The Broker

The tracks multiplied and fanned out as they entered the sprawling rail yards of Milano Centrale. They came to a stop under the vast dome of the station, and when Marco stepped onto the platform he was startled at the sheer size of the place. As he walked along the platform he counted at least a dozen other tracks lined in perfect rows, most with trains waiting patiently for their passengers. He stopped at the end, in the frenzy of thousands of people coming and going, and studied the departures: Stuttgart, Rome, Florence, Madrid, Paris, Berlin, Geneva.

All of Europe was within his reach, just a few hours away.

He followed the signs down to the front entrance and found the taxi stand, where he waited in line briefly before he hopped in the backseat of a small white Renault. "Aeroporto Malpensa," he said to the driver. They crawled through heavy Milano traffic until they reached the perimeter. Twenty minutes later they left the autostrada for the airport. "Quale compagnia aerea?" the driver said over his shoulder. Which airline?

"Lufthansa," Marco said. At Terminal 2 the cab found a spot at the curb, and Marco turned loose another forty euros. The automatic doors opened to a mass of people, and he was thankful he had no plane to catch. He checked the departures and found what he wanted-a direct flight to Dulles. He circled around the terminal until he found the Lufthansa check-in desk. A long line was waiting, but with typical German efficiency things were moving quickly.

The first prospect was an attractive redhead of about twenty-five who appeared to be traveling alone, which was something he preferred. Anyone with a partner might be tempted to talk about the strange man back at the airport with his rather odd request. She was second in line at the business-class desk. As he watched her he also spotted prospect number two: a denim-clad student with long scruffy hair, unshaven face, well-worn backpack, and a University of Toledo sweatshirt-the perfect fit. He was well back in the line, listening to music on bright yellow headphones.

Marco followed the redhead as she left the counter with her boarding card and carry-on bags. The flight was still two hours away, so she drifted through the crowd to the duty-free shop, where she stopped to inspect the latest in Swiss watches. Seeing nothing to buy, she wandered around the corner to a newsstand and bought two fashion magazines. As she was headed to the gate, and the first security checkpoint, Marco sucked in his gut and made his move. "Excuse me, miss, excuse me." She couldn’t help but turn and look at him, but she was too suspicious to say anything.

"Are you by chance going to Dulles?" he asked with a huge smile and the pretense of being out of breath, as if he’d just sprinted to catch her.

"Yes," she snapped. No smile. American.

"So was I, but my passport has just been stolen. Don’t know when I’ll get home." He was pulling an envelope out of his pocket. "This is a birthday card for my father. Could you please drop it in the box when you get to Dulles? His birthday is next Tuesday, and I’m afraid I won’t make it. Please."

She looked at both him and the envelope suspiciously. It was just a birthday card, not a bomb or a gun.

He was yanking something else out of his pocket. "Sorry, there’s no stamp. Here’s a euro. Please, if you don’t mind."

The face finally cracked, and she almost smiled. "Sure," she said, taking both the envelope and the euro and placing them in her purse.

"Thank you so much," Marco said, ready to burst into tears. "It’s his ninetieth birthday. Thank you."

"Sure, no problem," she said.

The kid with the yellow headphones was more complicated. He, too, was an American, and he also fell for the lost passport story. But when Marco tried to hand over the envelope, he looked around warily as if they might be breaking the law.

"I don’t know, man," he said, taking a step back. "I don’t think so."

Marco knew better than to push. He backed away and said as sarcastically as possible, "Have a nice flight."

Mrs. Ruby Ausberry of York, Pennsylvania, was one of the last passengers at check-in. She had taught world history in high school for forty years and was now having a delightful time spending her retirement funds traveling to places she’d only seen in textbooks. This was the last leg of a three-week adventure through most of Turkey. She was in Milano only for a connecting flight from Istanbul to Washington. The nice gentleman approached her with a desperate smile and explained that his passport had just been stolen. He would miss his father’s ninetieth birthday. She gladly took the card and placed it in her bag. She cleared security and walked a quarter of a mile to the gate, where she found a seat and made herself a nest.

Behind her, less than fifteen feet away, the redhead reached a decision. It could be one of those letter bombs after all. It certainly didn’t seem thick enough to carry explosives, but what did she know about such things? There was a waste can near the window-a sleek chrome can with a chrome top (they were, after all, in Milano)-and she casually walked over and dropped the letter into the garbage.

What if it explodes there? she wondered as she sat back down. It was too late. She wasn’t about to go over and fish it out. And if she did, then what? Track down someone in a uniform and try to explain in English that there was a chance she was holding a letter bomb? Come on, she told herself. She grabbed her carry-on and moved to the other side of the gate, as far away as possible from the waste can. And she couldn’t keep her eyes off it.

The conspiracy grew. She was the first one on the 747 when they began boarding. Only with a glass of champagne did she finally relax. She’d watch CNN as soon as she got home to Baltimore. She was convinced there would be carnage at Milano’s Malpensa airport.

Marco’s taxi ride back to Milano Centrale cost forty-five euros, but he didn’t question the driver. Why bother? The return ticket to Bologna was the same-fifty euros. After a day of shopping and traveling he was down to around one hundred euros. His little stash of cash was dwindling rapidly.

It was almost dark when the train slowed at the station in Bologna. Marco was just another wear)” traveler when he stepped onto the platform, but he was silently bursting with pride at the day’s accomplishments. He’d purchased clothing, bought rail tickets, survived the madness of both the train station and the airport in Milano, hired two cabs, and delivered his mail, a rather full day without a hint of anyone knowing who or where he was.

And he’d never been asked to show a passport or any type of identification.

Luigi had taken a different train, the 11:45 express to Milano. But he stepped off at Parma and got lost in the crowd. He found a cab and took a short ride to the meeting place, a favorite cafe. He waited almost an hour for Whitaker, who had missed one train in Milano and caught the next one. As usual, Whitaker was in a foul mood, which was made even worse by having to meet on a Saturday. They ordered quickly and as soon as the waiter was gone, Whitaker said, "I don’t like this woman."

"Francesca?"

"Yes, the travel guide. We’ve never used her before, right?"

"Right. Relax, she’s fine. She doesn’t have a clue."

"What does she look like?"

"Reasonably attractive."

"Reasonably attractive can mean anything, Luigi. How old is she?"

"I never ask that question. Forty-five is a good guess."

"Is she married?"

"Yes, no children. She married an older man who’s in very bad health. He’s dying."

As always, Whitaker was scribbling notes, thinking about the next question. "Dying? Why is he dying?"