The Broker

"What happened?" Sandberg asked, already pecking at his keyboard.

"As scripted. The President wanted to know about Backman. Teddy wouldn’t budge. The President said he was entitled to know everything. Teddy agreed but said the information was going to be abused for political purposes and it would compromise a sensitive operation. They argued briefly. Teddy got himself fired. Just like I told you."

"Wow."

"The White House is making an announcement in five minutes. You might want to watch."

As always, the spin began immediately. The somber-faced press secretary announced that the President had decided to "pursue a fresher course with our intelligence operations." He praised Director Maynard for his legendary leadership and seemed downright saddened by the prospect of having to find his successor. The first question, shot from the front row, was whether Maynard resigned or had been fired.

"The President and Director Maynard reached a mutual understanding."

"What does that mean?"

"Just what I said."

And so it went for thirty minutes.

Sandberg’s front-page story the following morning dropped two bombs. It began with the definite confirmation that Maynard had been fired after he refused to divulge sensitive information for what he deemed to be raw political purposes. There was no resignation, no "reaching of a mutual understanding." It was an old-fashioned sacking. The second blast announced to the world that the President’s insistence on obtaining intelligence data was directly tied to a new FBI investigation into the selling of pardons. The cash-for-pardon scandal had been a distant rumbling until Sandberg opened the door. His scoop practically stopped traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

While Sandberg was hanging around the press room, reveling in his coup, his cell phone rang. It was Rusty Lowell, who abruptly said, "Call me on a land line, and do it quickly." Sandberg went to a small office for privacy and dialed Lowell’s number at Langley.

"Lucat just got fired," Lowell said. "At eight o’clock this morning he met with the President in the Oval Office. He was asked to step in as the interim director. He said yes. They met for an hour. The President pushed on Backman. Lucat wouldn’t budge. Got himself fired, just like Teddy."

"Damn, he’s been there a hundred years."

"Thirty-eight to be exact. One of the best men here. A great administrator."

"Who’s next?"

"That’s a very good question. We’re all afraid of the knock on the door."

"Somebody’s got to run the agency."

"Ever meet Susan Penn?"

"No. I know who she is, but I never met her."

"Deputy director for science and technology. Very loyal to Teddy, hell we all are, but she’s also a survivor. She’s in the Oval Office right now. If she’s offered the interim, she’ll take it. And she’ll give up Back – man to get it."

"He is the President, Rusty. He’s entitled to know everything."

"Of course. And it’s a matter of principle. Can’t really blame the guy. He’s new on the job, wants to flex his muscle. Looks like he’ll fire us all until he gets what he wants. I told Susan Penn to take the job to stop the bleeding."

"So the FBI should know about Backman real soon?"

"Today, I would guess. Not sure what they’ll do when they find out where he is. They’re weeks away from an indictment. They’ll probably just screw up our operation."

"Where is he?"

"Don’t know."

"Come on, Rusty, things are different now."

"The answer is no. End of story. I’ll keep you posted on the bloodletting."

An hour later, the White House press secretary met with the press and announced the appointment of Susan Penn as interim director of the CIA. He made much of the fact that she was the first female to hold the position, thus proving once again how determined this President was to labor diligently for the cause of equal rights.

Luigi was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and all alone, waiting for the signal from next door. It came at fourteen minutes after 6:00 a.m.-Marco was becoming such a creature of habit. Luigi walked to his control room and pushed a button to silence the buzzer that indicated that his friend had exited through the front door. A computer recorded the exact time and within seconds someone at Langley would know that Marco Lazzeri had just left their safe house on Via Fondazza at precisely 6:14.

He hadn’t trailed him in a few days. Simona had been sleeping over. He waited a few seconds, slipped out his rear door, cut through a narrow alley, then peeked through the shadows of the arcades along Via Fondazza. Marco was to his left, headed south and walking at his usual brisk pace, which was getting faster the longer he stayed in Bologna. He was at least twenty years older than Luigi, but with his penchant for walking miles every day he was in better shape. Plus he didn t smoke, didn’t drink much, didn’t seem to be interested in ladies and the nightlife, and he’d spent the last six years in a cage. Little wonder he could roam the streets for hours, doing nothing.

He wore the new hiking boots every day. Luigi had not been able to get his hands on them. They remained bug-free, leaving no signal behind. Whitaker worried about this in Milan, but then he worried about everything. Luigi was convinced that Marco might walk for a hundred miles within the city, but he wasnt leaving town. He’d disappear for a while, go exploring or sightseeing, but he could always be found.

He turned onto Via Santo Stefano, a main avenue that ran from the southeast corner of old Bologna into the thick of things around Piazza Maggiore. Luigi crossed over and followed from the other side. As he practically jogged along, he quickly radioed Zellman, a new guy in town, sent by Whitaker to tighten the web. Zellman was waiting on Strada Maggiore, another busy avenue between the safe house and the university.

Zellman’s arrival was an indication of the plan moving forward. Luigi knew most of the details now, and was somewhat saddened by the fact that Marco’s days were numbered. He wasn’t sure who would take him out, and he got the impression that Whitaker didn’t know either.

Luigi was praying that he would not be called upon to do the deed. He’d killed two other men, and preferred to avoid such messes. Plus, he liked Marco.

Before Zellman picked up the trail, Marco vanished. Luigi stopped and listened. He ducked into the darkness of a doorway, just in case Marco had stopped too.

He heard him back there, walking a little too heavily, breathing a little too hard. A quick left on a narrow street, Via Castellata, a sprint for fifty yards, then another left onto Via de’ Chiari, and a complete change of direction, from due north to due west, a hard pace for a long time until he came to an opening, a small square called Piazza Cavour. He knew the old city so well now, the avenues, alleys, dead ends, intersections, the endless maze of crooked little streets, the names of ever)’ square and many of the shops and stores. He knew which tobacco stores opened at six and which waited until seven. He could find five coffee shops that were filled by sunrise, though most waited until daylight. He knew where to sit in the front window, behind a newspaper, with a view of the sidewalk and wait for Luigi to stroll by.

He could lose Luigi anytime he wanted, though most days he played along and kept his trails wide and easy to follow. But it was the fact that he was being watched so closely that spoke volumes.

They don’t want me to disappear, he kept saying to himself. And why? Because I’m here for a reason.

He swung wide to the west of the city, far away from where he might be expected to be. After almost an hour of zigzagging through and looping around dozens of short streets and alleys, he stepped onto Via Irnerio and watched the foot traffic. Bar Fontana was directly across the street. There was no one watching it.