The Broker

20

Teddy’s last visit to the White House was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. He planned to be late. Beginning at seven that morning, he met with his unofficial transition team — all four deputy directors and his senior people. In quiet little conferences he informed those he’d trusted for many years that he was on the way out, that it had been inevitable for a long time, that the agency was in good shape and life would go on.

Those who knew him well sensed an air of relief. He was, after all, pushing eighty and his legendary bad health was actually getting worse.

At precisely 8:45, while meeting with William Lucat, his deputy director for operations, he summoned Julia Javier for their Backman meeting. The Backman case was important, but in the scheme of global intelligence it was mid-list.

How odd that an operation dealing with a disgraced former lobbyist would be Teddy’s downfall.

Julia Javier sat next to the ever vigilant Hoby, who was still taking notes that no one would ever see, and began matter-of-factly. “He’s in place, still in Bologna, so if we had to activate now we could do so.”

“I thought the plan was to move him to a village in the countryside, someplace where we could watch him more closely,” Teddy said.

“That’s a few months down the road.”

“We don’t have a few months.” Teddy turned to Lucat and said, “What happens if we push the button now?”

“It’ll work. They’ll get him somewhere in Bologna. It’s a nice city with almost no crime. Murders are unheard of, so his death will get some attention if his body is found there. The Italians will quickly realize that he’s not — what’s his name, Julia?”

“Marco,” Teddy said without looking at notes. “Marco Lazzeri.”

“Right, they’ll scratch their heads and wonder who the hell he is.”

Julia said, “There’s no clue as to his real identity. They’ll have a body, a fake ID, but no family, no friends, no address, no job, nothing. They’ll bury him like a pauper and keep the file open for a year. Then they’ll close it.”

“That’s not our problem,” Teddy said. “We’re not doing the killing.”

“Right,” said Lucat. “It’ll be a bit messier in the city, but the boy likes to wander the streets. They’ll get him. Maybe a car will hit him. The Italians drive like hell, you know.”

“It won’t be that difficult, will it?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“And what are our chances of knowing when it happens?” Teddy asked.

Lucat scratched his beard and looked across the table at Julia, who was biting a nail and looking over at Hoby, who was stirring green tea with a plastic stick. Lucat finally said, “I’d say fifty-fifty, at the scene anyway. We’ll be watching twenty-four/seven, but the people who’ll take him out will be the best of the best. There may be no witnesses.”

Julia added, “Our best chance will be later, a few weeks after they bury the pauper. We have good people in place. We’ll listen closely. I think we’ll hear it later.”

Lucat said, “As always, when we’re not pulling the trigger, there’s a chance we won’t know for sure.”

“We cannot screw this up, understand? It’ll be nice to know that Backman is dead — God knows he deserves it — but the goal of the operation is to see who kills him,” Teddy said as his white wrinkled hands slowly lifted a paper cup of green tea to his mouth. He slurped it loudly, crudely.

Maybe it was time for the old man to fade away in a retirement home.

“I’m reasonably confident,” Lucat said. Hoby wrote that down.

“If we leak it now, how long before he’s dead?” Teddy asked.

Lucat shrugged and looked away as he pondered the question. Julia was chewing another nail. “It depends,” she said cautiously. “If the Israelis move, it could happen in a week. The Chinese are usually slower. The Saudis will probably hire a freelance agent; it could take a month to get one on the ground.”

“The Russians could do it in a week,” Lucat added.

“I won’t be here when it happens,” Teddy said sadly. “And no one on this side of the Atlantic will ever know. Promise me you’ll give me a call.”

“This is the green light?” Lucat asked.

“Yes. Careful how you leak it, though. All hunters must be given an equal chance at the prey.”

They gave Teddy their final farewells and left his office. At nine-thirty, Hoby pushed him into the hall and to the elevator. They rode down eight levels to the basement where the bulletproof white vans were waiting for his last trip to the White House.

The meeting was brief. Dan Sandberg was sitting at his desk at the Post when it began in the Oval Office a few minutes after ten. And he hadn’t moved twenty minutes later when the call came from Rusty Lowell. “It’s over,” he said.

“What happened?” Sandberg asked, already pecking at his keyboard.

“As scripted. The President wanted to know about Backman. Teddy wouldn’t budge. The President said he was entitled to know everything. Teddy agreed but said the information was going to be abused for political purposes and it would compromise a sensitive operation. They argued briefly. Teddy got himself fired. Just like I told you.”

