The Broker

"Why doesn’t he just resign?"

"Because he’s a cranky1, contrary, stubborn old son of a bitch, you know that."

"That’s well established."

"And if he gets fired, he’s not going peacefully. He’d like balanced coverage."

"Balanced coverage" was their long-standing buzzword for "slant it our way."

Sandberg slid his pizza away too and cracked his knuckles. "Here’s the story as I see it," he said, part of the ritual. "After eighteen years of solid leadership at the CIA, Teddy Maynard gets sacked by a brand-new president. The reason is that Maynard refused to divulge details of sensitive ongoing operations. He stood his ground to protect national security, and stared down the President, who, along with the FBI, wants classified information so that it, the FBI, can pursue an investigation relating to pardons granted by former president Morgan."

"You cannot mention Backman."

"I’m not ready to use names. I don’t have confirmation."

"I assure you the money did not come from Backman. And if you use his name at this point, there’s a chance he’ll see it and do something stupid."

"Like what?"

"Like, run for his life."

"Why is that stupid?"

"Because we don’t want him running for his life."

"You want him dead?"

"Of course. That’s the plan. We want to see who kills him."

Sandberg settled back against the hard plastic bench and looked away. Lowell picked slices of pepperoni off his cold rubbery pizza, and for a long time they thought in silence. Sandberg drained his Diet Coke, and finally said, "Teddy somehow convinced Morgan to pardon Backman, who’s stashed away somewhere as bait for the kill."

Lowell was looking away but nodding.

"And the killing will answer some questions over at Langley?"

"Perhaps. That’s the plan."

"Does Backman know why he was pardoned?"

"We certainly haven’t told him, but he’s fairly bright."

"Who’s after him?"

"Some very dangerous people who carry grudges."

"Do you know who?"

A nod, a shrug, a nonanswer. "There are several with potential. We’ll watch closely and maybe learn something. Maybe not."

"And why are they carrying grudges?"

Lowell laughed at the ridiculous question. "Nice try, Dan. You’ve been asking that for six years now. Look, I gotta go. Work on the balanced piece and let me see it."

"When is the meeting with the President?"

"Not sure. As soon as he gets back."

"And if Teddy’s terminated?"

"You’ll be the first person I call."

As a small-town lawyer in Culpeper, Virginia, Neal Backman was earning far less than what he had dreamed about in law school. Back then, his father’s firm was such a force in D.C. that he could easily see himself making the big bucks after only a few years of practice. The greenest associates at Backman, Pratt 8c Boiling started at $100,000 a year, and a rising junior partner thirty years of age would earn three times as much. During his second year of law school, a local magazine put the broker on the cover and talked about his expensive toys. His income was estimated at $10 million a year. This had caused quite a stir around law school, something Neal was not uncomfortable with. He could remember thinking how wonderful the future would be with all that earning potential.

However, less than a year after signing on as a green associate, he was sacked by the firm after his father pled guilty, and was literally thrown out of the building.

But Neal had soon stopped dreaming of the big money and the glitzy lifestyle. He was perfectly content to practice law with a nice little firm on Main Street and hopefully take home $50,000 a year. Lisa stopped working when their daughter was born. She managed the finances and kept their lives on budget.

After a sleepless night, he awoke with a rough idea of how to proceed. The most painful issue had been whether or not to tell his wife. Once he decided not to, the plan began to take shape. He went to the office at eight, as usual, and puttered online for an hour and a half, until he was sure the bank was open. As he walked down Main Street he found it impossible to believe that there might be people lurking nearby watching his movements. Still, he would take no chances.

Richard Koley ran the nearest branch of Piedmont National Bank. They went to church together, hunted grouse, played softball for the Rotary Club. Neal’s law firm had banked there forever. The lobby was empty at such an early hour, and Richard was already at his desk with a tall cup of coffee, The Wall Street Journal, and evidently very little to do. He was pleasantly surprised to see Neal, and for twenty minutes they talked about college basketball. When they eventually got around to business, Richard said, "So what can I do for you?"

"Just curious," Neal said casually, delivering lines he’d been rehearsing all morning. "How much might I borrow with just my signature?"

"Bit of a jam, huh?" Richard was grabbing the mouse and already glancing at the monitor, where all answers were stored.

"No, nothing like that. Rates are so low and I’ve got my eye on a hot stock."

"Not a bad strategy, really, though I certainly can’t advertise it. With the Dow at ten thousand again you wonder why more folks don’t load up with credit and buy stocks. It would certainly be good for the old bank." He managed an awkward banker’s chuckle at his own quick humor. "Income range?" he asked, tapping keys, somber-faced now.

"It varies," Neal said. "Sixty to eighty."

Richard frowned even more, and Neal couldn’t tell if it was because he was sad to learn his friend made so little, or because his friend earned so much more than he. Hed never know. Small-town banks were not known for overpaying their people.

"Total debts, outside the mortgage?" he asked, tapping again.

"Hmmm, let’s see." Neal closed his eyes and ran through the math again. His mortgage was almost $200,000 and Piedmont held that. Lisa was so opposed to debt that their own little balance sheet was remarkably clean. "Car loan of about twenty grand," he said. "Maybe a thousand or so on the credit cards. Not much, really."

Richard nodded his approval and never took his eyes off the monitor. When his fingers left the keyboard, he shrugged and turned into the generous banker. "We could do three thousand on a signature. Six percent interest, for twelve months."

Since he’d never borrowed with no collateral, Neal wasn’t sure what to expect. He had no idea what his signature would command, but somehow $3,000 sounded about right. "Can you go four thousand?" he asked.

Another frown, another hard study of the monitor, then it revealed the answer. "Sure, why not? I know where to find you, don’t I?"

"Good. I’ll keep you posted on the stock."

"Is this a hot tip, something on the inside?"

"Give me a month. If the price goes up, I’ll come back and brag a little."

"Fair enough."

Richard was opening a drawer, looking for forms. Neal said, "Look, Richard, this is just between us boys, okay? Know what I mean? Lisa won’t be signing the papers."

"No problem," the banker said, the epitome of discretion. "My wife doesn’t know half of what I do on the financial end. Women just don’t understand."

"You got it. And along those lines, would it be possible to get the funds in cash?"

A pause, a puzzled look, but then anything was possible at Piedmont National. ”Sure, give me an hour or so."