The Broker

"The Russians?"

"Probably not. Jacy Hubbard loved Asian girls. He was last seen leaving a bar with a gorgeous young leggy thing, long black hair, round face, from somewhere on the other side of the world. Red China uses thousands of people here to gather information. All their US. students, businessmen, diplomats, this place is crawling with Chinese who are snooping around. Plus, their intelligence service has some very effective agents. For a matter like this, they wouldn’t hesitate to go after Hubbard and Backman."

"You’re sure it’s Red China?"

"No one’s sure, okay? Maybe Backman knows, but he never told anyone. Keep in mind, the CIA didn’t even know about the system. They got caught with their pants down, and ol’ Teddy’s still trying to catch up."

"Fun and games for Teddy, huh?"

"Absolutely. He fed Morgan a line about national security. Morgan, no surprise, falls for it. Backman walks. Teddy sneaks him out of the country, then watches to see who shows up with a gun. It’s a no – lose game for Teddy."

"It’s brilliant."

"It’s beyond brilliant, Dan. Think about it. When Joel Backman meets his maker, no one will ever know about it. No one knows where he is now. No one will know who he is when his body is found."

"If it’s found."

"Exactly."

"And Backman knows this?"

Pratt drained the second drink and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. He was frowning. "Backman’s not stupid by any measure. But a lot of what we know came to light after he went away. He survived six years in prison, he probably figures he can survive anything."

Critz ducked into a pub not far from the Connaught Hotel in London. A light rain grew steadier and he needed a place to stay dry. Mrs. Critz was back at the small apartment that was on loan from their new employer, so Critz had the luxury of sitting in a crowded pub where no one knew him and knocking back a couple of pints. A week in London now with a week to go before he pushed himself back across the Atlantic, back to D.C. where he would take a miserable job lobbying for a company that made, among other hardware, defective missiles that the Pentagon hated but nonetheless would be forced to buy because the company had all the right lobbyists.

He found an empty booth, one partially visible through a fog of tobacco smoke, and wedged himself into it and settled in behind his pint. How nice it was to drink alone without the worry of being spotted by someone who would rush over and say, "Hey, Critz, what were you idiots thinking with that Berman veto?" Yakety-yaketyyak.

He absorbed the cheery British voices of neighbors coming and going. He didn’t even mind the smoke. He was alone and unknown and he quietly reveled in his privacy.

His anonymity was not complete, however. From behind him a small man wearing a battered sailor’s cap appeared and fell into the booth across the table, startling Critz.

"Mind if I join you, Mr. Critz?" the sailor said with a smile that revealed large yellow teeth. Critz would remember the dingy teeth.

"Have a seat," Critz said warily. "You got a name?"

"Ben." He wasn’t British, and English was not his native tongue. Ben was about thirty, with dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a long pointed nose that made him rather Greek-looking.

"No last name, huh?" Critz took a sip from his glass and said, "How, exactly, do you know my name?"

"I know everything about you."

"Didn’t realize I was that famous."

"I wouldn’t call it fame, Mr. Critz. I’ll be brief. I work for some people who desperately want to find Joel Backman. They’ll pay serious money, cash. Cash in a box, or cash in a Swiss bank, doesn’t matter. It can be done quickly, within hours. You tell us where he is, you get a million bucks, no one will ever know." ilHow did you find me?"

"It was simple, Mr. Critz. Were, let’s say, professionals."

"Spies?"

"It’s not important. We are who we are, and we’re going to find Mr. Backman. The question is, do you want the million bucks?"

"I don’t know where he is."

"But you can find out."

"Maybe."

"Do you want to do business?"

"Not for a million bucks."

"Then how much?"

"I’ll have to think about it."

"Then think quickly."

"And if I can’t get the information?"

"Then we’ll never see you again. This meeting never took place. It’s very simple."

Chapter Five

Critz took a long pull on his pint and contemplated things. "Okay, let’s say I’m able to get this information-I’m not too optimistic-but what if I get lucky? Then what?"

"Take a Lufthansa flight from Dulles to Amsterdam, first class. Check into the Amstel Hotel on Biddenham Street. We’ll find you, just like we found you here."

Critz paused and committed the details to memory. "When?" he asked.

"As soon as possible, Mr. Critz. There are others looking for him."

Ben vanished as quickly as he had materialized, leaving Critz to peer through the smoke and wonder if he’d just witnessed a dream. He left the pub an hour later, with his face hidden under an umbrella, certain that he was being watched.

Would they watch him in Washington too? He had the unsettling feeling that they would.

The siesta didn’t work. The wine at lunch and the two after noon beers didn’t help. There was simply too much to think about.

Besides, he was too rested; there was too much sleep in his system. Six years in solitary confinement reduces the human body to such a passive state that sleep becomes a principal activity. After the first few months at Rudley, Joel was getting eight hours a night and a hard nap after lunch, which was understandable since he’d slept so little during the previous twenty years when he was holding the republic together during the day and chasing skirts till dawn. After a year he could count on nine, sometimes ten hours of sleep. There was little else to do but read and watch television. Out of boredom, he once conducted a survey, one of his many clandestine polls, by passing a sheet of paper from cell to cell while the guards were themselves napping, and of the thirty-seven respondents on his block the average was eleven hours of sleep a day. Mo, the Mafia snitch, claimed sixteen hours and could often be heard snoring at noon. Mad Cow Miller registered the lowest at just three hours, but the poor guy had lost his mind years earlier and so Joel was forced to discount his responses to the survey.

There were bouts of insomnia, long periods of staring into the darkness and thinking about the mistakes and the children and grandchildren, about the humiliation of the past and the fear of the future. And there were weeks when sleeping pills were delivered to his cell, one at a time, but they never worked. Joel always suspected they were nothing more than placebos.

But in six years there had been too much sleep. Now his body was well rested. His mind was working overtime.

He slowly got up from the bed where he’d been lying for an hour, unable to close his eyes, and walked to the small table where he picked up the cell phone Luigi had given him. He took it to the window, punched the numbers taped to its back, and after four rings he heard a familiar voice.

"Ciao, Marco. Come stai?"

"Just checking to see if this thing works," Joel said.

"You think I’d give you a defective phone?" Luigi asked. "lNo, of course not."

"How was your nap?"

"Uh, nice, very nice. I’ll see you at dinner."

"Ciao."

Where was Luigi? Lurking nearby with a phone in his pocket, just waiting for Joel to call? Watching the hotel? If Stennett and the driver were still in Treviso, along with Luigi and Ermanno, that would add up to four "friends" of some variety assigned to keep tabs on Joel Backman.