The Broker
"It might be a tough one, Joel. He didn't like the sound of your name. Something about being shot for treason." ''Whatever. Tell him he can broker a deal that will make him feel like a real patriot."
"What's the deal?"
"I have the software, Carl. The whole package. Picked it up this morning from a vault in a bank in Zurich where it's been sitting for more than six years. You and Clayburn come to my room in the morning, and I'll show it to you."
"I really don't want to see it."
"Yes you do."
Pratt sucked down two ounces of scotch. He walked back to the bar and refilled his glass, took another toxic dose, then said, "When and where?"
"The Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Room five-twenty. Nine in the morning."
"Why Joel? Why should I get involved?"
"A favor to an old friend."
"I don't owe you any favors. And the old friend left a long time ago."
"Please, Carl. Bring in Clayburn, and you'll be out of the picture by noon tomorrow. I promise you'll never see me again."
"That is very tempting."
He asked the driver to take his time. They cruised through Georgetown, along K Street, with its late-night restaurants and bars and college hangouts all packed with people living the good life. It was March 22 and spring was coming. The temperature was around sixty - five and the students were anxious to be outside, even at midnight.
The cab slowed at the intersection of I Street and 14th and Joel could see his old office building in the distance on New York Avenue. Somewhere in there, on the top floor, he'd once ruled his own little kingdom, with his minions running behind him, jumping at every command. It was not a nostalgic moment. Instead he was filled with regret for a worthless life spent chasing money and buying friends and women and all the toys a serious big shot could want. They drove on, past the countless office buildings, government on one side, lobbyists on the other.
He asked the driver to change streets, to move on to more pleasant sights. They turned onto Constitution and drove along the Mall, past the Washington Monument. His youngest child, Anna Lee, had begged him for years to take her for a springtime walk along the Mall, like the other kids in her class. She wanted to see Mr. Lincoln and spend a day at the Smithsonian. He'd promised and promised until she was gone. Anna Lee was in Denver now, he thought, with a child he'd never seen.
As the dome of the Capitol drew nearer, Joel suddenly had enough. This little trip down memory lane was depressing. The memories in his life were too unpleasant.
"Take me to the hotel," he said.
Neal made the first pot of coffee, then stepped outside onto the cool bricks of the patio and admired the beauty of an early-spring daybreak.
If his father had indeed arrived back in D.C., he would not be asleep at six-thirty in the morning. The night before, Neal had coded his new phone with the numbers of the Washington hotels, and as the sun came up he started with the Sheraton. No Giovanni Ferro. Then the Marriott.
"One moment, please," the operator said, then the phone to the room began ringing. "Hello," came a familiar voice.
"Marco, please," Neal said.
"Marco here. Is this the Grinch?" It is.
"Where are you right now?"
"Standing on my patio, waiting for the sun."
"And what type of phone are you using?"
"It's a brand-new Motorola that I've kept in my pocket since I bought it yesterday."
"You're sure it's secure."
"Yes."
A pause as Joel breathed deeply. "It's good to hear your voice, son."
"And yours as well. How was your trip?"
"Very eventful. Can you come to Washington?"
"When?" ''Today, this morning."
"Sure, everybody thinks I have the flu. I'm covered at the office. When and where?"
"Come to the Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Walk in the lobby at eight forty-five, take the elevator to the sixth floor, then the stairs down to the fifth. Room five-twenty."
"Is all this necessary?"
"Trust me. Can you use another car?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure who-"
"Lisa's mother. Borrow her car, make sure no one is following you. When you get to the city, park it at the garage on Sixteenth then walk to the Marriott. Watch your rear at all times. If you see anything suspicious, then call me and we'll abort."
Neal glanced around his backyard, half expecting to see agents dressed in black moving in on him. Where did his father pick up the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Six years in solitary maybe? A thousand spy novels?
"Are you with me?" Joel snapped.
"Yeah, sure. I'm on my way."
Ira Clayburn looked like a man who'd spent his life on a fishing boat, as opposed to one who'd served thirty-four years in the US. Senate. His ancestors had fished the Outer Banks of North Carolina, around their home at Ocracoke, for a hundred years. Ira would've done the same, except for a sixth-grade math teacher who discovered his exceptional IQ^ A scholarship to Chapel Hill pulled him away from home. Another one to Yale got him a master's. A third, to Stanford, placed the title of "Doctor" before his name. He was happily teaching economics at Davidson when a compromise appointment sent him to the Senate to fill an unexpired term. He reluctantly ran for a full term, and for the next three decades tried his best to leave Washington. At the age of seventy-one he finally walked away. When he left the Sen ate, he took with him a mastery of US. intelligence that no politician could equal.
