The Broker

Whitaker had been in Washington for a stint at Langley a dozen or so years earlier, back when everyone knew the broker. He remembered Joel Backman as a political force who spent almost as much time cultivating his oversized image as he did representing his important clients. He’d been the epitome of money and power, the perfect fat cat who could bully and cajole and throw around enough money to get whatever he wanted.

Amazing what six years in prison could do. He was very thin now, and looking quite European behind the arm ani eyewear. He had the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper goatee. Whitaker was certain that virtually no one from back home could walk into Lestre’s at that moment and identify Joel Backman.

Marco caught the man five feet away glancing over one time too often but thought nothing of it. They were chatting in English, and perhaps few people did so, at Lestre’s anyway. Nearer the university, one could hear several languages in every coffee shop.

Ermanno excused himself after one espresso. A few minutes later Whitaker left too. He walked a few blocks and found an Internet cafe, one he’d used before. He plugged in his laptop, got online, and typed a message to Julia Javier at Langley:

Fondazza flat is ready to go, should move in tonight. Laid eyes on our man, having a coffee with our friends. Would not have known him otherwise. Adjusting nicely to a new life. All is in order here; no problems whatsoever.

After dark, the Fiat stopped in the middle of Via Fondazza, and its contents were quickly unloaded. Marco packed light because he owned practically nothing. Two bags of clothes and some Italian study books, and he was completely mobile. When he stepped into his new apartment, the first thing he noticed was that it was sufficiently heated. "This is more like it," he said to Luigi.

"I’ll move the car. Have a look around."

He looked around, counted four rooms with nice furnishings, nothing extravagant but a huge step up from the last place. Life was improving-ten days ago he’d been in prison.

Luigi returned in a rush. "What do you think?"

"I’ll keep it. Thank you."

"Don’t mention it."

"And thank the folks in Washington too."

Chapter Eight

"Did you see the kitchen?" Luigi asked, flipping on a light switch.

"Yes, it’s perfect. How long do I stay here, Luigi?"

"I don’t make those decisions. You know that."

"I know."

They were back in the den. "A couple of things," Luigi said. "First, Ermanno will come here each day to study. Eight until eleven, then two until five or whenever you wish to stop."

"Wonderful. Please get the boy a new flat, would you? His dump is an embarrassment to the American taxpayers."

"Second, this is a very quiet street, mainly apartments. Come and go quickly, don’t chat with your neighbors, don’t make any friends. Remember, Marco, you are leaving a trail. Make it wide enough and someone will find you."

"I heard you the first ten times."

"Then hear me again."

"Relax, Luigi. My neighbors will never see me, I promise. I like it here. It’s much nicer than my prison cell."

The memorial service for Robert Critz was held in a country club-like mausoleum in a ritzy suburb of Philadelphia, the city of his birth but a place he’d avoided for at least the past thirty years. He died without a will and without a thought as to his final arrangements, leaving poor Mrs. Critz with the burden of not only getting him home from London but then deciding how to properly dispose of him. A son pressed the idea of cremation and a rather neat interment in a marble vault, one shielded from the weather. By that point Mrs. Critz would have agreed to almost any plan. Flying seven hours across the Atlantic (in coach) with her husband’s remains somewhere below her, in a rather stark air-transport box made especially for dead humans, had nearly pushed her over the edge. And then there had been the chaos at the airport when no one was there to greet her and take charge. What a mess!

The service was by invitation only, a condition laid down by former president Arthur Morgan, who, after only two weeks on Barbados, was quite unwilling to return and be seen by anyone. If he was truly saddened by the death of his lifelong friend, he didn’t show it. He’d haggled over the details of the service with the Critz family until he was almost asked to stay away. The date had been moved because of Morgan. The order of service didn’t suit him. He reluctantly agreed to deliver a eulogy, but only if it could be very brief. Truth was, he’d never liked Mrs. Critz and she’d never liked him.

To the small circle of friends and family, it seemed implausible that Robert Critz would get so drunk in a London pub that he would stagger into a busy street and fall in front of a car. When the autopsy revealed a significant level of heroin, Mrs. Critz had become so distraught that she insisted that the report be sealed and buried. She had refused to tell even her children about the narcotic. She was absolutely certain her husband had never touched an illicit drug-he drank too much but few people knew it-but she nonetheless was determined to protect his good name.

The London police had readily agreed to lock away the autopsy findings and close the case. They had their questions all right, but they had many other cases to keep them busy, and they also had a widow who couldn’t wait to get home and put it all behind her.

The service began at two on a Thursday afternoon-the time also dictated by Morgan so that the private jet could fly nonstop from Barbados to Philly International-and lasted for an hour. Eighty-two people had been invited, and fifty-one showed up, a fair majority of them more curious to see President Morgan than to say goodbye to ol’ Critz. A semi-Protestant minister of some variety presided. Critz had not seen the inside of a church in forty years, except for weddings and funerals. The minister was faced with the difficult task of bringing to life the memory of a man he’d never met, and though he tried gamely he failed completely. He read from the book of Psalms. He offered a generic prayer that would’ve fit a deacon or a serial killer. He offered soothing words to the family, but, again, they were total strangers to him.

Rather than a heart-warming send-off, the service was as cold as the gray marble walls of the faux chapel. Morgan, with a bronze tan too ridiculous for February, attempted to humor the small crowd with some anecdotes about his old pal, but he came off as a man going through the motions and wanting desperately to get back on the jet.

Hours in the Caribbean sun had convinced Morgan that the blame for his disastrous reelection campaign could be placed squarely at the feet of Robert Critz. He’d told no one of this conclusion; there really was no one to confide in since the beach mansion was deserted except for him and the staff of natives. But he’d already begun to carry a grudge, to question the friendship.

He didn’t linger when the service finally ran out of gas and came to an end. He offered obligatory hugs to Mrs. Critz and her children, spoke briefly with some old friends, promised to see them in a few weeks, then rushed away with his mandatory Secret Service escort. News cameras had been stationed along a fence outside the grounds, but they caught no glimpse of the former president. He was ducking in the rear of one of two black vans. Five hours later he was by the pool watching another Caribbean sunset.

Though the memorial drew a small crowd, it nonetheless was being keenly observed by others. While it was actually in progress, Teddy Maynard had a list of all fifty-one people in attendance. There was no one suspicious. No name raised an eyebrow.

The killing was clean. The autopsy was buried, thanks in part to Mrs. Critz, and thanks also in part to strings pulled at levels much higher than the London police. The body was now ashes and the world would quickly forget about Robert Critz. His idiotic foray into the Backman disappearance had ended with no damage to the plan.