The Broker

24

If Dan Sandberg’s phone rang before 6:00 a.m., the news was never good. He was a night owl, a nocturnal creature who often slept until it was time to have breakfast and lunch together. Everyone who knew him also knew that it was pointless to phone early.

It was a colleague at the Post. “You got scooped, buddy,” he announced gravely.

“What?” Sandberg snapped.

“The Times just wiped your nose for you.”

“Who?”

“Backman.”

“What?”

“Go see for yourself.”

Sandberg ran to the den of his messy apartment and attacked his desk computer. He found the story, written by Heath Frick, a hated rival at The New York Times. The front-page headline read FBI PARDON PROBE SEARCHES FOR JOEL BACKMAN.

Citing a host of unnamed sources, Frick reported that the FBI’s cash-for-pardon investigation had intensified and was expanding to include specific individuals who were granted reprieves by former president Arthur Morgan. Duke Mongo was named as a “person of interest,” a euphemism often tossed about when the authorities wanted to taint a person they were unable to formally indict. Mongo, though, was hospitalized and rumored to be gasping for his last breath.

The probe was now focusing its attention on Joel Backman, whose eleventh-hour pardon had shocked and outraged many, according to Frick’s gratuitous analysis. Backman’s mysterious disappearance had only fueled the speculation that he’d bought himself a pardon and fled to avoid the obvious questions. Old rumors were still out there, Frick reminded everyone, and various unnamed and supposedly trustworthy sources hinted that the theory about Backman burying a fortune had not been officially laid to rest.

“What garbage!” Sandberg snarled as he scrolled down the screen. He knew the facts better than anyone. This crap could not be substantiated. Backman had not paid for a pardon.

No one even remotely connected with the former president would say a word. For now, the probe was just a probe, with no formal investigation under way, but the heavy federal artillery was not far away. An eager U.S. attorney was clamoring to get started. He didn’t have his grand jury yet, but his office was sitting on go, waiting on word from the Justice Department.

Frick wrapped it all up with two paragraphs about Backman, historical rehash that the paper had run before.

“Just filler!” Sandberg fumed.

The President read it too but had a different reaction. He made some notes and saved them until seven-thirty, when Susan Penn, his interim director of the CIA, arrived for the morning briefing. The PDB — president’s daily briefing — had historically been handled by the director himself, always in the Oval Office and normally the first item of the day’s business. But Teddy Maynard and his rotten health had changed the routine, and for the past ten years the briefings had been done by someone else. Now traditions were being honored again.

An eight-to ten-page summary of intelligence matters was placed on the President’s desk precisely at 7:00 a.m. After almost two months in office, he had developed the habit of reading every word of it. He found it fascinating. His predecessor had once boasted that he read hardly anything — books, newspapers, magazines. Certainly not legislation, policies, treaties, or daily briefings. He’d often had trouble reading his own speeches. Things were much different now.

Susan Penn was driven in an armored car from her Georgetown home to the White House, where she arrived each morning at 7:15. Along the way she read the daily summary, which was prepared by the CIA. On page four that morning was an item about Joel Backman. He was attracting the attention of some very dangerous people, perhaps even Sammy Tin.

The President greeted her warmly and had coffee waiting by the sofa. They were alone, as always, and they went right to work.

“You’ve seen The New York Times this morning?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What are the chances that Backman paid for a pardon?”

“Very slim. As I’ve explained before, he had no idea one was in the works. He didn’t have time to arrange things. Plus, we’re quite confident he didn’t have the money.”

“Then why was Backman pardoned?”

Susan Penn’s loyalty to Teddy Maynard was fast becoming history. Teddy was gone, and would soon be dead, but she, at the age of forty-four, had a career left. Perhaps a long one. She and the President were working well together. He seemed in no hurry to appoint his new director.

“Frankly, Teddy wanted him dead.”

“Why? What is your recollection of why Mr. Maynard wanted him dead?”

“It’s a long story—”

“No, it’s not.”

“We don’t know everything.”

“You know enough. Tell me what you know.”

She tossed her copy of the summary on the sofa and took a deep breath. “Backman and Jacy Hubbard got in way over their heads. They had this software, JAM, that their clients had stupidly brought to the United States, to their office, looking for a fortune.”

“These clients were the young Pakistanis, right?”

“Yes, and they’re all dead.”

“Do you know who killed them?”

“No.”

“Do you know who killed Jacy Hubbard?”

“No.”

