The Broker

They sped down the country lane in search of wider roads.

"’Where are we going?" Marco asked.

"We’ll see."

"Stop playing games with me!" he growled and Luigi actually flinched. "I’m a perfectly free man who could get out of this car anytime I want!" ‘Yes, but-"

"Stop threatening me! Ever}’ time I ask a question you give me these vague threats about how I won’t last twenty-four hours on my own. I want to know what’s going on. Where are we headed? How long will we be there? How long will you be around? Give me some answers, Luigi, or I’ll disappear."

Luigi turned onto a four-lane and a sign said that Bologna was thirty kilometers ahead. He waited for the tension to ease a bit, then said, "We’re going to Bologna for a few days. Ermanno will meet us there. You will continue your lessons. You’ll be placed in a safe house for several months. Then I’ll disappear and you’ll be on your own."

"Thank you. Why was that so difficult?"

"The plan changes."

"I knew Ermanno wasn’t a student."

"He is a student. He’s also part of the plan."

"Do you realize how ridiculous the plan is? Think about it, Luigi. Someone is spending all this time and money trying to teach me an other language and another culture. Why not just put me back on the cargo plane and stash me in some place like New Zealand?"

"That’s a great idea, Marco, but I’m not making those decisions."

"Marco my ass. Every time I look in the mirror and say Marco I want to laugh."

"This is not funny. Do you know Robert Critz?"

Marco paused for a moment. "I met him a few times over the years. Never had much use for him. Just another political hack, like me, I guess."

"Close friend of President Morgan, chief of staff, campaign director."

"So?"

"He was killed last night in London. That makes five people who’ve died because of you-Jacy Hubbard, the three Pakistanis, now Critz. The killing hasn’t stopped, Marco, nor will it. Please be patient with me. I’m only trying to protect you."

Marco slammed his head into the headrest and closed his eyes. He could not begin to put the pieces together.

They made a quick exit and stopped for gas. Luigi returned to the car with two small cups of strong coffee. "Coffee to go," Marco said pleasantly. "I figured such evils would be banned in Italy."

"Fast food is creeping in. It’s very sad."

"Just blame the Americans. Everybody else does."

Before long they were inching through the rush hour traffic on the outskirts of Bologna. Luigi was saying, "Our best cars are made around here, you know. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis, all the great sports cars."

"Can I have one?"

"It’s not in the budget, sorry.’

"What, exactly, is in the budget?"

"A very quiet, simple life."

"That his what I thought."

"Much better than your last one."

Marco sipped his coffee and watched the traffic. "Didn’t you study here?"

"Yes. The university is a thousand years old. One of the finest in the world. I’ll show it to you later."

They exited the main thoroughfare and wound through a gritty suburb. The streets became shorter and narrower and Luigi seemed to know the place well. They followed the signs pointing them toward the center of the city, and the university. Luigi suddenly swerved, jumped a curb, and wedged the Fiat into a slot barely wide enough for a motorcycle. "Lets eat something," he said, and, once they managed to squeeze themselves out of the car, they were on the sidewalk, walking quickly through the cool air.

Marco’s next hiding place was a dingy hotel a few blocks from the outer edge of the old city. "Budget cuts already," he mumbled as he followed Luigi through the cramped lobby to the stairs.

"It’s just for a few days," Luigi said.

"Then what?" Marco was struggling with his bags up the narrow stairway. Luigi was carrying nothing. Thankfully the room was on the second floor, a rather small space with a tiny bed and curtains that hadn’t been opened in days.

"I like Treviso better," Marco said, staring at the walls.

Luigi yanked open the curtains. The sunlight helped only slightly. "Not bad," he said, without conviction.

"My prison cell was nicer."

"You complain a lot."

"With good reason."

"Unpack. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes. Ermanno is waiting."

Chapter Seven

Ermanno appeared as rattled as Marco by the sudden change in location. He was harried and unsettled, as if he’d chased them all night from Treviso. They walked with him a few blocks to a run-down apartment building. No elevators were evident, so they climbed four flights of stairs and entered a tiny, two-room flat that had even less furniture than the apartment in Treviso. Ermanno had obviously packed in a hurry and unpacked even faster.

"Your dump’s worse than mine," Marco said, taking it in.

Spread on a narrow table and waiting for action were the study materials they’d used the day before.

"I’ll be back for lunch," Luigi said, and quickly disappeared.

"Andiamo a studiare," Ermanno announced. Let’s study.

"I’ve already forgotten everything."

"But we had a good session yesterday."

"Can’t we just go to a bar and drink? I’m really not in the mood for this." But Ermanno had assumed his position across the table and was turning pages in his manual. Marco reluctantly settled into the seat across from him.

Lunch and dinner were forgettable. Both were quick snacks in fake trattorias, the Italian version of fast food. Luigi was in a foul mood and insisted, quite harshly at times, that they speak only Italian. Luigi spoke slowly, clearly, and repeated everything four times until Marco figured it out, then he moved along to the next phrase. It was impossible to enjoy food under such pressure.

At midnight, Marco was in his bed, in his cold room, wrapped tightly with the thin blanket, sipping orange juice he had ordered himself, and memorizing list after list of verbs and adjectives.

What could Robert Critz have possibly done to get himself killed by people who might also be looking for Joel Backman? The question itself was too bizarre to ask. He couldn’t begin to contemplate an answer. He assumed Critz was present when the pardon was granted; ex-president Morgan was incapable of making such a decision by himself. Beyond that, though, it was impossible to see Critz involved at a higher level. He had proven for decades that he was nothing more than a good hatchet man. Very few people trusted him.

But if people were still dying, then it was urgent that he learn the verbs and adjectives scattered on his bed. Language meant survival, and movement. Luigi and Ermanno would soon disappear, and Marco Lazzeri would be left to fend for himself.

Marco escaped his claustrophobic room, or "apartment" as it was called, and went for a long walk at daybreak. The sidewalks were almost as damp as the frigid air. With a pocket map Luigi had given him, all in Italian of course, he made his way into the old city, and once past the ruins of the ancient walls at Porta San Donato, he headed west on Via Irnerio along the north edge of the university section of Bologna. The sidewalks were centuries old and covered with what appeared to be miles of arching porticoes.

Evidently street life began late in the university section. An occasional car passed, then a bike or two, but the foot traffic was still asleep. Luigi had explained that Bologna had a history of left-wing, communist leanings. It was a rich history, one that Luigi promised to explore with him.