The Broker

When they reached the crest and stepped from under the 666th portico, the magnificent basilica spread before them. Its lights were coming on as darkness surrounded the hills above Bologna, and its dome glowed in shades of gold. "It’s closed now," she said. "We’ll have to see it another day."

During the hike up, he’d caught a glimpse of a bus easing down the hill. If he ever decided to visit San Luca again for the sole purpose of wandering through another cathedral, he’d be sure to take the bus.

"This way," she said softly, beckoning him over. "I know a secret path."

He followed her along a gravel trail behind the church to a ledge where they stopped and took in the city below them. "This is my favorite spot," she said, breathing deeply, as if trying to inhale the beauty of Bologna.

"How often do you come here?"

"Several times a year, usually with groups. They always take the bus. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon I’ll enjoy the walk up."

"By yourself?"

"Yes, by myself."

"Could we sit somewhere?"

"Yes, there is a small bench hidden over there. No one knows about it." He followed her down a few steps, then along a rocky path to another ledge with views just as spectacular.

"Are your legs tired?" she asked.

"Of course not," he lied.

She lit a cigarette and enjoyed it as few people could possibly enjoy one. They sat in silence for a long time, both resting, both thinking and gazing at the shimmering lights of Bologna.

Marco finally spoke. "Luigi tells me your husband is very ill. I’m sorry."

She glanced at him with a look of surprise, then turned away. "Luigi told me the personal stuff is off-limits."

"Luigi changes the rules. What has he told you about me?"

"I haven’t asked. You’re from Canada, traveling around, trying to learn Italian."

"Do you believe that?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because you claim to have a wife and a family, yet you leave them for a long trip to Italy. And if you’re just a businessman off on a pleasure trip, then where does Luigi fit in? And Ermanno? Why do you need those people?"

"Good questions. I have no wife."

"So it’s all a lie." Yes.

"What’s the truth?"

"I can’t tell you." "Good. I don’t want to know." "You have enough problems, don’t you, Francesca?" "My problems are my business."

She lit another cigarette. "Can I have one of those?" he asked. "You smoke?"

"Many years ago." He picked one from the pack and lit it. The lights from the city grew brighter as the night engulfed them. "Do you tell Luigi everything we do?" he asked. "I tell him very little." "Good."

Teddy’s last visit to the White House was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. He planned to be late. Beginning at seven that morning, he met with his unofficial transition team-all four deputy directors and his senior people. In quiet little conferences he informed those he’d trusted for many years that he was on the way out, that it had been inevitable for a long time, that the agency was in good shape and life would go on.

Those who knew him well sensed an air of relief. He was, after all, pushing eighty and his legendary bad health was actually getting worse.

At precisely 8:45, while meeting with William Lucat, his deputy director for operations, he summoned Julia Javier for their Backman meeting. The Backman case was important, but in the scheme of global intelligence it was mid-list.

How odd that an operation dealing with a disgraced former lobbyist would be Teddy’s downfall.

Julia Javier sat next to the ever vigilant Hoby, who was still taking notes that no one would ever see, and began matter-of-factly. "He’s in place, still in Bologna, so if we had to activate now we could do so."

"I thought the plan was to move him to a village in the countryside, someplace where we could watch him more closely," Teddy said.

"That’s a few months down the road."

"We don’t have a few months." Teddy turned to Lucat and said, "What happens if we push the button now?"

"It’ll work. They’ll get him somewhere in Bologna. It’s a nice city with almost no crime. Murders are unheard of, so his death will get some attention if his body is found there. The Italians will quickly realize that he’s not-what’s his name, Julia?"

"Marco," Teddy said without looking at notes. "Marco Lazzeri."

"Right, they’ll scratch their heads and wonder who the hell he is."

Julia said, "There’s no clue as to his real identity. They’ll have a body, a fake ID, but no family, no friends, no address, no job, nothing. They’ll bury him like a pauper and keep the file open for a year. Then they’ll close it."

"That’s not our problem," Teddy said. "We’re not doing the killing."

"Right," said Lucat. "It’ll be a bit messier in the city, but the boy likes to wander the streets. They’ll get him. Maybe a car will hit him. The Italians drive like hell, you know."

"It won’t be that difficult, will it?"

"I wouldn’t think so."

"And what are our chances of knowing when it happens?" Teddy asked.

Lucat scratched his beard and looked across the table at Julia, who was biting a nail and looking over at Hoby, who was stirring green tea with a plastic stick. Lucat finally said, "I’d say fifty-fifty, at the scene anyway. We’ll be watching twenty-four/seven, but the people who’ll take him out will be the best of the best. There may be no witnesses."

Julia added, "Our best chance will be later, a few weeks after they bury the pauper. We have good people in place. We’ll listen closely. I think we’ll hear it later."

Lucat said, "As always, when we’re not pulling the trigger, there’s a chance we won’t know for sure."

"We cannot screw this up, understand? It’ll be nice to know that Backman is dead-God knows he deserves it-but the goal of the op eration is to see who kills him," Teddy said as his white wrinkled hands slowly lifted a paper cup of green tea to his mouth. He slurped it loudly, crudely.

Maybe it was time for the old man to fade away in a retirement home.

"I’m reasonably confident," Lucat said. Hoby wrote that down.

"If we leak it now, how long before he’s dead?" Teddy asked.

Lucat shrugged and looked away as he pondered the question. Julia was chewing another nail. "It depends," she said cautiously. "If the Israelis move, it could happen in a week. The Chinese are usually slower. The Saudis will probably hire a freelance agent; it could take a month to get one on the ground."

"The Russians could do it in a week," Lucat added.

"I won’t be here when it happens," Teddy said sadly. "And no one on this side of the Atlantic will ever know. Promise me you’ll give me a call."

"This is the green light?" Lucat asked.

"Yes. Careful how you leak it, though. All hunters must be given an equal chance at the prey."

They gave Teddy their final farewells and left his office. At nine – thirty, Hoby pushed him into the hall and to the elevator. They rode down eight levels to the basement where the bulletproof white vans were waiting for his last trip to the White House.

The meeting was brief. Dan Sandberg was sitting at his desk at the Post when it began in the Oval Office a few minutes after ten. And he hadn’t moved twenty minutes later when the call came from Rusty Lowell. "It’s over," he said.