The President stood with his coffee and walked to his desk. He sat on the edge and glared across the room at her. “I find it hard to believe that we don’t know these things.”

“Frankly, so do I. And it’s not because we haven’t tried. It’s one reason Teddy worked so hard to get Backman pardoned. Sure, he wanted him dead, just on general principle — the two have a history and Teddy has always considered Backman to be a traitor. But he also felt strongly that Backman’s murder might tell us something.”

“What?”

“Depends on who kills him. If the Russians do it, then we can believe the satellite system belonged to the Russians. Same for the Chinese. If the Israelis kill him, then there’s a good chance Backman and Hubbard tried to sell their product to the Saudis. If the Saudis get to him, then we can believe that Backman double-crossed them. We’re almost certain that the Saudis thought they had a deal.”

“But Backman screwed them?”

“Maybe not. We think Hubbard’s death changed everything. Backman packed his bags and ran away to prison. All deals were off.”

The President walked back to the coffee table and refilled his cup. He sat across from her and shook his head. “You expect me to believe that three young Pakistani hackers tapped into a satellite system so sophisticated that we didn’t even know about it?”

“Yes. They were brilliant, but they also got lucky. Then they not only hacked their way in, but they wrote some amazing programs that manipulated it.”

“And that’s JAM?”

“That’s what they called it.”

“Has anybody ever seen the software?”

“The Saudis. That’s how we know that it not only exists but probably works as well as advertised.”

“Where is the software now?”

“No one knows, except, maybe, Backman himself.”

A long pause as the President sipped his lukewarm coffee. Then he rested his elbows on his knees and said, “What’s best for us, Susan? What’s in our best interests?” She didn’t hesitate. “To follow Teddy’s plan. Backman will be eliminated. The software hasn’t been seen in six years, so it’s probably gone too. The satellite system is up there, but whoever owns it can’t play with it.”

Another sip, another pause. The President shook his head and said, “So be it.”

Neal Backman didn’t read The New York Times, but he did a quick search each morning for his father’s name. When he ran across Frick’s story, he attached it to an e-mail and sent it with the morning message from Jerry’s Java.

At his desk, he read the story again, and relived the old rumors of how much money the broker had buried while the firm was collapsing. He’d never asked his father the question point-blank, because he knew he would not get a straight answer. Over the years, though, he had come to accept the common belief that Joel Backman was as broke as most convicted felons.

Then why did he have the nagging feeling that the cash-for-pardon scheme could be true? Because if anyone buried so deep in a federal prison could pull off such a miracle, it was his father. But how did he get to Bologna, Italy? And why? Who was after him?

The questions were piling up, the answers more elusive than ever.

As he sipped his double mocha and stared at his locked office door, he once again asked himself the great question: How does one go about locating a certain Swiss banker without the use of phones, faxes, regular mail, or e-mail?

He’d figure it out. He just needed time.

The Times story was read by Efraim as he rode the train from Florence to Bologna. A call from Tel Aviv had alerted him, and he found it online. Amos was four seats behind him, also reading it on his laptop.

Rafi and Shaul would arrive early the next morning, Rafi on a flight from Milan, Shaul on a train from Rome. The four Italian-speaking members of the kidon were already in Bologna, hurriedly putting together the two safe houses they would need for the project.

The preliminary plan was to grab Backman under the darkened porticoes along Via Fondazza or another suitable side street, preferably early in the morning or after dark. They would sedate him, shove him in a van, take him to a safe house, and wait for the drugs to wear off. They would interrogate him, eventually kill him with poison, and drive his body two hours north to Lake Garda where he’d be fed to the fish.

The plan was rough and fraught with pitfalls, but the green light had been given. There was no turning back. Now that Backman was getting so much attention, they had to strike quickly.

The race was also fueled by the fact that the Mossad had good reason to believe that Sammy Tin was either in Bologna, or somewhere close.

The nearest restaurant to her apartment was a lovely old trattoria called Nino’s. She knew the place well and had known the two sons of old Nino for many years. She explained her predicament, and when she arrived both of them were waiting and practically carried her inside. They took her cane, her bag, her coat, and walked her slowly to their favorite table, which they’d moved closer to the fireplace. They brought her coffee and water, and offered anything else she could possibly want. It was mid-afternoon, the lunch crowd was gone. Francesca and her student had Nino’s to themselves.

When Marco arrived a few minutes later, the two brothers greeted him like family. “La professoressa la sta aspettando,” one of them said. The teacher is waiting.

