The Broker

Then she called them and the payoff soon climbed to $500,000. Helen turned nasty and demanded II million, claiming that she was risking her career and her freedom and it was certainly worth more money than that. The Chinese agreed.

The day after Teddy was fired, she called her handler and requested a secret meeting. She gave him a sheet of paper with wiring instructions to a bank account in Panama, one that was secretly owned by the CIA. When the money was received, she said, they would meet again and she would have the location of Joel Backman. She would also give them a recent photo of Joel Backman.

The drop was a "brush by," an actual physical meeting between mole and handler, done in such a way that no one would notice anything unusual. After work, Helen Wang stopped at a Kroger store in John u^u Bethesda. She walked to the end of aisle twelve, where the magazines and paperbacks were displayed. Her handler was loitering at the rack with a copy of Lacrosse Magazine. Helen picked up another copy of the same magazine and quickly slid an envelope into it. She flipped pages with passable boredom, then put the magazine back on the rack. Her handler was shuffling through the sports weeklies. Helen wandered away, but only after she saw him take her copy of Lacrosse Magazine.

For a change, the cloak-and-dagger routine wasn’t needed. Helens friends at the CIA weren’t watching because they had arranged the drop. They’d known her handler for many years.

The envelope contained one sheet of paper-an eight-by-ten color xerox photo of Joel Backman as he was apparently walking down the street. He was much thinner, had the beginnings of a grayish goatee, European-style eyeglasses, and was dressed like a local. Handwritten at the bottom of the page was: Joel Backman, Via Fondazza, Bologna, Italy. The handler gawked at it as he sat in his car, then he sped away to the embassy of the People his Republic of China on Wisconsin Avenue NW in Washington.

At first the Russians seemed to have no interest in the whereabouts of Joel Backman. Their signals were read a variety of ways at Langley. No early conclusions were made, none were possible. For years the Russians had secretly maintained that the so-called Neptune system was one of their own, and this had contributed mightily to the confusion at the CIA.

Much to the surprise of the intelligence world, Russia was managing to keep aloft about 160 reconnaissance satellites a year, roughly the same number as the former Soviet Union. Its robust presence in space had not diminished, contrary to what the Pentagon and the CIA had predicted.

In 1999, a defector from the GRU, the Russian military’s intelligence arm and successor to the KGB, informed the CIA that Neptune was not the property of the Russians. They had been caught off guard as badly as the Americans. Suspicion was focused on the Red Chinese, who were far behind in the satellite game.

Or were they?

The Russians wanted to know about Neptune, but they were not willing to pay for information about Backman. When the overtures from Langley were largely ignored, the same color photo sold to the Chinese was anonymously e-mailed to four Russian intelligence chiefs operating under diplomatic cover in Europe.

The leak to the Saudis was handled through an executive of an American oil company stationed in Riyadh. His name was Taggett and he’d lived there for more than twenty years. He was fluent in Arabic and moved in the social circles as easily as any foreigner. He was especially close to a mid-level bureaucrat in the Saudi Foreign Ministry office, and over late-afternoon tea he told him that his company had once been represented by Joel Backman. Further, and much more important, Taggett claimed to know where Backman was hiding.

Five hours later, Taggett was awakened by a buzzing doorbell. Three young gentlemen in business suits pushed their way into his apartment and demanded a few moments of his time. They apologized, explained that they were with some branch of the Saudi police, and really needed to talk. When pressed, Taggett reluctantly passed on the information he had been coached to disclose.

Joel Backman was hiding in Bologna, Italy, under a different name. That was all he knew.

Could he find out more? they asked.

Perhaps.

They asked him if he would leave the next morning, return to his company’s headquarters in New York, and dig for more information about Backman. It was very important to the Saudi government and the royal family.

Taggett agreed to do so. Anything for the king.

Every year in May, just before Ascension Day, the people of Bologna march up the Colle della Guardia from the Saragozza gate, along the longest continuous arcade in the world, through all 666 arches and past all fifteen chapels, to the summit, to the Santuario di San Luca. In the sanctuary they remove their Madonna and proceed back down to the city, where they parade her through the crowded streets and finally place her in the Cathedral of San Pietro, where she stays for eight days until another parade takes her home. It’s a festival unique to Bologna, and has gone on uninterrupted since 1476.

As Francesca and Joel sat in the Santuario di San Luca, Francesca was describing the ritual and how much it meant to the people of Bologna. Pretty, but just another empty church as far as Marco was concerned.

They had taken the bus this time, thus avoiding the 666 arches and the 3.6-kilometer hike up the hill. His calves still hurt from the last visit to San Luca, three days ago.

She was so distracted by weightier matters that she was lapsing into English and didn’t seem to realize it. He did not complain. When she finished with the festival, she began pointing to the interesting elements in the cathedral-the architecture and construction of the dome, the painting of the frescoes. Marco was fighting desperately to pay attention. The domes and faded frescoes and marble crypts and dead saints were all running together now in Bologna, and he caught himself thinking of warmer weather. Then they could stay outdoors and talk. They could visit the city’s lovely parks and if she so much as mentioned a cathedral he would revolt.

She wasn’t thinking of warmer weather. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

"You’ve already done that one," he interrupted when she pointed at a painting above the baptistery.

"I’m sorry. Am I boring you?"

He started to blurt out the truth, but instead said, "No, but I’ve seen enough."

They left the sanctuary and sneaked around behind the church, to her secret pathway that led down a few steps to the best view of the city. The last snow was melting quickly on the red tiled roofs. It was the eighteenth of March.

She lit a cigarette and seemed content to loiter in silence and admire Bologna. "Do you like my city?" she asked, finally.

"Yes, very much.1′

"What do you like about it?"

After six years in prison, any city would do. He thought for a moment, then said, "It’s a real city, with people living where they work. It’s safe and clean, timeless. Things haven’t changed much over the centuries. The people enjoy their history and they’re proud of their accomplishments."

She nodded slightly, approving of his analysis. "I’m baffled by Americans," she said. "When I guide them through Bologna they’re always in a hurry, always anxious to see one sight so they can cross it off the list and move on to the next. They’re always asking about tomorrow, and the next day. Why is this?"

"I’m the wrong person to ask."

"Why?"

"I’m Canadian, remember?"

"You’re not Canadian."

"No, I’m not. I’m from Washington."

"I’ve been there. I’ve never seen so many people racing around, going nowhere. I don’t understand the desire for such a hectic life. Everything has to be so fast-work, food, sex."