He agreed to go to the Marriott with Carl Pratt, an old friend from a tennis club, only out of curiosity. The Neptune mystery had never been solved, as far as he knew. But then he'd been out of the loop for the last five years, during which time he'd been fishing almost every day, happily taking his boat out and trolling the waters from Hatteras to Cape Lookout.
During the twilight of his Senate career, he had watched Joel Backman become the latest in a long line of hotshot lobbyists who perfected the art of twisting arms for huge fees. He was leaving Washington when Jacy Hubbard, another cobra who got what he deserved, was found dead.
He had no use for their ilk.
When the door to room 520 opened, he stepped inside behind Carl Pratt and came face-to-face with the devil himself.
But the devil was quite pleasant, remarkably gracious, a different man. Prison.
Joel introduced himself and his son Neal to Senator Clayburn. All hands were properly shaken, all thanks duly given. The table in the small suite was covered with pastries, coffee, and juice. Four chairs had been pulled around in a loose circle, and they sat down.
"I know the basics, but there have always been questions."
"I'm pretty sure I know the answers."
"Whose satellite system is it?"
Joel couldn't sit. He walked to the window, looked out at nothing, then took a deep breath. "It was built by Red China, at an astronomical cost. As you know, the Chinese are far behind us in conventional weapons, so they're spending heavily on the high-tech stuff. They stole some of our technology, and they successfully launched the system-nicknamed Neptune-without the knowledge of the CIA."
"How did they do that?"
"Something as low-tech as forest fires. They torched twenty thousand acres one night in a northern province. It created an enor mous cloud and in the middle of it they launched three rockets, each with three satellites."
"The Russians did that once," Clayburn said.
"And the Russians got fooled by their own trick. They missed Neptune too-everybody did. No one in the world knew it existed until my clients stumbled across it."
"Those Pakistani students."
"Yes, and all three are dead."
"Who killed them?"
"I suspect agents of Red China."
"Who killed Jacy Hubbard?"
"Same."
"And how close are these people to you?"
"Closer than I would like."
Clayburn reached for a doughnut and Pratt drained a glass of orange juice. Joel continued, "I have the software-JAM as they called it. There was only one copy."
"The one you tried to sell?" Clayburn said.
"Yes. And I really want to get rid of it. It's proving to be quite deadly, and I'm desperate to hand it over. I'm just not sure who should get it."
"What about the CIA?" Pratt said, because he had yet to say anything.
Clayburn was already shaking his head no.
"I can't trust them," Joel said. "Teddy Maynard got me pardoned so he could sit back and watch someone else kill me. Now there's an interim director."
"And a new President," Clayburn said. "The CIA is a mess right now. I wouldn't go near it." And with that Senator Clayburn stepped over the line, becoming an advisor, not just a curious spectator.
"Who do I talk to?" Joel asked. "Who can I trust?"
"DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency," Clayburn said without hesitation. "The head guy there is Major Wes Roland, an old friend."
"How long has he been there?"
Clayburn thought for a second, then said, "Ten, maybe twelve years. He has a ton of experience, smart as hell. And an honorable man."
"And you can talk to him?"
"Yes. We've kept in touch."
"Doesn't he report to the director of the CIA?" Pratt asked.
"Yes, everyone does. There are now at least fifteen different intelligence agencies-something I fought against for twenty years - and by law they all report to the CIA."
"So Wes Roland will take whatever I give him and tell the CIA?" Joel asked.
"He has no choice. But there are different ways to go about it. Roland is a sensible man, and he knows how to play the politics. That's how he's survived this long."
"Can you arrange a meeting?"
"Yes, but what will happen at the meeting?"
"I'll throw JAM at him and run out of the building."
"And in return?"
"It's an easy deal, Senator. I don't want money. Just a little help."
"What?"
"I prefer to discuss it with him. With you in the room, of course."
There was a gap in the conversation as Clayburn stared at the floor and weighed the issues. Neal walked to the table and selected a croissant. Joel poured more coffee. Pratt, obviously hungover, worked another tall glass of orange juice.
Finally, Clayburn sat back in his chair and said, "I assume this is urgent."
"Worse than urgent. If Major Roland is available, I would meet with him right now. Anywhere."
"I'm sure he'll drop whatever he's doing."
"The phone's over there."
Clayburn stood and stepped toward the desk. Pratt cleared his throat and said, "Look, fellas, at this point in the game, I'd like to check out. I don't want to hear any more. Don't want to be a witness, or a defendant, or another casualty. So if you'll just excuse me, I'll be heading back to the office."