The fall on the gravel at San Luca and the sprained ankle had transformed her. Gone was the frosty indifference. Gone was the sadness, at least for now. She smiled when she saw him, even reached up, grabbed his hand, and pulled him close so they could blow air kisses at both cheeks, a custom Marco had been observing for two months but had yet to engage in. This was, after all, his first female acquaintance in Italy. She waved him to the chair directly across from her. The brothers swarmed around, taking his coat, asking him about coffee, anxious to see what an Italian lesson would look and sound like.

“How’s your foot?” Marco asked, and made the mistake of doing so in English. She put her finger to her lips, shook her head, and said, “Non inglese, Marco. Solamente Italiano.”

He frowned and said, “I was afraid of that.”

Her foot was very sore. She had kept it on ice while she was reading or watching television, and the swelling had gone down. The walk to the restaurant had been slow, but it was important to move about. At her mother’s insistence, she was using a cane. She found it both useful and embarrassing.

More coffee and water arrived, and when the brothers were convinced that things were perfect with their dear friend Francesca and her Canadian student, they reluctantly retreated to the front of the restaurant.

“How is your mother?” he asked in Italian.

Very well, very tired. She has been sitting with Giovanni for a month now, and it’s taking a toll.

So, thought Marco, Giovanni is now available for discussion. How is he?

Inoperable brain cancer, she said, and it took a few tries to get the translation right. He has been suffering for almost a year, and the end is quite close. He is unconscious. It’s a pity.

What was his profession, what did he do?

He taught medieval history at the university for many years. They met there — she was a student, he was her professor. At the time he was married to a woman he disliked immensely. They had two sons. She and her professor fell in love and began an affair which lasted almost ten years before he divorced his wife and married Francesca.

Children? No, she said with sadness. Giovanni had two, he didn’t want any more. She had regrets, many regrets.

The feeling was clear that the marriage had not been a happy one. Wait till we get around to mine, thought Marco.

It didn’t take long. “Tell me all about you,” she said. “Speak slowly. I want the accents to be as good as possible.”

“I’m just a Canadian businessman,” Marco began in Italian.

“No, really. What’s your real name?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“For now it’s Marco. I have a long history, Francesca, and I can’t talk about it.”

“Very well, do you have children?”

Ah, yes. For a long time he talked about his three children — their names, ages, occupations, residences, spouses, children. He added some fiction to move along his narrative, and he pulled off a small miracle by making the family sound remotely normal. Francesca listened intently, waiting to pounce on any wayward pronunciation or improperly conjugated verb. One of Nino’s boys brought some chocolates and lingered long enough to say, with a huge smile, “Parla molto bene, signore.” You speak very well, sir.

She began to fidget after an hour and Marco could tell she was uncomfortable. He finally convinced her to leave, and with great pleasure he walked her back down Via Minzoni, her right hand tightly fixed to his left elbow while her left hand worked the cane. They walked as slowly as possible. She dreaded the return to her apartment, to the deathwatch, the vigil. He wanted to walk for miles, to cling to her touch, to feel the hand of someone who needed him.

At her apartment they traded farewell kisses and made arrangements to meet at Nino’s tomorrow, same time, same table.

Jacy Hubbard spent almost twenty-five years in Washington; a quarter of a century of major-league hell-raising with an astounding string of disposable women. The last had been Mae Szun, a beauty almost six feet tall with perfect features, deadly black eyes, and a husky voice that had no trouble at all getting Jacy out of a bar and into a car. After an hour of rough sex, she had delivered him to Sammy Tin, who finished him off and left him at his brother’s grave.

When sex was needed to set up a kill, Sammy preferred Mae Szun. She was a fine MSS agent in her own right, but the legs and face added a dimension that had proved deadly on at least three occasions. He summoned her to Bologna, not to seduce but to hold hands with another agent and pretend to be happily married tourists. Seduction, though, was always a possibility. Especially with Backman. Poor guy had just spent six years locked up, away from women.

Mae spotted Marco as he moved in a crowd down Strada Maggiore, headed in the general direction of Via Fondazza. With amazing agility, she picked up her pace, pulled out a cell phone, and managed to gain ground on him while still looking like a bored window shopper.

Then he was gone. He suddenly took a left, turned down a narrow alley, Via Begatto, and headed north, away from Via Fondazza. By the time she made the turn, he was out of sight.