The Broker

11

After the fifth report that Critz had called with questions about Joel Backman, Teddy Maynard threw a rare tantrum. The fool was in London, working the phones furiously, for some reason trying to find someone, anyone, who might lead him to information about Backman.

“Someone’s offered Critz money,” Teddy barked at Wigline, an assistant deputy director.

“But there’s no way Critz can find out where Backman is,” Wigline said.

“He shouldn’t be trying. He’ll only complicate matters. He must be neutralized.”

Wigline glanced at Hoby, who had suddenly stopped his note-taking. “What are you saying, Teddy?”

“Neutralize him.”

“He’s a U.S. citizen.”

“I know that! He’s also compromising an operation. There is precedent. We’ve done it before.” He didn’t bother to tell them what the precedent was, but they assumed that since Teddy often created his own precedents, then it would do no good to argue the matter.

Hoby nodded as if to say: Yes, we’ve done it before.

Wigline clenched his jaw and said, “I assume you want it done now.”

“As soon as possible,” Teddy said. “Show me a plan in two hours.”

They watched Critz as he left his borrowed apartment and began his long, late-afternoon walk, one that usually ended with a few pints. After half an hour at a languid pace he neared Leicester Square and entered the Dog and Duck, the same pub as the day before.

He was on his second pint at the far end of the main bar, first floor, before the stool next to him cleared and an agent named Greenlaw wedged in and yelled for a beer.

“Mind if I smoke?” Greenlaw asked Critz, who shrugged and said, “This ain’t America.”

“A Yank, huh?” Greenlaw said.

“Yep.”

“Live here?”

“No, just visiting.” Critz was concentrating on the bottles on the wall beyond the bar, avoiding eye contact, wanting no part of the conversation. He had quickly come to adore the solitude of a crowded pub. He loved to sit and drink and listen to the rapid banter of the Brits and know that not a soul had a clue as to who he was. He was, though, still wondering about the little guy named Ben. If they were watching him, they were doing a great job of staying in the shadows.

Greenlaw gulped his beer in an effort to catch up with Critz. It was crucial to order the next two at the same time. He puffed a cigarette, then added his smoke to the cloud above them. “I’ve been here for a year,” he said.

Critz nodded without looking. Get lost.

“I don’t mind driving on the wrong side, or the lousy weather, but what really bugs me here are the sports. You ever watch a cricket match? Lasts for four days.”

Critz managed to grunt and offer a lame “Such a stupid sport.”

“It’s either soccer or cricket, and these people go nuts over both. I just survived the winter here without the NFL. It was pure misery.”

Critz was a loyal Redskins season-ticket holder and few things in life excited him as much as his beloved team. Greenlaw was a casual fan but had spent the day memorizing statistics in a CIA safe house north of London. If football didn’t work, then politics would be next. If that didn’t work, there was a fine-looking lady waiting outside, though Critz did not have a reputation as a philanderer.

Critz was suddenly homesick. Sitting in a pub, far from home, far from the frenzy of the Super Bowl — two days away and virtually ignored by the British press — he could hear the crowd and feel the excitement. If the Redskins had survived the playoffs, he would not be drinking pints in London. He would be at the Super Bowl, fifty-yard-line seats, furnished by one of the many corporations he could lean on.

He looked at Greenlaw and said, “Patriots or Packers?”

“My team didn’t make it, but I always pull for the NFC.”

“Me too. Who’s your team?”

And that was perhaps the most fatal question Robert Critz would ever ask. When Greenlaw answered, “Redskins,” Critz actually smiled and wanted to talk. They spent a few minutes establishing pedigree — how long each had been a Redskins fan, the great games they’d seen, the great players, the Super Bowl championships. Greenlaw ordered another round and both seemed ready to replay old games for hours. Critz had talked to so few Yanks in London, and this guy was certainly an easy one to get on with.

Greenlaw excused himself and went to find the restroom. It was upstairs, the size of a broom closet, a one-holer like so many johns in London. He latched the door for a few seconds of privacy and quickly whipped out a cell phone to report his progress. The plan was in place. The team was just down the street, waiting. Three men and the fine-looking lady.

Halfway through his fourth pint, and with a polite disagreement under way over Sonny Jurgensen’s touchdown-to-interception ratio, Critz finally needed to pee. He asked directions and disappeared. Greenlaw deftly dropped into Critz’s glass one small white tablet of Rohypnol — a strong, tasteless, odorless sedative. When Mr. Redskins returned he was refreshed and ready to drink. They talked about John Riggins and Joe Gibbs and thoroughly enjoyed themselves as poor Critz’s chin began to drop.