He didn't wait for a response. He was gone in an instant, with the door closing hard behind him. They watched it for a few seconds, somewhat taken aback by the abrupt exit.
"Poor Carl," Clayburn said. "Always afraid of his shadow." He picked up the phone and went to work.
In the middle of the fourth call, and the second straight to the Pentagon, Clayburn placed his hand over the receiver and said to Joel, "They prefer to meet at the Pentagon."
Joel was already shaking his head. "No. I'm not going in there with the software until there's a deal. I'll leave it behind and give it to them later, but I'm not walking in there with it."
Clayburn relayed this, then listened for a long time. When he covered the receiver again he asked, "The software, what's it on?"
"Four disks," Joel said.
"They have to verify it, you understand?"
"Okay, I'll take two disks with me into the Pentagon. That's about half of it. They can take a quick look."
Clayburn huddled over the receiver and repeated Joel's conditions. Again, he listened for a long time, then he asked Joel, "Will you show me the disks?"
"Yes."
He placed the call on hold while Joel picked up his briefcase. He removed the envelope, then the four disks, and placed them on the bed for Neal and Clayburn to gawk at. Clayburn went back to the phone and said, "I'm looking at four disks. Mr. Backman assures me it is what it is." He listened for a few minutes, then punched the hold button again.
"They want us at the Pentagon right now," he said.
"Let's go."
Clayburn hung up and said, "Things are hopping over there. I think the boys are excited. Shall we go?"
"I'll meet you in the lobby in five minutes," Joel said.
When the door closed behind Clayburn, Joel quickly gathered the disks and stuck two of them into his coat pocket. The other two - numbers three and four-were placed back in the briefcase, which he handed to Neal as he said, "After we leave, go to the front desk and get another room. Insist on checking in now. Call this room, leave me a message and tell me where you are. Stay there until you hear from me."
"Sure, Dad. I hope you know what you're doing."
"Just cutting a deal, son. Like in the old days."
The taxi dropped them at the south lot of the Pentagon, near the Metro stop. Two uniformed members of Major Roland's staff were waiting with credentials and instructions. They walked them through the security clearances and got their photos made for their temporary ID cards. The entire time Clayburn was griping about how easy it was back in the old days.
Old days or not, he had made a quick transition from the skeptical critic to a major player, and he was thoroughly engaged in Back - man's plot. As they hiked along the wide corridors of the second floor, he reminisced about how simple life had been when there were two superpowers. We always had the Soviets. The bad guys were easy to identify.
They took the stairs to the third floor, C wing, and were led by the staffers through a set of doors and into a suite of offices where they were obviously expected. Major Roland himself was standing by, waiting. He was about sixty, still looking trim and fit in his khaki uniform. Introductions were made, and he invited them into his conference room. At one end of the long, wide center table, three technicians were busy checking out a large computer that had evidently just been rolled in.
Major Roland asked Joel's permission to have two assistants present. Certainly. Joel had no objection.
"Would you mind if we video the meeting?" Roland asked.
"For what purpose?" Joel asked.
"Just to have it on film in case someone higher up wants to see it."
"Such as?"
"Perhaps the President."
Joel looked at Clayburn, his only friend in the room, and a tenuous one at best.
"What about the CIA?" Joel asked.
"Maybe."
"Let's forget the video, at least initially. Maybe at some point during the meeting, we'll agree to switch on the camera."
"Fair enough. Coffee or soft drinks?"
No one was thirsty. Major Roland asked the computer technicians if their equipment was ready. It was, and he asked them to step outside the room.
Joel and Clayburn sat on one side of the conference table. Major Roland was flanked by his two deputies on the opposite side. All three had pens and notepads ready to go. Joel and Clayburn had nothing.
"Let's start and finish a conversation about the CIA," Backman began, determined to be in charge of the proceedings. "As I understand the law, or at least the way things once worked around here, the director of the CIA is in charge of all intelligence activities."
"That's correct," Roland said.
"What will you do with the information I am about to give you?"
The major glanced to his right, and the look that passed between him and the deputy there conveyed a lot of uncertainty. "As you said, sir, the director is entitled to know and have everything."
Backman smiled and cleared his throat. "Major, the CIA tried to get me killed, okay? And, as far as I know, they're still after me. I don't have much use for the guys over at Langley."
"Mr. Maynard his gone, Mr. Backman."
"And someone took his place. I don't want money, Major. I want protection. First, I want my own government to leave me alone."
"That can be arranged," Roland said with authority.
