The Broker

Sr. Rudolph Viscovitch, Universita degli Studi, University of Bologna, Via Zamboni 22, 44041, Bologna, Italy. Use two envelopes – the first for Viscovitch, the second for me. In your note to him ask him to hold the package for Marco Lazzeri.

Hurry.’Love, Marco

Neal placed the letter on his desk and walked over to lock his door. He sat on a small leather sofa and tried to arrange his thoughts. He had already decided his father was out of the country, otherwise he would’ve made contact weeks earlier. Why was he in Italy? Why was the letter mailed from York, Pennsylvania?

Neal’s wife had never met her father-in-law. He’d been in prison for two years when they met and married. They had sent photos of the wedding, and later a photo of their child, Joel’s second granddaughter.

Joel was not a topic Neal liked to talk about it. Or think about.

He had been a lousy father, absent for most of his childhood, and his astounding plunge from power had embarrassed everyone close to him. Neal had grudgingly sent letters and cards during the incarceration, but he could truthfully say, at least to himself and his wife, that he did not miss his father. He’d rarely been around the man.

Now he was back, asking for money that Neal did not have, assuming with no hesitation that Neal would do exactly as he was instructed, perfectly willing to endanger someone else.

Neal walked to his desk and read the letter again, then again. It was the same scarcely readable chicken scratch he’d seen throughout his life. And it was his same method of operation, whether at home or at the office. Do this, this, and this, and everything will work. Do it my way, and do it now! Hurry! Risk everything because I need you.

And what if everything worked smoothly and the broker came back? He certainly wouldn’t have time for Neal and the granddaughter. If given the chance, Joel Backman, fifty-two, would once again rise to glory in the power circles of Washington. He’d make the right friends, hustle the right clients, marry the right woman, find the right partners, and within a year he’d once again work from a vast office where he would charge outrageous fees and bully congressmen.

Life had been much simpler with his father in prison.

What would he tell Lisa, his wife? Honey, that $2,000 we have buried in our savings account has just been spoken for. Plus a few hundred bucks for an encrypted e-mail system. And you and the baby keep the doors locked at all times because life just became much more dangerous.

With the day shot to hell, Neal buzzed his secretary and asked her to hold his calls. He stretched out on the sofa, kicked off his loafers, closed his eyes, and began massaging his temples.

In the nasty little war between the CIA and the FBI, both sides often used certain journalists for tactical reasons. Preemptive strikes could be launched, counterattacks blunted, hasty retreats glossed over, even damage control could be implemented by manipulating the press. Dan Sandberg had cultivated sources on both sides for almost twenty years and was perfectly willing to be used when the information was correct, and exclusive. He was also willing to assume the role of courier, cautiously moving between the armies with sensitive gossip to see how much the other side knew. In his effort to confirm the story that the FBI was investigating a cash-for-pardon scandal, he contacted his most reliable source at the CIA. He was met with the usual stonewall, one that lasted less than forty-eight hours.

His contact at Langley was Rusty Lowell, a frazzled career man with shifting titles. Whatever he was paid to do, his real job was watching the press and advising Teddy Maynard on how to use and abuse it. He was not a snitch, not one to pass along anything that wasn’t true. After years of working at the relationship, Sandberg was reasonably confident that most of what he got from Lowell was doled out by Teddy himself.

They met at Tysons Corner Mall, over in Virginia, just off the Beltway, in the back of a cheap pizzeria on the upper-level food court. They each bought one slice of pepperoni and cheese and a soft drink, then found a booth where no one could see them. The usual rules applied: (1) everything was off the record and deep background; (2) Lowell would give the green light before Sandberg could run any story; and (3) if anything Lowell said was contradicted by another source, he, Lowell, would have the chance to review it and offer the last word.

As an investigative journalist, Sandberg hated the rules. However, Lowell had never been wrong, and he was not talking to anyone else. If Sandberg wanted to mine this rich source, he had to play by the rules.

"They’ve found some money," Sandberg began. "And they think it’s linked to a pardon."

Lowell’s eyes always betrayed him because he was never deceitful. They narrowed immediately and it was obvious that this was something new.

"Does the CIA know this?" Sandberg asked.

"No," Lowell said bluntly. He had never been afraid of the truth. "We’ve been watching some accounts offshore, but nothing’s happened. How much money?"

"A lot. I don’t know how much. And I don’t know how they found it."

"Where did it come from?"

"They don’t know for sure, but they’re desperate to link it to Joel Backman. They’re talking to the White House."

"And not us."

"Evidently not. It reeks of politics. They’d love to pin a scandal on President Morgan, and Backman would be the perfect conspirator."

"Duke Mongo would be a nice target too."

"Yes, but he’s practically dead. He’s had a long, colorful career as a tax cheat, but now he’s out to pasture. Backman has secrets. They want to haul him back, run him through the grinder over at Justice, blow the top off Washington for a few months. It will humiliate Morgan."

"The economy’s sliding like hell. What a wonderful diversion."

"Like I said, it’s all about politics."

Lowell finally took a bite of pizza and chewed it quickly as he thought. "Can’t be Backman. They’re way off target."

"You’re sure."

"I’m positive. Backman had no idea a pardon was in the works. We literally yanked him out of his cell in the middle of the night, made him sign some papers, then shipped him out of the country before sunrise."

"And where did he go?"

"Hell, I don’t know. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you. The point is that Backman had no time to arrange a bribe. He was buried so deep in prison he couldn’t even dream of a pardon. It was Teddy’s idea, not his. Backman’s not their man."

"They intend to find him."

"Why? He’s a free man, fully pardoned, not some convict on the run. He can’t be extradited, unless of course they squeeze an indictment."

"Which they can do."

Lowell frowned at the table for a second or two. "I can’t see an indictment. They have no proof. They have some suspicious money sitting in a bank, as you say, but they don’t know where it came from. I assure you it’s not Backman’s money."

"Can they find him?"

"They’re gonna put the pressure on Teddy, and that’s why I wanted to talk." He shoved the half-eaten pizza aside and leaned in closer. "There will soon be a meeting in the Oval Office. Teddy will be there, and he’ll be asked by the President to see the sensitive stuff on Backman. He will refuse. Then it’s showdown time. Will the Prez have the guts to fire the old man?"

"Will he?"

"Probably. At least Teddy is expecting it. This is his fourth president, which, as you know, is a record, and the first three have all wanted to fire him. Now, though, he’s old and ready to go."

"He’s been old and ready to go forever."

"True, but he’s run a tight ship. This time it’s different."