The Broker

25

Spring was finally arriving in Bologna. The last flurries of snow had fallen. The temperature had approached fifty degrees the day before, and when Marco stepped outside before dawn he thought about swapping his parka for one of the other jackets. He took a few steps under the dark portico, let the temperature sink in, then decided it was still chilly enough to keep the parka. He’d return in a couple of hours and he could switch then if he wanted. He crammed his hands in his pockets and took off on the morning hike.

He could think of nothing but the Times story. To see his name plastered across the front page brought back painful memories, and that was unsettling enough. But to be accused of bribing the President was actionable at law, and in another life he would have started the day by shot-gunning lawsuits at everyone involved. He would have owned The New York Times.

But what kept him awake were the questions. What would the attention mean for him now? Would Luigi snatch him again and run away? And the most important: Was he in more danger today than yesterday?

He was surviving nicely, tucked away in a lovely city where no one knew his real name. No one recognized his face. No one cared. The Bolognesi went about their lives without disturbing others.

Not even he recognized himself. Each morning when he finished shaving and put on his glasses and his brown corduroy driver’s cap, he stood at the mirror and said hello to Marco. Long gone were the fleshy jowls and puffy dark eyes, the thicker, longer hair. Long gone was the smirk and the arrogance. Now he was just another quiet man on the street.

Marco was living one day at a time, and the days were piling up. No one who read the Times story knew where Marco was or what he was doing.

He passed a man in a dark suit and instantly knew he was in trouble. The suit was out of place. It was a foreign variety, something bought off the rack in a low-end store, one he’d seen every day in another life. The white shirt was the same monotonous button-down he’d seen for thirty years in D.C. He’d once considered floating an office memo banning blue-and-white cotton button-downs, but Carl Pratt had talked him out of it.

He couldn’t tell the color of the tie.

It was not the type of suit you’d ever see under the porticoes along Via Fondazza before dawn, or at any other time for that matter. He took a few steps, glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the suit was now following him. White guy, thirty years old, thick, athletic, the clear winner in a footrace or a fistfight. So Marco used another strategy. He suddenly stopped, turned around, and said, “You want something?”

To which someone else said, “Over here, Backman.”

Hearing his name stopped him cold. For a second his knees were rubbery, his shoulders sagged, and he told himself that no, he was not dreaming. In a flash he thought of all the horrors the word “Backman” brought with it. How sad to be so terrified of your own name.

There were two of them. The one with the voice arrived on the scene from the other side of Via Fondazza. He had basically the same suit, but with a bold white shirt with no buttons on the collar. He was older, shorter, and much thinner. Mutt and Jeff. Thick ’n’ Thin.

“What do you want?” Marco said.

They were slowly reaching for their pockets. “We’re with the FBI,” the thick one said. American English, probably Midwest.

“Sure you are,” Marco said.

They went through the required ritual of flashing their badges, but under the darkness of the portico Marco could read nothing. The dim light over an apartment door helped a little. “I can’t read those,” he said.

“Let’s take a walk,” said the thin one. Boston, Irish. “Walk” came out “wok.”

“You guys lost?” Marco said without moving. He didn’t want to move, and his feet were quite heavy anyway.

“We know exactly where we are.”

“I doubt that. You got a warrant?”

“We don’t need one.”

The thick one made the mistake of touching Marco’s left elbow, as if he would help him move along to where they wanted to go. Marco jerked away. “Don’t touch me! You boys get lost. You can’t make an arrest here. All you can do is talk.”

“Fine, let’s go have a chat,” said the thin one.

“I don’t have to talk.”

“There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks away,” said the thick one.

“Great, have some coffee. And a pastry. But leave me alone.”

Thick ’n’ Thin looked at each other, then glanced around, not sure what to do next, not sure what plan B entailed.

Marco wasn’t moving; not that he felt very safe where he was, but he could almost see a dark car waiting around the corner.

Where the hell is Luigi right now? he asked himself. Is this part of his conspiracy?

He’d been discovered, found, unmasked, called by his real name on Via Fondazza. This would certainly mean another move, another safe house.

The thin one decided to take control of the encounter. “Sure, we can meet right here. There are a lot of folks back home who’d like to talk to you.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m over here.”