"And I'll need some help with a few others."
"Why don't you tell us everything, Mr. Backman? The more we know, the more we can help you."
With the exception of Neal, Joel Backman didn't trust another person on the face of the earth. But the time had come to lay it all on the table and hope for the best. The chase was over; there was no place else to run.
He began with Neptune itself, and described how it was built by Red China, how the technology was stolen from two different US. defense contractors, how it was launched under cover and fooled not only the US. but also the Russians, the British, and the Israelis. He narrated the lengthy story of the three Pakistanis-their ill-fated discovery, their fear of what they found, their curiosity at being able to communicate with Neptune, and their brilliance in writing software that could manipulate and neutralize the system. He spoke harshly of his own giddy greed in shopping JAM to various governments, hoping to make more money than anyone could dream of. He pulled no punches when recalling the recklessness of Jacy Hubbard, and the foolishness of their schemes to peddle their product. Without hesitation, he ad mitted his mistakes and took full responsibility for the havoc he'd caused. Then he pressed on.
No, the Russians had no interest in what he was selling. They had their own satellites and couldn't afford to negotiate for more.
No, the Israelis never had a deal. They were on the fringes, close enough to know that a deal with the Saudis was looming. The Saudis were desperate to purchase JAM. They had a few satellites of their own, but nothing to match Neptune.
The Saudis had actually seen the four disks. In a tightly controlled experiment, two agents from their secret police were given a demonstration of the software by the three Pakistanis. It took place in a computer lab on the campus of the University of Maryland, and it had been a dazzling, very convincing display. Backman had watched it, as had Hubbard.
The Saudis offered $100 million for JAM. Hubbard, who fancied himself a close friend of the Saudis, was the point man during the negotiations. A "transaction fee" of $1 million was paid, the money wired to an account in Zurich. Hubbard and Backman countered with half a billion.
Then all hell broke loose. The feds attacked with warrants, indictments, investigations, and the Saudis got spooked. Hubbard got murdered. Joel fled to the safety of prison, leaving a wide path of destruction behind and some angry people with serious grudges.
The forty-five-minute summary ended without a single interruption. When Joel finished, none of the three on the other side of the table was taking notes. They were too busy listening.
"I'm sure we can talk to the Israelis," Major Roland said. "If they're convinced the Saudis will never get their hands on JAM, then they'll rest much easier. We've had discussions with them over the years. JAM has been a favorite topic. I'm quite sure they can be placated."
"What about the Saudis?"
"They've asked about it too, at the highest levels. We have a lot of common interests these days. I'm confident they'll relax if they know that we have it and no one else will get it. I know the Saudis well, and I think they'll write it off as a bad deal. There is the small matter of the transaction fee."
"A million bucks is chump change to them. It's not negotiable."
"Very well. I guess that leaves the Chinese."
"Any suggestions?"
Clayburn had yet to speak. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, "In my opinion, they'll never forget it. Your clients basically hijacked a zillion-dollar system and rendered it useless without their homemade software. The Chinese have nine of the best satellites ever built floating around up there and they can't use them. They are not going to forgive and forget, and you really can't blame them. Unfortunately, we have little leverage with Beijing on delicate intelligence matters."
Major Roland was nodding. "I'm afraid I must agree with the senator. We can let them know that we have the software, but this is something they'll never forget."
"I don't blame them. I'm just trying to survive, that's all."
"We'll do what we can with the Chinese, but it may not be much."
"Here's the deal, gentlemen. You give me your word that you'll get the CIA out of my life, and that you'll act quickly to appease the Israelis and the Saudis. Do whatever is possible with the Chinese, which I understand may be very little. And you give me two passports-one Australian and one Canadian. As soon as they're ready, and this afternoon would not be too soon, you bring them to me and I'll hand over the other two disks."
"It's a deal," Roland said. "But, of course, we need to have a look at the software."
Joel reached into his pocket and removed disks one and two. Roland called the computer technicians back in, and the entire group huddled around the large monitor.
A Mossad agent with the code name of Albert thought he saw Neal Backman enter the lobby of the Marriott on 22nd Street. He called his supervisor, and within thirty minutes two other agents were inside the hotel. Albert again saw Neal Backman an hour later, as he left an elevator carrying a briefcase that he had not carried into the hotel, went to the front desk, and appeared to fill out a registration form. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed over a credit card.
He returned to the elevator, where Albert missed him by a matter of seconds.