“Wow.”

“The White House is making an announcement in five minutes. You might want to watch.”

As always, the spin began immediately. The somber-faced press secretary announced that the President had decided to “pursue a fresher course with our intelligence operations.” He praised Director Maynard for his legendary leadership and seemed downright saddened by the prospect of having to find his successor. The first question, shot from the front row, was whether Maynard resigned or had been fired.

“The President and Director Maynard reached a mutual understanding.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just what I said.”

And so it went for thirty minutes.

Sandberg’s front-page story the following morning dropped two bombs. It began with the definite confirmation that Maynard had been fired after he refused to divulge sensitive information for what he deemed to be raw political purposes. There was no resignation, no “reaching of a mutual understanding.” It was an old-fashioned sacking. The second blast announced to the world that the President’s insistence on obtaining intelligence data was directly tied to a new FBI investigation into the selling of pardons. The cash-for-pardon scandal had been a distant rumbling until Sandberg opened the door. His scoop practically stopped traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

While Sandberg was hanging around the press room, reveling in his coup, his cell phone rang. It was Rusty Lowell, who abruptly said, “Call me on a land line, and do it quickly.” Sandberg went to a small office for privacy and dialed Lowell’s number at Langley.

“Lucat just got fired,” Lowell said. “At eight o’clock this morning he met with the President in the Oval Office. He was asked to step in as the interim director. He said yes. They met for an hour. The President pushed on Backman. Lucat wouldn’t budge. Got himself fired, just like Teddy.”

“Damn, he’s been there a hundred years.”

“Thirty-eight to be exact. One of the best men here. A great administrator.”

“Who’s next?”

“That’s a very good question. We’re all afraid of the knock on the door.”

“Somebody’s got to run the agency.”

“Ever meet Susan Penn?”

“No. I know who she is, but I never met her.”

“Deputy director for science and technology. Very loyal to Teddy, hell we all are, but she’s also a survivor. She’s in the Oval Office right now. If she’s offered the interim, she’ll take it. And she’ll give up Backman to get it.”

“He is the President, Rusty. He’s entitled to know everything.”

“Of course. And it’s a matter of principle. Can’t really blame the guy. He’s new on the job, wants to flex his muscle. Looks like he’ll fire us all until he gets what he wants. I told Susan Penn to take the job to stop the bleeding.”

“So the FBI should know about Backman real soon?”

“Today, I would guess. Not sure what they’ll do when they find out where he is. They’re weeks away from an indictment. They’ll probably just screw up our operation.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know.”

“Come on, Rusty, things are different now.”

“The answer is no. End of story. I’ll keep you posted on the bloodletting.”

An hour later, the White House press secretary met with the press and announced the appointment of Susan Penn as interim director of the CIA. He made much of the fact that she was the first female to hold the position, thus proving once again how determined this President was to labor diligently for the cause of equal rights.

Luigi was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and all alone, waiting for the signal from next door. It came at fourteen minutes after 6:00 a.m. — Marco was becoming such a creature of habit. Luigi walked to his control room and pushed a button to silence the buzzer that indicated that his friend had exited through the front door. A computer recorded the exact time and within seconds someone at Langley would know that Marco Lazzeri had just left their safe house on Via Fondazza at precisely 6:14.

He hadn’t trailed him in a few days. Simona had been sleeping over. He waited a few seconds, slipped out his rear door, cut through a narrow alley, then peeked through the shadows of the arcades along Via Fondazza. Marco was to his left, headed south and walking at his usual brisk pace, which was getting faster the longer he stayed in Bologna. He was at least twenty years older than Luigi, but with his penchant for walking miles every day he was in better shape. Plus he didn’t smoke, didn’t drink much, didn’t seem to be interested in ladies and the nightlife, and he’d spent the last six years in a cage. Little wonder he could roam the streets for hours, doing nothing.

He wore the new hiking boots every day. Luigi had not been able to get his hands on them. They remained bug-free, leaving no signal behind. Whitaker worried about this in Milan, but then he worried about everything. Luigi was convinced that Marco might walk for a hundred miles within the city, but he wasn’t leaving town. He’d disappear for a while, go exploring or sightseeing, but he could always be found.

