The Broker

"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.

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 wake 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.