The knowledge that Joel Backman was probably staying at the Marriott on 22nd Street was extremely important, but it also posed enormous problems. First, the killing of an American on American soil was an operation so delicate that the prime minister would have to be consulted. Second, the actual assassination itself was a logistical nightmare. The hotel had six hundred rooms, hundreds of guests, hundreds of employees, hundreds of visitors, no less than five conventions in progress - Thousands of potential witnesses.
However, a plan came together quickly.
They had lunch with the senator in the rear of a Vietnamese deli near Dupont Circle, a place they judged to be safe from lobbyists and old-timers who might see them together and start one of the hot rumors that kept the city alive and gridlocked. For an hour, as they struggled with spicy noodles almost too hot to eat, Joel and Neal listened as the fisherman from Ocracoke regaled them with endless stories of his glory days in Washington. He said more than once that he did not miss politics, yet his memories of those days were filled with intrigue, humor, and many friendships.
Clayburn had started the day thinking that a bullet in the head would We been too good for Joel Backman, but when they said goodbye on the sidewalk outside the cafe he was begging him to please come see his boat, and bring Neal too. Joel had not been fishing since childhood, and he knew he would never make it to the Outer Banks, but out of gratitude he promised to try.
Joel came closer to a bullet in the head than he would ever know. As he and Neal strolled along Connecticut Avenue after lunch, they were closely watched by the Mossad. A sharpshooter was ready in the rear of a rented panel truck. Final approval, though, was still hung up in Tel Aviv. And the sidewalk was very crowded.
Using the yellow pages in his hotel room, Neal had found a men's shop that advertised overnight alterations. He was anxious to help - his father desperately needed some new clothes. Joel bought a navy three-piece suit, a white dress shirt, two ties, some chinos and casual clothes, and, thankfully, two pairs of black dress shoes. The total was $3,100, and he paid in cash. The bowling shoes were left in a wastebasket, though the salesman had been somewhat complimentary of them.
At exactly 4:00 p.m., while sitting in a star bucks coffee shop on Massachusetts Avenue, Neal took his cell phone and dialed the number given by Major Roland. He handed the phone to his father.
Roland himself answered. "We're on our way," he said.
"Room five-twenty,'' Joel said, eyes watching the other coffee drinkers. "How many are coming?"
"It's a nice group," Roland said.
"I don't care how many you bring, just leave everybody else in the lobby."
"I can do that."
They forgot the coffee and walked ten blocks back to the Marriott, with every step watched closely by well-armed Mossad agents. Still no action in Tel Aviv.
The Backmans were in the room for a few minutes when there was a knock on the door.
Joel shot a nervous glance at his son, who froze and looked as anxious as his father. This could be it, Joel said to himself. The epic journey that began on the streets of Bologna, on foot, then a cab, then a bus to Modena, a taxi all the way to Milan, more little hikes, more cabs, then the train destined for Stuttgart, but with an unexpected detour in Zug, where another driver took the cash and hauled him into Zurich, two streetcars, then Franz and the green BMW doing 150 kilometers all the way to Munich, where the warm and welcome arms of Lufthansa brought him home. This could be the end of the road.
"Who is it?" Joel asked as he stepped to the door.
"Wes Roland."
Joel looked through the peephole, saw no one. He took a deep breath and opened the door. The major was now wearing a sports coat and tie, and he was all alone and empty-handed. At least he appeared to be alone. Joel glanced down the hall and saw people trying to hide. He quickly closed the door and introduced Roland to Neal.
"Here are the passports," Roland said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out two broken-in passports. The first had a dark blue cover with Australia in gold letters. Joel opened it and looked at the photo first. The technicians had taken the Pentagon security photo, lightened the hair considerably, removed the eyeglasses and a few of the wrinkles, and produced a pretty good image. His name was Simon Wilson McAvoy. "Not bad," Joel said.
The second was bound in navy blue, with Canada in gold letters on the outside. Same photo, and the Canadian name of Ian Rex Hatteboro. Joel nodded his approval and handed both to Neal for his inspection.
"There is some concern about the grand jury investigation into the pardon scandal," Roland said. "We didn't discuss it earlier."
"Major, you and I both know I'm not involved in that affair. I expect the CIA to convince the boys over at Hoover that I'm clean. I had no idea a pardon was in the works. Its not my scandal."
"You may be called to appear before a grand jury."
"Fine. I'll volunteer. It'll be a very short appearance."
Roland seemed satisfied. He was just the messenger. He began to look around for his end of the bargain. "Now, about that software," he said.
"It's not here," Joel said, with unnecessary drama. He nodded at Neal, who left the room. "Just a minute," he said to Roland, whose eyebrows were arching up while his eyes grew narrow.
"Is there a problem?" he said.