“We’re investigating the pardon you bought.”

“Then you’re wasting a helluva lot of time and money, which would surprise no one.”

“We have some questions about the transaction.”

“What a stupid investigation,” Marco said, spitting the words down at the thin one. For the first time in many years he felt like the broker again, berating some haughty bureaucrat or dim-witted congressman. “The FBI spends good money sending two clowns like you all the way to Bologna, Italy, to tackle me on a sidewalk so you can ask me questions that no fool in his right mind would answer. You’re a couple of dumbasses, you know that? Go back home and tell your boss that he’s a dumbass too. And while you’re talking to him, tell him he’s wasting a lot of time and money if he thinks I paid for a pardon.”

“So you deny—”

“I deny nothing. I admit nothing. I say nothing, except that this is the FBI at its absolute worst. You boys are in deep water and you can’t swim.”

Back home they’d slap him around a little, push him, curse him, swap insults. But on foreign soil they weren’t sure how to behave. Their orders were to find him, to see if he did in fact live where the CIA said he was living. And if found, they were supposed to jolt him, scare him, hit him with some questions about wire transfers and offshore accounts.

They had it all mapped out and had rehearsed it many times. But under the porticoes of Via Fondazza, Mr. Lazzeri was annihilating their plans.

“We’re not leaving Bologna until we talk,” said the thick one.

“Congratulations, you’re in for a long vacation.”

“We have our orders, Mr. Backman.”

“And I’ve got mine.”

“Just a few questions, please,” said the thin one.

“Go see my lawyer,” Marco said, and began to walk away, in the direction of his apartment.

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Carl Pratt.”

They weren’t moving, weren’t following, and Marco picked up his pace. He crossed the street, glanced quickly at his safe house, but didn’t slow down. If they wanted to follow, they waited too long. By the time he darted onto Via del Piombo, he knew they could never find him. These were his streets now, his alleys, his darkened doorways to shops that wouldn’t open for three more hours.

They found him on Via Fondazza only because they knew his address.

At the southwestern edge of old Bologna, near the Porto San Stefano, he caught a city bus and rode it for half an hour, until he stopped near the train station at the northern perimeter. There he caught another bus and rode into the center of the city. The buses were filling; the early risers were getting to work. A third bus took him across the city again to the Porta Saragozza, where he began the 3.6-kilometer hike up to San Luca. At the four-hundredth arch he stopped to catch his breath, and between the columns he looked down and waited for someone to come sneaking up behind him. There was no one back there, as he expected.

He slowed his pace and finished the climb in fifty-five minutes. Behind the Santuario di San Luca he followed the narrow pathway where Francesca had fallen, and finally parked himself on the bench where she had waited. From there, his early-morning view of Bologna was magnificent. He removed his parka to cool off. The sun was up, the air was as light and clear as any he’d ever breathed, and for a long time Marco sat very much alone and watched the city come to life.

He treasured the solitude, and the safety of the moment. Why couldn’t he make the climb every morning, and sit high above Bologna with nothing to do but think, and maybe read the newspapers? Perhaps call a friend on the phone and catch up on the gossip?

He’d have to find the friends first.

It was a dream that would not come true.

With Luigi’s very limited cell phone he called Ermanno and canceled their morning session. Then he called Luigi and explained that he didn’t feel like studying.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I just need a break.”

“That’s fine, Marco, but we’re paying Ermanno to teach you, okay? You need to study every day.”

“Drop it, Luigi. I’m not studying today.”

“I don’t like this.”

“And I don’t care. Suspend me. Kick me out of school.”

“Are you upset?”

“No, Luigi, I’m fine. It’s a beautiful day, springtime in Bologna, and I’m going for a long walk.”

“Where?”

“No thanks, Luigi. I don’t want company.”

“What about lunch?”

Hunger pains shot through Marco’s stomach. Lunch with Luigi was always delicious and he always grabbed the check. “Sure.”

“Let me think. I’ll call you back.”

“Sure, Luigi. Ciao.”

