The Broker

Rudolph was tucked away in the rear, head buried low in the morning paper, pipe smoke rising in a lazy blue spiral. They hadn’t seen each other in ten days, and after the usual warm greetings his first question was "Did you make it to Venice?"

Yes, a delightful visit. Marco dropped the names of all the places he’d memorized from the guidebook. He raved about the beauty of the canals, the amazing variety of bridges, the smothering hordes of tourists. A fabulous place. Couldn’t wait to go back. Rudolph added some of his own memories. Marco described the church of San Marco as if he’d spent a week there.

Where to next? Rudolph inquired. Probably south, toward warmer weather. Maybe Sicily, the Amalfi coast. Rudolph, of course, adored Sicily and described his visits there. After half an hour of travel talk, Marco finally got around to business. "I’m traveling so much, I really have no address. A friend from the States is sending me a package. I gave him your address at the law school. Hope you don’t mind."

Rudolph was relighting his pipe. "It’s already here. Came yesterday," he said, with heavy smoke pouring out with the words.

Marco’s heart skipped a beat. "Was there a return address?"

"Some place in Virginia."

"Good." His mouth was instantly dry. He took a sip of water and tried to conceal his excitement. "Hope it wasn’t a problem."

"Not at all."

"I’ll swing by later and pick it up."

"I’m in the office from eleven to twelve-thirty."

"Good, thanks." Another sip. "Just curious, how big is the package?

Rudolph chewed on the stem of his pipe and said, "A small cigar box maybe."

A cold rain started at mid-morning. Marco and Ermanno were walking through the university area and found shelter in a quiet little bar. They finished the lesson early, primarily because the student pushed so hard. Ermanno was always ready to quit early.

Since Luigi had not booked lunch, Marco was free to roam, presumably without being followed. But he was careful just the same. He did his loops and backtracking maneuvers, and felt silly as always. Silly or not, they were now standard procedure. Back on Via Zamboni he drifted behind a group of students strolling aimlessly along. At the door to the law school he ducked inside, bounded up the stairs, and within seconds was knocking on Rudolphs half-opened door.

Rudolph was at his ancient typewriter, hammering away at what appeared to be a personal letter. "Over there," he said, pointing to a pile of rubble covering a table that hadn’t been cleared in decades. "That brown thing on top."

Marco picked up the package with as little interest as possible. "Thanks again, Rudolph," he said, but Rudolph was typing again and in no mood for a visit. He’d clearly been interrupted.

"Don’t mention it," he said over his shoulder, releasing another cloud of pipe smoke.

"Is there a restroom nearby?" Marco asked.

"Down the hall, on your left."

"Thanks. See you around."

Chapter Twelve

There was a prehistoric urinal and three wooden stalls. Marco went into the far one, locked the door, lowered the lid, and took a seat. He carefully opened his package and unfolded the sheets of paper. The first one was plain, white, no letterhead of any kind. When he saw the words "Dear Marco," he felt like crying.

Dear Marco:

Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear from you. I thanked God when you were released and I pray for your safety now. As you know, I will do anything to help.

Here is a stnartphone, state of the art and all that. The Europeans are ahead of us with cell phone and wireless Internet technology, so this should work fine over there. I’ve written some instructions on another sheet of paper. I know this will sound like Greek, but it’s really not that complicated.

Don’t try and call-it’s too easy to track. Plus, you would have to use a name and set up an account. E-mail is the way. By using KwyteMail with encryption, it’s impossible to track our messages. I suggest that you e-mail only me. I can then handle the relays.

On this end I have a new laptop that I keep near me at all times.

This will work, Marco. Trust me. As soon as you’re online, email and we can chat.

Good Luck, Grinch(March 5)

Grinch? A code or something. He had not used their real names.

Marco studied the sleek device, thoroughly bewildered by it but also determined to get the damn thing going. He probed its small case, found the cash, and counted it slowly as if it were gold. The door opened and closed; someone was using the urinal. Marco could hardly breathe. Relax, he kept telling himself.

The restroom door opened and closed again, and he was alone. The page of instructions was handwritten, obviously when Neal didn’t have a lot of time. It read:

Ankyo 850 PC Pocket Smartphone-fully charged battery-6 hours talk time before recharging, recharger included.

Step 1) Find Internet cafe with wireless access-list enclosed

Step 2) Either enter cafe or get within 200 feet of it

Step 3) Turn on, switch is in upper right-hand corner

Step 4) Watch screen for ‘Access Area" then the question "Access Now?" Press "Yes" under screen; wait.

Step 5) Then push keypad switch, bottom right, and unfold keypad

Step 6) Press Wi-Fi access on screen

Step 7) Press "Start"for Internet browser

Step 8) At cursor, type "www.kwytefnail.com"

Step 9) Type user name "Grinch456"

Step 10) Type pass phrase "post hoc ergo propter hoc"

Step 11) Press "Compose" to bring up New Message Form

Step 12) Select my e-mail address: [email protected]

Step 13) Type your message to me

Step 14) Click on "Encrypt Message"

Step 15) Click "Send"

Step 16) Bingo-I’ll have the message

More notes followed on the other side, but Marco needed to pause. The smartphone was growing heavier by the minute as it inspired more questions than answers. For a man who’d never been in an Internet cafe, he could not begin to understand how one could be used from across the street. Or within two hundred feet.

Secretaries had always handled the e-mail flood. He’d been much too busy to sit in front of a monitor.

There was an instruction booklet that he opened at random. He read a few lines and didn’t understand a single phrase. Trust Neal, he told himself.

You have no choice here, Marco. You have to master this damn thing.

From a Web site called www.AxEss.com Neal had printed a list of free wireless Internet places in Bologna-three cafes, two hotels, one library, and one bookstore.

Marco folded his cash, stuck it in his pocket, then slowly put his package back together. He stood, flushed the toilet for some reason, and left the restroom. The phone, the papers, the case, and the small recharger were easily buried in the deep pockets of his parka.

The rain had turned to snow when he left the law school, but the covered sidewalks protected him and the crowd of students hurrying to lunch. As he drifted away from the university area, he pondered ways to hide the wonderful little assets Neal had sent him. The phone would never leave his person. Nor would the cash. But the paperwork-the letter, the instructions, the manual-where could he stash

them? Nothing was protected in his apartment. He saw in a store window an attractive shoulder bag of some sort. He went and inquired. It was a Silvio brand laptop case, navy blue, waterproof, made of a synthetic fabric that the saleslady could not translate. It cost sixty euros, and Marco reluctantly placed them on the counter. As she finished the sale, he carefully placed the smartphone and its related items into the bag. Outside, he flung it over his shoulder and tucked it snugly under his right arm.