satisfactory smile, as if to say: They’re back there, somewhere.

Joel sank a few inches in his seat and closed his eyes. Two of his clients had died first. Safi Mirza had been knifed outside a Georgetown nightclub three months after he hired Backman and handed over the only copy of JAM. The knife wounds were severe enough, but a poison had been injected, probably with the thrust of the blade. No witnesses. No clues. A very unsolved murder, but one of many in D.C. A month later Fazal Sharif had disappeared in Karachi, and was presumed dead.

JAM was indeed worth a billion dollars, but no one would ever enjoy the money.

In 1998, Backman, Pratt & Bolling had hired Jacy Hubbard for $1 million a year. The marketing of JAM was his first big challenge. To prove his worth, Hubbard bullied and bribed his way into the Pentagon in a clumsy and ill-fated effort to confirm the existence of the Neptune satellite system. Some documents — doctored but still classified — were smuggled out by a Hubbard mole who was reporting everything to his superiors. The highly sensitive papers purported to show the existence of Gamma Net, a fictitious Star Wars — like surveillance system with unheard-of capabilities. Once Hubbard “confirmed” that the three young Pakistanis were indeed correct — their Neptune was a U.S. project — he proudly reported his findings to Joel Backman and they were in business.

Since Gamma Net was supposedly the creation of the U.S. military, JAM was worth even more. The truth was that neither the Pentagon nor the CIA knew about Neptune.

The Pentagon then leaked its own fiction — a fabricated breach of security by a mole working for ex-senator Jacy Hubbard and his powerful new boss, the broker himself. The scandal erupted. The FBI raided the offices of Backman, Pratt & Bolling in the middle of the night, found the Pentagon documents that everyone presumed to be authentic, and within forty-eight hours a highly motivated team of federal prosecutors had issued indictments against every partner in the firm.

The killings soon followed, with no clues as to who was behind them. The Pentagon brilliantly neutralized Hubbard and Backman without tipping its hand as to whether it actually owned and created the satellite system. Gamma Net or Neptune, or whatever, was effectively shielded under the impenetrable web of “military secrets.”

Backman the lawyer wanted a trial, especially if the Pentagon documents were questionable, but Backman the defendant wanted to avoid a fate similar to Hubbard’s.

If Luigi’s mad dash out of Treviso was designed to frighten him, then the plan suddenly began working. For the first time since his pardon, Joel missed the safety of his little cell in maximum security.

The city of Padua was ahead, its lights and traffic growing by the mile. “What’s the population of Padua?” Marco asked, his first words in half an hour.

“Two hundred thousand. Why do Americans always want to know the population of every village and city?”

“Didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“Are you hungry?”

The dull throbbing in his stomach was from fear, not hunger, but he said “Sure” anyway. They ate a pizza at a neighborhood bar just beyond the outer ring of Padua, and were quickly back in the car and headed south.

They slept that night in a tiny country inn — eight closet-sized rooms — that had been in the same family since Roman times. There was no sign advertising the place; it was one of Luigi’s stopovers. The nearest road was narrow, neglected, and virtually free of any vehicle built after 1970. Bologna was not far away.

Luigi was next door, through a thick stone wall that went back for centuries. When Joel Backman/Marco Lazzeri crawled under the blankets and finally got warm, he couldn’t see a flicker of light anywhere. Total blackness. And total quiet. It was so quiet he couldn’t close his eyes for a long time.