He turned onto Via Santo Stefano, a main avenue that ran from the southeast corner of old Bologna into the thick of things around Piazza Maggiore. Luigi crossed over and followed from the other side. As he practically jogged along, he quickly radioed Zellman, a new guy in town, sent by Whitaker to tighten the web. Zellman was waiting on Strada Maggiore, another busy avenue between the safe house and the university.

Zellman’s arrival was an indication of the plan moving forward. Luigi knew most of the details now, and was somewhat saddened by the fact that Marco’s days were numbered. He wasn’t sure who would take him out, and he got the impression that Whitaker didn’t know either.

Luigi was praying that he would not be called upon to do the deed. He’d killed two other men, and preferred to avoid such messes. Plus, he liked Marco.

Before Zellman picked up the trail, Marco vanished.

Luigi stopped and listened. He ducked into the darkness of a doorway, just in case Marco had stopped too.

He heard him back there, walking a little too heavily, breathing a little too hard. A quick left on a narrow street, Via Castellata, a sprint for fifty yards, then another left onto Via de’ Chiari, and a complete change of direction, from due north to due west, a hard pace for a long time until he came to an opening, a small square called Piazza Cavour. He knew the old city so well now, the avenues, alleys, dead ends, intersections, the endless maze of crooked little streets, the names of every square and many of the shops and stores. He knew which tobacco stores opened at six and which waited until seven. He could find five coffee shops that were filled by sunrise, though most waited until daylight. He knew where to sit in the front window, behind a newspaper, with a view of the sidewalk and wait for Luigi to stroll by.

He could lose Luigi anytime he wanted, though most days he played along and kept his trails wide and easy to follow. But it was the fact that he was being watched so closely that spoke volumes.

They don’t want me to disappear, he kept saying to himself. And why? Because I’m here for a reason.

He swung wide to the west of the city, far away from where he might be expected to be. After almost an hour of zigzagging through and looping around dozens of short streets and alleys, he stepped onto Via Irnerio and watched the foot traffic. Bar Fontana was directly across the street. There was no one watching it.

Rudolph was tucked away in the rear, head buried low in the morning paper, pipe smoke rising in a lazy blue spiral. They hadn’t seen each other in ten days, and after the usual warm greetings his first question was “Did you make it to Venice?”

Yes, a delightful visit. Marco dropped the names of all the places he’d memorized from the guidebook. He raved about the beauty of the canals, the amazing variety of bridges, the smothering hordes of tourists. A fabulous place. Couldn’t wait to go back. Rudolph added some of his own memories. Marco described the church of San Marco as if he’d spent a week there.

Where to next? Rudolph inquired. Probably south, toward warmer weather. Maybe Sicily, the Amalfi coast. Rudolph, of course, adored Sicily and described his visits there. After half an hour of travel talk, Marco finally got around to business. “I’m traveling so much, I really have no address. A friend from the States is sending me a package. I gave him your address at the law school. Hope you don’t mind.”

Rudolph was relighting his pipe. “It’s already here. Came yesterday,” he said, with heavy smoke pouring out with the words.

Marco’s heart skipped a beat. “Was there a return address?”

“Some place in Virginia.”

“Good.” His mouth was instantly dry. He took a sip of water and tried to conceal his excitement. “Hope it wasn’t a problem.”

“Not at all.”

“I’ll swing by later and pick it up.”

“I’m in the office from eleven to twelve-thirty.”

“Good, thanks.” Another sip. “Just curious, how big is the package?”

Rudolph chewed on the stem of his pipe and said,

“A small cigar box maybe.”

A cold rain started at mid-morning. Marco and Ermanno were walking through the university area and found shelter in a quiet little bar. They finished the lesson early, primarily because the student pushed so hard. Ermanno was always ready to quit early.

Since Luigi had not booked lunch, Marco was free to roam, presumably without being followed. But he was careful just the same. He did his loops and backtracking maneuvers, and felt silly as always. Silly or not, they were now standard procedure. Back on Via Zamboni he drifted behind a group of students strolling aimlessly along. At the door to the law school he ducked inside, bounded up the stairs, and within seconds was knocking on Rudolph’s half-opened door.

Rudolph was at his ancient typewriter, hammering away at what appeared to be a personal letter. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a pile of rubble covering a table that hadn’t been cleared in decades. “That brown thing on top.”

