The Broker

"I take it you know a thing or two about me," Joel said.

The smile, the perfect teeth. The sad eyes almost closed when he smiled. The ladies were all over this guy. "I’ve seen the file."

"The file? The file on me wouldn’t fit in this room."

"I’ve seen the file."

"Okay, how long did Jacy Hubbard serve in the US. Senate?"

"Too long, I’d say. Look, Marco, we’re not going to relive the past. We have too much to do now."

"Can I have another name? I’m not crazy about Marco."

"It wasn’t my choice."

"Well, who picked Marco?"

"I don’t know. It wasn’t me. You ask a lot of useless questions."

"I was a lawyer for twenty-five years. It’s an old habit."

Luigi drained what was left of his espresso and placed some euros on the table. "Let’s go for a walk," he said, standing. Joel lifted his canvas bag and followed his handler out of the cafe, onto the sidewalk, and down a side street with less traffic. They had walked only a few steps when Luigi stopped in front of the Albergo Campeol. "This is your first stop," he said.

"What is it?" Joel asked. It was a four-story stucco building wedged between two others. Colorful flags hung above the portico.

"A nice little hotel. Albergo’ means hotel. You can also use the word ‘hotel’ if you want, but in the smaller cities they like to say albergo."

"So it’s an easy language." Joel was looking up and down the cramped street-evidently his new neighborhood.

"Easier than English."

"We’ll see. How many do you speak?"

"Five or six."

They entered and walked through the small foyer. Luigi nodded knowingly at the clerk behind the front desk. Joel managed a passable "Buon giorno" but kept walking, hoping to avoid a more involved reply. They climbed three flights of stairs and walked to the end of a narrow hallway. Luigi had the key to room 30, a simple but nicely appointed suite with windows on three sides and a view of a canal below.

"This is the nicest one," Luigi said. "Nothing fancy, but adequate."

"You should’ve seen my last room." Joel tossed his bag on the bed and began opening curtains.

Luigi opened the door to the very small closet. "Look here. You have four shirts, four slacks, two jackets, two pairs of shoes, all in your size. Plus a heavy wool overcoat-it gets quite cold here in Treviso." Joel stared at his new wardrobe. The clothes were hanging perfectly, all pressed and ready to wear. The colors were subdued, tasteful, and every shirt could be worn with every jacket and pair of slacks. He finally shrugged and said, "Thanks."

"In the drawer over there you’ll find a belt, socks, underwear, everything you’ll need. In the bathroom you’ll find all the necessary toiletries."

"What can I say?"

"And here on the desk are two sets of glasses." Luigi picked up a pair of glasses and held them to the light. The small rectangular lenses were secured by thin black metal, very European frames. "arm ani,” Luigi said, with a trace of pride.

"Reading glasses?"

"Yes, and no. I suggest you wear them every moment you’re outside this room. Part of the disguise, Marco. Part of the new you."

"You should’ve met the old one."

"No thanks. Appearance is very important to Italians, especially those of us from here in the north. Your attire, your glasses, your haircut, everything must be put together properly or you will get noticed."

Joel was suddenly self-conscious, but, then, what the hell. He’d been wearing prison garb for longer than he cared to remember. Back in the glory days he routinely dropped 83,000 for a finely tailored suit.

Luigi was still lecturing. "No shorts, no black socks and white sneakers, no polyester slacks, no golf shirts, and please don’t start getting fat."

"How do you say ‘Kiss my ass’ in Italian?"

"We’ll get to that later. Habits and customs are important. They’re easy to learn and quite enjoyable. For example, never order cappuccino after ten-thirty in the morning. But an espresso can be ordered at any hour of the day. Did you know that?"

"I did not."

Chapter Four

"Only tourists order cappuccino after lunch or dinner. A disgrace. All that milk on a full stomach." For a moment Luigi frowned as if he might just vomit for good measure.

Joel raised his right hand and said, "I swear I’ll never do it."

"Have a seat," Luigi said, waving at the small desk and its two chairs. They sat down and tried to get comfortable. He continued: "First, the room. It’s in my name, but the staff thinks that a Canadian businessman will be staying here for a couple of weeks."

"A couple of weeks?"

"Yes, then you’ll move to another location." Luigi said this as ominously as possible, as if squads of assassins were already in Treviso, looking for Joel Backman. "From this moment on, you will be leaving a trail. Keep that in mind: everything you do, everyone you meet – they’re all part of your trail. The secret of survival is to leave behind as few tracks as possible. Speak to very few people, including the clerk at the front desk and the housekeeper. Hotel personnel watch their guests, and they have good memories. Six months from now someone might come to this very hotel and start asking questions about you. He might have a photograph. He might offer bribes. And the clerk might suddenly remember you, and the fact that you spoke almost no Italian."

"I have a question."

"I have very few answers."

"Why here? Why a country where I cannot speak the language? Why not England or Australia, someplace where I could blend in easier?"

"That decision was made by someone else, Marco. Not me."

"That’s what I figured."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I don’t know. Can I apply for a transfer?"

"Another useless question."

"A bad joke, not a bad question."

"Can we continue?" ‘Tes."

"For the first few days I will take you to lunch and dinner. We’ll move around, always going to different places. Treviso is a nice city with lots of cafes and we’ll try them all. You must start thinking of the day when I will not be here. Be careful who you meet."

"I have another question."

"Yes, Marco."

"Its about money. I really don’t like being broke. Are you guys planning to give me an allowance or something? I’ll wash your car and do other chores."

"What is allowance?"

"Cash, okay? Money in my pocket."

"Don’t worry about money. For now, I take care of the bills. You will not be hungry."

"All right."

Luigi reached deep in the barn jacket and pulled out a cell phone. "This is for you."

"And who, exactly, am I going to call?"

"Me, if you need something. My number is on the back."

Joel took the phone and laid it on the desk. "I’m hungry. I’ve been dreaming of a long lunch with pasta and wine and dessert, and of course espresso, certainly not cappuccino at this hour, then perhaps the required siesta. I’ve been in Italy for four days now, and I’ve had nothing but corn chips and sandwiches. What do you say?"

Luigi glanced at his watch. "I know just the place, but first some more business. You speak no Italian, right?"

Joel rolled his eyes and exhaled mightily in frustration. Then he tried to smile and said, "No, I’ve never had the occasion to learn Italian, or French, or German, or anything else. I’m an American, okay, Luigi? My country is larger than all of Europe combined. All you need is English over there."