The Broker

by Grisham, John

  He watched the plates of food as they popped up along the counter near the grill. After about ten minutes, a thick sandwich appeared. A server grabbed it, snatched off a ticket, and yelled, “Numero sessantasette.” Marco stepped forward without a word and produced his ticket. The soft drink came next. He found a seat at a small corner table and thoroughly enjoyed the solitude of his dinner. The deli was loud and crowded, a neighborhood place where many of the customers knew each other. Their greetings involved hugs and kisses and long hellos, even longer goodbyes. Waiting in line to order caused no problems, though the Italians seemed to struggle with the basic concept of one standing behind the other. Back home there would've been sharp words from the customers and perhaps swearing from the cashier.

  In a country where a three-hundred-year-old house is considered new, time has a different meaning. Food is to be enjoyed, even in a small deli with few tables. Those seated close to Joel seemed poised to take hours to digest their pizza and sandwiches. There was simply too much talking to do!

  The brain-dead pace of prison life had flattened all his edges. He'd kept his sanity by reading eight books a week, but even that exercise had been for escape and not necessarily for learning. Two days of intensive memorizing, conjugating, pronouncing, and listening like he'd never listened before left him mentally exhausted.

  So he absorbed the roar of Italian without trying to understand any of it. He enjoyed its rhythm and cadence and laughter. He caught a word every now and then, especially in the greetings and farewells,

  and considered this to be progress of some sort. Watching the families and friends made him lonely, though he refused to dwell on it. Loneliness was twenty-three hours a day in a small cell with little mail and nothing but a cheap paperback to keep him company. He'd seen loneliness; this was a day at the beach.

  He tried hard to linger over his ham and cheese, but he could only stretch it so far. He reminded himself to order fries the next time because fries can be toyed with until long after they're cold, thus extending the meal far beyond what would be considered normal back home. Reluctantly, he surrendered his table. Almost an hour after he entered the cafe, he left the warmth of it and walked to the fountain where the water had been turned off so it wouldn't freeze. Luigi strolled up a few minutes later, as if he'd been loitering in the shadows, waiting. He had the nerve to suggest a gelato, an ice cream, but Marco was already shivering. They walked to the hotel and said good night.

  Luigi his field supervisor had diplomatic cover at the US. consulate in Milan. His name was Whitaker, and Backman was the least of his priorities. Backman was not involved in intelligence, or counterintelligence, and Whitaker had a full load in those arenas without having to worry about an ex-Washington power broker who'd been stashed away in Italy. But he dutifully prepared his daily summaries and sent them to Langley. There they were received and reviewed by Julia Javier, the veteran with access to Mr. Maynard himself. It was because of Ms. Javier's watchful eye that Whitaker was so diligent in Milan. Otherwise, the daily summaries may not have been so prompt.

  Teddy wanted a briefing.

  Ms. Javier was summoned to his office on the seventh floor, to the “Teddy Wing,” as it was known throughout Langley. She entered his “station,” as he preferred it to be called, and once again found him parked at the end of a long wide conference table, sitting high in his jacked-up wheelchair, bundled in blankets from the chest down, wearing his standard black suit, peering over stacks of summaries, with Hoby hovering nearby ready to fetch another cup of the wretched green tea that Teddy was convinced was keeping him alive.

  He was barely alive, but then Julia Javier had been thinking that for years now.

  Since she didn't drink coffee and wouldn't touch the tea, nothing was offered. She took her customary seat to his right, sort of the witness chair that all visitors were expected to take-his right ear caught much more than his left-and he managed a very tired "Hello, Julia.'

  Hoby, as always, sat across from her and prepared to take notes. Every sound in the “station” was being captured by some of the most sophisticated recording devices modern technology had created, but Hoby nonetheless went through the charade of writing it all down.

  “Brief me on Backman,” Teddy said. A verbal report such as this was expected to be concise, to the point, with not a single unnecessary word thrown in.

  Julia looked at her notes, cleared her throat, and began speaking for the hidden recorders. “He's in place in Treviso, a nice little town in northern Italy. Been there for three full days, seems to be making the adjustment quite well. Our agent is in complete contact, and the language tutor is a local who's doing a nice job. Backman has no money and no passport, and so far has been quite willing to stick close to the agent. He has not used the phone in his hotel room, nor has he tried to use his cell phone for anything other than to call our agent. He has shown no desire to explore or to wander about. Evidently, the habits learned in prison are hard to break. Pie's staying close to his hotel. When he's not being tutored or eating, he stays in his room and studies Italian.”

  “How is his language?”

  “Not bad. He's fifty-two years old, so it wont be quick.”