“Wow,” he said, his tongue already thick. “I’d better be going. Old lady is waiting.”

“Yeah, me too,” Greenlaw said, raising his glass. “Drink up.”

They drained their pints and stood to leave; Critz in front, Greenlaw waiting to catch him. They made it through the crowd packed around the front door and onto the sidewalk where a cold wind revived Critz, but only for a second. He forgot about his new pal, and in less than twenty steps was wobbling on rubbery legs and grasping for a lamp pole. Greenlaw grabbed him as he was falling, and for the benefit of a young couple passing by said loudly, “Dammit, Fred, you’re drunk again.”

Fred was far beyond drunk. A car appeared from nowhere and slowed by the sidewalk. A back door swung open, and Greenlaw shoveled a half-dead Critz into the rear seat. The first stop was a warehouse eight blocks away. There Critz, thoroughly unconscious now, was transferred to a small unmarked panel truck with a double rear door. While Critz lay on the floor of the van, an agent used a hypodermic needle and injected him with a massive dose of very pure heroin. The presence of heroin always squelched the autopsy results, at the family’s insistence of course.

With Critz barely breathing, the van left the warehouse and drove to Whitcomb Street, not far from his apartment. The killing required three vehicles — the van, followed by a large and heavy Mercedes, and a trail car driven by a real Brit who would hang around and chat with the police. The trail car’s primary purpose was to keep the traffic as far behind the Mercedes as possible.

On the third pass, with all three drivers talking to each other, and with two agents, including the fine-looking lady, hiding on the sidewalk and also listening, the rear doors of the van were shoved open, Critz fell onto the street, the Mercedes aimed for his head and got it with a sickening thump, then everyone disappeared but the Brit in the trail car. He slammed on his brakes, jumped out and ran to the poor drunk who’d just stumbled into the street and been run over, and looked around quickly for other witnesses.

There were none, but a taxi was approaching in the other lane. He flagged it down, and soon other traffic stopped. Before long, a crowd was gathering and the police arrived. The Brit in the trail car may have been the first on the scene, but he saw very little. He saw the man stumble between those two parked cars over there, into the street, and get hit by a large black car. Or maybe it was dark green. Not sure of the make or model. Never thought about looking at the license plates. No clue as to the description of the hit-and-run driver. He was too shocked by the sight of the drunk suddenly appearing at the edge of the street.

By the time the body of Bob Critz was loaded into an ambulance for the trip to the morgue, Greenlaw, the fine-looking lady, and two other members of the team were on a train leaving London and headed for Paris. They would scatter for a few weeks, then return to England, their home base.

Marco wanted breakfast primarily because he could smell it — ham and sausages on the grill somewhere deep in the main house — but Luigi was anxious to move on. “There are other guests and everyone eats at the same table,” he explained as they hurriedly threw their bags in his car. “Remember, you’re leaving a trail, and the signora forgets nothing.”

They sped down the country lane in search of wider roads.

“Where are we going?” Marco asked.

“We’ll see.”

“Stop playing games with me!” he growled and Luigi actually flinched. “I’m a perfectly free man who could get out of this car anytime I want!”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop threatening me! Every time I ask a question you give me these vague threats about how I won’t last twenty-four hours on my own. I want to know what’s going on. Where are we headed? How long will we be there? How long will you be around? Give me some answers, Luigi, or I’ll disappear.”

Luigi turned onto a four-lane and a sign said that Bologna was thirty kilometers ahead. He waited for the tension to ease a bit, then said, “We’re going to Bologna for a few days. Ermanno will meet us there. You will continue your lessons. You’ll be placed in a safe house for several months. Then I’ll disappear and you’ll be on your own.”

“Thank you. Why was that so difficult?”

“The plan changes.”

“I knew Ermanno wasn’t a student.”

“He is a student. He’s also part of the plan.”

“Do you realize how ridiculous the plan is? Think about it, Luigi. Someone is spending all this time and money trying to teach me another language and another culture. Why not just put me back on the cargo plane and stash me in some place like New Zealand?”

“That’s a great idea, Marco, but I’m not making those decisions.”

“Marco my ass. Every time I look in the mirror and say Marco I want to laugh.”

“This is not funny. Do you know Robert Critz?”