Marco picked up the package with as little interest as possible. “Thanks again, Rudolph,” he said, but Rudolph was typing again and in no mood for a visit. He’d clearly been interrupted.

“Don’t mention it,” he said over his shoulder, releasing another cloud of pipe smoke.

“Is there a restroom nearby?” Marco asked.

“Down the hall, on your left.”

“Thanks. See you around.”

There was a prehistoric urinal and three wooden stalls. Marco went into the far one, locked the door, lowered the lid, and took a seat. He carefully opened his package and unfolded the sheets of paper. The first one was plain, white, no letterhead of any kind. When he saw the words “Dear Marco,” he felt like crying.

Grinch? A code or something. He had not used their real names.

Marco studied the sleek device, thoroughly bewildered by it but also determined to get the damn thing going. He probed its small case, found the cash, and counted it slowly as if it were gold. The door opened and closed; someone was using the urinal. Marco could hardly breathe. Relax, he kept telling himself.

The restroom door opened and closed again, and he was alone. The page of instructions was hand written, obviously when Neal didn’t have a lot of time. It read:

More notes followed on the other side, but Marco needed to pause. The smartphone was growing heavier by the minute as it inspired more questions than answers. For a man who’d never been in an Internet café, he could not begin to understand how one could be used from across the street. Or within two hundred feet.

Secretaries had always handled the e-mail flood. He’d been much too busy to sit in front of a monitor.

There was an instruction booklet that he opened at random. He read a few lines and didn’t understand a single phrase. Trust Neal, he told himself.

You have no choice here, Marco. You have to master this damn thing.

From a Web site called www.AxEss.com Neal had printed a list of free wireless Internet places in Bologna — three cafés, two hotels, one library, and one bookstore.

Marco folded his cash, stuck it in his pocket, then slowly put his package back together. He stood, flushed the toilet for some reason, and left the restroom. The phone, the papers, the case, and the small recharger were easily buried in the deep pockets of his parka.

The rain had turned to snow when he left the law school, but the covered sidewalks protected him and the crowd of students hurrying to lunch. As he drifted away from the university area, he pondered ways to hide the wonderful little assets Neal had sent him. The phone would never leave his person. Nor would the cash. But the paperwork — the letter, the instructions, the manual — where could he stash them? Nothing was protected in his apartment. He saw in a store window an attractive shoulder bag of some sort. He went and inquired. It was a Silvio brand laptop case, navy blue, waterproof, made of a synthetic fabric that the saleslady could not translate. It cost sixty euros, and Marco reluctantly placed them on the counter. As she finished the sale, he carefully placed the smartphone and its related items into the bag. Outside, he flung it over his shoulder and tucked it snugly under his right arm.

The bag meant freedom for Marco Lazzeri. He would guard it with his life.

He found the bookstore on Via Ugo Bassi. The magazines were on the second level. He stood by the rack for five minutes, holding a soccer weekly while watching the front door for anyone suspicious. Silly. But it was a habit now. The Internet hookups were on the third floor, in a small coffee shop. He bought a pastry and a Coke and found a narrow booth where he could sit and watch everyone going and coming.

No one could find him there.

He pulled out his Ankyo 850 with as much confidence as he could muster and glanced through its manual. He reread Neal’s instructions. He followed them nervously, typing on the tiny keypad with both thumbs, the way it was illustrated in the owner’s manual. After each step he looked up to check the movements around the café.

The steps worked perfectly. He was online in short order, much to his amazement, and when the codes worked he was looking at a screen that was giving him the okay to write a message. Slowy, he moved his thumbs around and typed his first wireless Internet e-mail:

He sent the message, turned the machine off, then stayed for an hour poring over the manual. Before he left to meet Francesca, he turned it on again and followed the route to get online. On the screen he tapped “Google Search,” then typed in “Washington Post.” Sandberg’s story caught his attention, and he scrolled through it.

He’d never met Teddy Maynard, but they had spoken several times by phone. Very tense conversations. The man had been practically dead ten years ago. In his other life Joel had butted heads a few times with the CIA, usually over shenanigans his defense-contractor clients were trying to pull.

Outside the bookstore, Marco sized up the street, saw nothing of interest, and began another long walk.

Cash for pardons? What a sensational story, but it was asking too much to believe that an outgoing president would take bribes like that. During his spectacular fall from power, Joel had read many things about himself, about half of them true. He’d learned the hard way to believe little of what got printed.