The Broker

However, there was still no evidence as to the source of the money. In his last three days in office, President Morgan granted twenty-two pardons. All went unnoticed except two: Joel Backman and Duke Mongo. The FBI was hard at work digging for financial dirt on the other twenty. Who had $3 million? Who had the resources to get it? Every friend, family member, and business associate was being scrutinized by the feds.

A preliminary analysis repeated what was already known. Mongo had billions and was certainly corrupt enough to bribe anyone. Backman, too, could pull it off. A third possibility was a former New Jersey state legislator whose family made a bundle in government road contracts. Twelve years earlier he’d gone to "federal camp" for a few months and now wanted his rights restored.

The President was off in Europe, in the middle of his get – acquainted tour, his first victory lap around the world. He wouldn’t be back for three days, and the vice president decided to wait. They would watch the money, double – and triple-check the facts and details, and when he returned they would brief him with an airtight case. A cashforpardon scandal would electrify the country. It would humiliate the opposition party and weaken its resolve in Congress. It would ensure that Anthony Price would head the FBI for a few more years. It would finally send old Teddy Maynard off to the retirement home. There was simply no downside to the launching of a full federal blitz against an unsuspecting ex-president.

His tutor was waiting in the back pew of the Basilica di San Francesco. She was still bundled, with her gloved hands stuck partially in the pockets of her heavy overcoat. It was snowing again outside, and in the vast, cold, empty sanctuary the temperature was not much warmer. He sat beside her and offered a soft "Buon giorno."

She acknowledged him with just enough of a smile to be considered polite, and said, uBuon giorno." He kept his hands in his pockets too, and for a long time they sat like two frozen hikers hiding from the weather. As usual, her face was sad and her thoughts were on something other than this bumbling Canadian businessman who wanted to speak her language. She was aloof and distracted and Marco was fed up with her attitude. Ermanno was losing interest by the day. Francesca was barely tolerable. Luigi was always back there, lurking and watching, but he, too, seemed to be losing interest in the game.

Marco was beginning to think that the break was about to happen. Cut the lifeline and set him adrift to sink or swim on his own. So be it. He’d been free for almost a month. He’d learned enough Italian to survive. He could certainly learn more by himself.

"So how old is this one?" he said after it became apparent that he was expected to speak first.

She shifted slightly, cleared her throat, took her hands out of her pockets, as if he’d awakened her from a deep sleep. "It was begun in 1236 by some Franciscan monks. Thirty years later the main sanctuary here was complete."

"A rush job."

"Yes, quite fast. Over the centuries the chapels sort of sprang up along both sides. The sacristy was built, then the bell tower. The French, under Napoleon, deconsecrated it in 1798 and turned it into a customs house. In 1886 it was converted back to a church, then restored in 1928. When Bologna was bombed by the Allies its facade was extensively damaged. It’s had a rough history."

"It’s not very pretty on the outside."

"Bombing will do that."

"I guess you picked the wrong side."

"Bologna did not."

No sense refighting the war. They paused as their voices seemed to float up and echo slightly around the dome. Backman’s mother had taken him to church a few times each year as a child, but that halfhearted effort at pursuing a faith had been abandoned quickly in high school and totally forgotten over the past forty years. Not even prison could convert him, unlike some of the other inmates. But it was still difficult for a man with no convictions to understand how any style of meaningful worship could be conducted in a such a cold, heartless museum.

"It seems so empty. Does anyone ever worship in this place?"

"There’s a daily mass and sendees on Sunday. I was married here."

"You’re not supposed to talk about yourself. Luigi will get mad."

"Italian, Marco, no more English." In Italian, she asked him, "What did you study this morning with Ermanno?"

"La famiglia."

"La sua famiglia. Mi dica." Tell me about your family.

"It’s a real mess," he said in English.

"Sua moglie?" Your wife?

"Which one? I have three."

"Italian."

"Quale? Ne ho tre."

"L’ultima." The last one.

Then he caught himself. He was not Joel Backman, with three ex-wives and a screwed-up family. He was Marco Lazzeri from Toronto, with a wife, four children, and five grandchildren. "I was kidding," he said in English. "I have one wife."

"Mi dica, in Italiano, di sua moglie?" Tell me about your wife.

In very slow Italian, Marco described his fictional wife. Her name is Laura. She is fifty-two years old. She lives in Toronto. She works for a small company. She does not like to travel. And so on.

Every sentence was repeated at least three times. Every mispronunciation was met with a grimace and a quick "Ripeta." Over and over, Marco went on and on about a Laura who did not exist. And when he finished with her, he was led to his oldest child, another ere ation, this one named Alex. Thirty years old, a lawyer in Vancouver, divorced with two kids, etc., etc.

Fortunately, Luigi had given him a little biography on Marco Lazzeri, complete with all the data he was now reaching for in the back of a frigid church. She prodded him on, urging perfection, cautioning against speaking too fast, the natural tendency.

"Deve parlare lentamente," she kept saying. You must speak slowly.

Chapter Ten

She was strict and no fun, but also very motivational. If he could learn to speak Italian half as well as she spoke English, then he would be ahead of the pack. If she believed in constant repetition, then so did he.

As they were discussing his mother, an elderly gentleman entered the church and sat in the pew directly in front of them. He was soon lost in meditation and prayer. They decided to make a quiet exit. A light snow was still falling and they stopped at the first cafe for espresso and a smoke.

"Adesso, possiamo parlare della sua famiglia?" he asked. Can we talk about your family now?

She smiled, showed teeth, a rarity, and said, "Benissimo, Marco." Very good. "Ma, non possiamo. Mi displace." But, I’m sorry. We cannot.

"Perche non?" Why not?

"Abbiamo delle regole." We have rules.

"Dov’e suo marito?" Where is your husband?

"Qui, a Bologna." Here, in Bologna.

"Dov’e lavora?" Where does he work?

"Non lavora."

After her second cigarette they ventured back onto the covered sidewalks and began a thorough lesson about snow. She delivered a short sentence in English, and he was supposed to translate it. It is snowing. It never snows in Florida. Maybe it will snow tomorrow. It snowed twice last week. I love the snow. I don’t like snow.

They skirted the edge of the main plaza and stayed under the porticoes. On Via Rizzoli they passed the store where Marco bought his boots and his parka and he thought she might like to hear his version of that event. He could handle most of the Italian. He let it pass, though, since she was so engrossed in the weather. At an intersection they stopped and looked at Le Due Torri, the two surviving towers that the Bolognesi were so proud of.