  “I learned Arabic when I was sixty,” Teddy said proudly, as if sixty was a century ago.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. Everyone at Langley knew it. “He is studying extremely hard and making progress, but it's only been three days. The tutor is impressed.”

  “What does he talk about?”

  “Not the past, not old friends and old enemies. Nothing that would interest us. He's closed that off, for now anyway. Idle conversation tends to be about his new home, the culture and language.”

  “His mood?”

  "He just walked out of prison fourteen years early and he's having long meals and good wine. He's quite happy. Doesn't appear to be

  homesick, but of course he doesn't really have a home. Never talks about his family."

  “His health?”

  “Seems fine. The cough is gone. Appears to be sleeping. No complaints.”

  “How much does he drink?”

  "He's careful. Enjoys wine at lunch and dinner and a beer in a nearby bar, but nothing excessive.''

  “Lets try and crank up the boo2e, okay? See if hell talk more.”

  “That's our plan.”

  “How secure is he?”

  “Everything's bugged-phones, room, language lessons, lunches, dinners. Even his shoes have mikes. Both pairs. His overcoat has a Peak 30 sewn into the lining. We can track him virtually anywhere.”

  “So you can't lose him?”

  “He's a lawyer, not a spy. As of now, he seems very content to enjoy his freedom and do what he's told.”

  “He's not stupid, though. Remember that, Julia. Backman knows there are some very nasty people who would love to find him.”

  “True, but right now he's like a toddler clinging to his mother.”

  “So he feels safe?”

  “Under the circumstances, yes.”

  “Then let's give him a scare.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” Teddy rubbed his eyes and took a sip of tea. “What about his son?”

  “Level-three surveillance, not much happening in Culpeper, Virginia. If Backman tries to contact anyone, it will be Neal Backman. But we'll know it in Italy before we know it in Culpeper.”

  “His son is the only person he trusts,” Teddy said, stating what Julia had said many times.

  “Very true.”

  After a long pause he said, “Anything else, Julia?”

  “He's writing a letter to his mother in Oakland.”

  Teddy gave a quick smile. “How nice. Do we have it?”

  “Yes, our agent took a picture of it yesterday, we just got it. Backman hides it in between the pages of a local tourism magazine in his hotel room.”

  “How long is it?”

  “Two good paragraphs. Evidently a work in progress.”

  “Read it to me,
” Teddy said as he leaned his head back against his wheelchair and closed his eyes.

  Julia shuffled papers and pushed up her reading glasses. “No date, handwritten, which is a chore because Backman's penmanship is lousy. 'Dear Mother: I'm not sure when or if you will ever receive this letter. I'm not sure if I will ever mail it, which could affect whether or not you get it. At any rate, I'm out of prison and doing better. In my last letter I said things were going well in the flat country of Oklahoma. I had no idea at that time that I would be pardoned by the President. It happened so quickly that I still find it hard to believe.' Second paragraph. Tm living on the other side of the world, I can't say where because this would upset some people. I would prefer to be in the United States, but that is not possible. I had no say in the matter. It's not a great life but it's certainly better than the one I had a week ago. I was dying in prison, in spite of what I said in my letters. Didn't want to worry you. Here, I'm free, and that's the most important thing in the world. I can walk down the street, eat in a cafe, come and go as I please, do pretty much whatever I want. Freedom, Mother, something I dreamed of for years and thought was impossible.' ”

  She laid it down and said, “That's as far as he's gotten.”

  Teddy opened his eyes and said, “You think he's stupid enough to mail a letter to his mother?”

  “No. But he's been writing her once a week for a long time. It's a habit, and it's probably therapeutic. He has to talk to somebody.”

  “Are we still watching her mail?”

  “Yes, what little she receives.”

  “Very well. Scare the hell out of him, then report back.”

  “Yes sir.” Julia gathered her papers and left the office. Teddy picked up a summary and adjusted his reading glasses. Hoby went to a small kitchen nearby.

  Backmans mother's phone had been tapped in the nursing home in Oakland, and so far it had revealed nothing. The day the pardon was announced two very old friends had called with lots of questions and some subdued congratulations, but Mrs. Backman had been so bewildered she was eventually sedated and napped for hours. None of her

  grandchildren-the three produced by Joel and his various wives-had called her in the past six months.

  Lydia Backman had survived two strokes and was confined to a wheelchair. When her son was at his pinnacle she lived in relative luxury in a spacious condo with a full-time nurse. His conviction had forced her to give up the good life and live in a nursing home with a hundred others.

  Surely Backman would not try to contact her.

  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.

  The Broker

  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.

  Hows 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 Critzs 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 wa
ke 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.