They met at twelve-thirty at Caffè Atene, an ancient dive in an alley, down a few steps from street level. It was a tiny place, with small square tables practically touching each other. The waiters jostled around with trays of food held high overhead. Chefs yelled from the kitchen. The cramped dining room was smoky, loud, and packed with hungry people who enjoyed talking at full volume as they ate. Luigi explained that the restaurant had been around for centuries, tables were impossible to get, and the food was, of course, superb. He suggested they share a plate of calamari to get things started.

After a morning of arguing with himself up at San Luca, Marco had decided not to tell Luigi about his encounter with the FBI. At least not then, not that morning. He might do it the next day, or the next, but for the moment he was still sorting things out. His principal reason for holding back was that he did not want to pack up and run again, not on Luigi’s terms.

If he ran, he would be alone.

He couldn’t begin to imagine why the FBI would be in Bologna, evidently without the knowledge of Luigi and whoever he was working for. He was assuming Luigi knew nothing of their presence. He certainly seemed to be much more concerned with the menu and the wine list. Life was good. Everything was normal.

The lights went out. Suddenly, Caffè Atene was completely dark, and in the next instant a waiter with a tray of someone’s lunch came crashing across their table, yelling and cursing and spilling himself onto both Luigi and Marco. The legs of the antique table buckled and its edge crashed hard onto Marco’s lap. At about the same time, a foot or something hit him hard on the left shoulder. Everyone was yelling. Glass was breaking. Bodies were getting shoved, then from the kitchen someone screamed, “Fire!”

The scramble outside and onto the street was completed without serious injury. The last person out was Marco, who ducked low to avoid the stampede while searching for his navy blue Silvio bag. As always, he had hung its strap over the back of his chair, with the bag resting so close to his body he could usually feel it. It had disappeared in the melee.

The Italians stood in the street and stared in disbelief at the café. Their lunch was in there, half eaten and now being ruined. Finally, a thin light puff of smoke emerged and made its way through the door and into the air. A waiter could be seen running by the front tables with a fire extinguisher. Then some more smoke, but not much.

“I lost my bag,” Marco said to Luigi as they watched and waited.

“The blue one?”

How many bags do I carry around, Luigi? “Yes, the blue one.” He already had suspicions that the bag had been snatched.

A small fire truck with an enormous siren arrived, slid to a stop, and kept wailing as the firemen raced inside. Minutes passed, and the Italians began to drift away. The decisive ones left to find lunch elsewhere while there was still time. The others just kept gawking at this horrible injustice.

The siren was finally neutralized. Evidently the fire was too, and without the need for water being sprayed all over the restaurant. After an hour of discussion and debate and very little firefighting, the situation was under control. “Something in the restroom,” a waiter yelled to one of his friends, one of the few remaining weakened and unfed patrons. The lights were back on.

They allowed them back inside to get their coats. Some who’d left in search of other meals were returning to get their things. Luigi became very helpful in the hunt for Marco’s bag. He discussed the situation with the headwaiter, and before long half the staff was scouring the restaurant. Among the excited chatter, Marco heard a waiter say something about a “smoke bomb.”

The bag was gone, and Marco knew it.

They had a panino and a beer at a sidewalk café, under the sun where they could watch pretty girls stroll by. Marco was preoccupied with the theft, but he worked hard to appear unconcerned.

“Sorry about the bag,” Luigi said at one point.

“No big deal.”

“I’ll get you another cell phone.”

“Thanks.”

“What else did you lose?”

“Nothing. Just some maps of the city, some aspirin, a few euros.”

In a hotel room a few blocks away, Zellman and Krater had the bag on the bed, its contents neatly arranged. Other than the Ankyo smartphone, there were two maps of Bologna, both well marked and well used but revealing little, four $100 bills, the cell phone Luigi had loaned him, a bottle of aspirin, and the owner’s manual for the Ankyo.

Zellman, the more agile computer whiz of the two, plugged the smartphone into an Internet access jack and was soon fiddling with the menu. “This is good stuff,” he was saying, quite impressed with Marco’s gadget. “The absolute latest toy on the market.”

Not surprisingly, he was stopped by the password. They would have to dissect it at Langley. With his laptop, he e-mailed a message to Julia Javier, passing along the serial number and other information.

Within two hours of the theft, a CIA agent was sitting in the parking lot outside Chatter in suburban Alexandria, waiting for the store to open.