The Broker

Wigline glanced at Hoby, who had suddenly stopped his note – taking. "What are you saying, Teddy?"

"Neutralize him."

"He’s a US. citizen."

"I know that! He’s also compromising an operation. There is precedent. We’ve done it before." He didn’t bother to tell them what the precedent was, but they assumed that since Teddy often created his own precedents, then it would do no good to argue the matter.

Hoby nodded as if to say: Yes, we’ve done it before.

Wigline clenched his jaw and said, "I assume you want it done now."

"As soon as possible," Teddy said. "Show me a plan in two hours."

They watched Critz as he left his borrowed apartment and began his long, late-afternoon walk, one that usually ended with a few pints. After half an hour at a languid pace he neared Leicester Square and entered the Dog and Duck, the same pub as the day before.

He was on his second pint at the far end of the main bar, first floor, before the stool next to him cleared and an agent named Green – law wedged in and yelled for a beer.

"Mind if I smoke?" Greenlaw asked Critz, who shrugged and said, "This ain’t America." ‘A Yank, huh?" Greenlaw said.

"Yep."

"Live here?"

"No, just visiting." Critz was concentrating on the bottles on the wall beyond the bar, avoiding eye contact, wanting no part of the conversation. He had quickly come to adore the solitude of a crowded pub. He loved to sit and drink and listen to the rapid banter of the Brits and know that not a soul had a clue as to who he was. He was, though, still wondering about the little guy named Ben. If they were watching him, they were doing a great job of staying in the shadows.

Greenlaw gulped his beer in an effort to catch up with Critz. It was crucial to order the next two at the same time. He puffed a cigarette, then added his smoke to the cloud above them. "I’ve been here for a year,1′ he said.

Critz nodded without looking. Get lost.

"I don’t mind driving on the wrong side, or the lousy weather, but what really bugs me here are the sports. You ever watch a cricket match? Lasts for four days."

Critz managed to grunt and offer a lame "Such a stupid sport."

"It’s either soccer or cricket, and these people go nuts over both. I just survived the winter here without the NFL. It was pure misery."

Critz was a loyal Redskins season-ticket holder and few things in life excited him as much as his beloved team. Greenlaw was a casual fan but had spent the day memorizing statistics in a CIA safe house north of London. If football didn’t work, then politics would be next.

If that didn’t work, there was a fine-looking lady waiting outside, though Critz did not have a reputation as a philanderer.

Critz was suddenly homesick. Sitting in a pub, far from home, far from the frenzy of the Super Bowl-two days away and virtually ignored by the British press-he could hear the crowd and feel the excitement. If the Redskins had survived the playoffs, he would not be drinking pints in London. He would be at the Super Bowl, fifty-yard – line seats, furnished by one of the many corporations he could lean on.

He looked at Greenlaw and said, "Patriots or Packers?"

"My team didn’t make it, but I always pull for the NFC."

"Me too. Who’s your team?"

And that was perhaps the most fatal question Robert Critz would ever ask. When Greenlaw answered, "Redskins," Critz actually smiled and wanted to talk. They spent a few minutes establishing pedigree-how long each had been a Redskins fan, the great games they’d seen, the great players, the Super Bowl championships. Greenlaw ordered another round and both seemed ready to replay old games for hours. Critz had talked to so few Yanks in London, and this guy was certainly an easy one to get on with.

Greenlaw excused himself and went to find the restroom. It was upstairs, the size of a broom closet, a one-holer like so many Johns in London. He latched the door for a few seconds of privacy and quickly whipped out a cell phone to report his progress. The plan was in place. The team was just down the street, waiting. Three men and the fine – looking lady.

Halfway through his fourth pint, and with a polite disagreement under way over Sonny Jurgensen’s touchdown-to-interception ratio, Critz finally needed to pee. He asked directions and disappeared. Greenlaw deftly dropped into Critz’s glass one small white tablet of Rohypnol-a strong, tasteless, odorless sedative. When Mr. Redskins returned he was refreshed and ready to drink. They talked about John Riggins and Joe Gibbs and thoroughly enjoyed themselves as poor Critz’s chin began to drop.

"Wow," he said, his tongue already thick. "I’d better be going. Old lady is waiting."

"Yeah, me too," Greenlaw said, raising his glass. "Drink up."

They drained their pints and stood to leave; Critz in front, Greenlaw waiting to catch him. They made it through the crowd packed around the front door and onto the sidewalk where a cold wind revived Critz, but only for a second. He forgot about his new pal, and in less than twenty steps was wobbling on rubbery legs and grasping for a lamp pole. Greenlaw grabbed him as he was falling, and for the benefit of a young couple passing by said loudly, "Dammit, Fred, you’re drunk again."

Fred was far beyond drunk. A car appeared from nowhere and slowed by the sidewalk. A back door swung open, and Greenlaw shoveled a half-dead Critz into the rear seat. The first stop was a warehouse eight blocks away. There Critz, thoroughly unconscious now, was transferred to a small unmarked panel truck with a double rear door. While Critz lay on the floor of the van, an agent used a hypodermic needle and injected him with a massive dose of very pure heroin. The presence of heroin always squelched the autopsy results, at the family’s insistence of course.

With Critz barely breathing, the van left the warehouse and drove to Whitcomb Street, not far from his apartment. The killing required three vehicles-the van, followed by a large and heavy Mercedes, and a trail car driven by a real Brit who would hang around and chat with the police. The trail car’s primary purpose was to keep the traffic as far behind the Mercedes as possible.

On the third pass, with all three drivers talking to each other, and with two agents, including the fine-looking lady, hiding on the sidewalk and also listening, the rear doors of the van were shoved open, Critz fell onto the street, the Mercedes aimed for his head and got it with a sickening thump, then everyone disappeared but the Brit in the trail car. He slammed on his brakes, jumped out and ran to the poor drunk who’d just stumbled into the street and been run over, and looked around quickly for other witnesses.

. There were none, but a taxi was approaching in the other lane. He flagged it down, and soon other traffic stopped. Before long, a crowd was gathering and the police arrived. The Brit in the trail car may have been the first on the scene, but he saw very little. He saw the man stumble between those two parked cars over there, into the street, and get hit by a large black car. Or maybe it was dark green. Not sure of the make or model. Never thought about looking at the license plates. No clue as to the description of the hit-and-run driver. He was too shocked by the sight of the drunk suddenly appearing at the edge of the street.

By the time the body of Bob Critz was loaded into an ambulance for the trip to the morgue, Greenlaw, the fine-looking lady, and two other members of the team were on a train leaving London and headed for Paris. They would scatter for a few weeks, then return to England, their home base.

Marco wanted breakfast primarily because he could smell it – ham and sausages on the grill somewhere deep in the main house – but Luigi was anxious to move on. "There are other guests and everyone eats at the same table," he explained as they hurriedly threw their bags in his car. "Remember, you’re leaving a trail, and the signora forgets nothing."