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 read
ing 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 mothers 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 mir
acle 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, “Park 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.
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 shotgunning 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 t
hicker, 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 his 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 3.6kilometer 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 Caffe 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, Caffe 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.
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