Marco paused for a moment. “I met him a few times over the years. Never had much use for him. Just another political hack, like me, I guess.”

“Close friend of President Morgan, chief of staff, campaign director.”

“So?”

“He was killed last night in London. That makes five people who’ve died because of you — Jacy Hubbard, the three Pakistanis, now Critz. The killing hasn’t stopped, Marco, nor will it. Please be patient with me. I’m only trying to protect you.”

Marco slammed his head into the headrest and closed his eyes. He could not begin to put the pieces together.

They made a quick exit and stopped for gas. Luigi returned to the car with two small cups of strong coffee. “Coffee to go,” Marco said pleasantly. “I figured such evils would be banned in Italy.”

“Fast food is creeping in. It’s very sad.”

“Just blame the Americans. Everybody else does.”

Before long they were inching through the rush hour traffic on the outskirts of Bologna. Luigi was saying, “Our best cars are made around here, you know. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis, all the great sports cars.”

“Can I have one?”

“It’s not in the budget, sorry.”

“What, exactly, is in the budget?”

“A very quiet, simple life.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Much better than your last one.”

Marco sipped his coffee and watched the traffic. “Didn’t you study here?”

“Yes. The university is a thousand years old. One of the finest in the world. I’ll show it to you later.”

They exited the main thoroughfare and wound through a gritty suburb. The streets became shorter and narrower and Luigi seemed to know the place well. They followed the signs pointing them toward the center of the city, and the university. Luigi suddenly swerved, jumped a curb, and wedged the Fiat into a slot barely wide enough for a motorcycle. “Let’s eat something,” he said, and, once they managed to squeeze themselves out of the car, they were on the sidewalk, walking quickly through the cool air.

Marco’s next hiding place was a dingy hotel a few blocks from the outer edge of the old city. “Budget cuts already,” he mumbled as he followed Luigi through the cramped lobby to the stairs.

“It’s just for a few days,” Luigi said.

“Then what?” Marco was struggling with his bags up the narrow stairway. Luigi was carrying nothing. Thankfully the room was on the second floor, a rather small space with a tiny bed and curtains that hadn’t been opened in days.

“I like Treviso better,” Marco said, staring at the walls.

Luigi yanked open the curtains. The sunlight helped only slightly. “Not bad,” he said, without conviction.

“My prison cell was nicer.”

“You complain a lot.”

“With good reason.”

“Unpack. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes. Ermanno is waiting.”

Ermanno appeared as rattled as Marco by the sudden change in location. He was harried and unsettled, as if he’d chased them all night from Treviso. They walked with him a few blocks to a run-down apartment building. No elevators were evident, so they climbed four flights of stairs and entered a tiny, two-room flat that had even less furniture than the apartment in Treviso. Ermanno had obviously packed in a hurry and unpacked even faster.

“Your dump’s worse than mine,” Marco said, taking it in.

Spread on a narrow table and waiting for action were the study materials they’d used the day before.

“I’ll be back for lunch,” Luigi said, and quickly disappeared.

“Andiamo a studiare,” Ermanno announced. Let’s study.

“I’ve already forgotten everything.”

“But we had a good session yesterday.”

“Can’t we just go to a bar and drink? I’m really not in the mood for this.” But Ermanno had assumed his position across the table and was turning pages in his manual. Marco reluctantly settled into the seat across from him.

Lunch and dinner were forgettable. Both were quick snacks in fake trattorias, the Italian version of fast food. Luigi was in a foul mood and insisted, quite harshly at times, that they speak only Italian. Luigi spoke slowly, clearly, and repeated everything four times until Marco figured it out, then he moved along to the next phrase. It was impossible to enjoy food under such pressure.

At midnight, Marco was in his bed, in his cold room, wrapped tightly with the thin blanket, sipping orange juice he had ordered himself, and memorizing list after list of verbs and adjectives.

What could Robert Critz have possibly done to get himself killed by people who might also be looking for Joel Backman? The question itself was too bizarre to ask. He couldn’t begin to contemplate an answer. He assumed Critz was present when the pardon was granted; ex-president Morgan was incapable of making such a decision by himself. Beyond that, though, it was impossible to see Critz involved at a higher level. He had proven for decades that he was nothing more than a good hatchet man. Very few people trusted him.

But if people were still dying, then it was urgent that he learn the verbs and adjectives scattered on his bed. Language meant survival, and movement. Luigi and Ermanno would soon disappear, and Marco Lazzeri would be left to fend for himself.