The Broker

"There’s a new account on the island of Nevis," Hoby said. "It popped up two weeks ago, opened by an obscure company owned by Floyd Dunlap."

"And who’s he?"

"One of Morgan’s fundraisers."

"Why Nevis?"

"It’s the current hot spot for offshore activity."

"And we’re covering it?"

"We’re all over it. Any transfers should take place in the next forty-eight hours."

Teddy nodded slightly and glanced to his left for a partial look at the Kennedy Center. "Where’s Backman?"

"He’s leaving prison."

Teddy smiled and sipped his tea. They crossed the bridge in silence, and when the Potomac was behind them, he finally said, "Who’ll get him?"

"Does it really matter?"

"No, it doesn’t. But it will be quite enjoyable watching the contest."

Wearing a well-worn but starched and pressed khaki military uniform, with all the patches and badges removed, and shiny black combat boots and a heavy navy parka with a hood that he pulled snugly around his head, Joel Backman strutted out of the Rudley Federal Correctional Facility at five minutes after midnight, fourteen years ahead of schedule. He had been there, in solitary confinement, for six years, and upon leaving he carried with him a small canvas bag with a few books and some photos. He did not look back.

He was fifty-two years old, divorced, broke, thoroughly estranged from two of his three children and thoroughly forgotten by every friend he’d ever made. Not a single one had bothered to maintain a correspondence beyond the first year of his confinement. An old girlfriend, one of the countless secretaries he’d chased around his plush offices, had written for ten months, until it was reported in The Washington Post that the FBI had decided it was unlikely that Joel Backman had looted his firm and his clients of the millions that had first been rumored. Who wants to be pen pals with a broke lawyer in prison? A wealthy one, maybe.

His mother wrote him occasionally, but she was ninety-one years old and living in a low-rent nursing home near Oakland, and with each letter he got the impression it would be her last. He wrote her once a week, but doubted if she was able to read anything, and he was almost certain that no one on staff had the time or interest to read to her. She always said, "Thanks for the letter," but never mentioned anything he’d said. He sent her cards on special occasions. In one of her letters she had confessed that no one else remembered her birthday.

The boots were very heavy. As he plodded along the sidewalk he realized that he’d spent most of the past six years in his socks, no shoes. Funny the things you think about when you get sprung with no warning. When was the last time he’d worn boots? And how soon could he shuck the damn things?

He stopped for a second and looked toward the sky. For one hour each day, he’d been allowed to roam a small patch of grass outside his prison wing. Always alone, always watched by a guard, as if he, Joel Backman, a former lawyer who’d never fired a gun in anger, might suddenly become dangerous and maim someone. The "garden" was lined with ten feet of chain-link topped with razor wire. Beyond it was an empty drainage canal, and beyond that was an endless, treeless prairie that stretched to Texas, he presumed.

Mr. Sizemore and Agent Adair were his escorts. They led him to a dark green sport-utility vehicle that, though unmarked, practically screamed "government issue" to anyone looking. Joel crawled into the backseat, alone, and began praying. He closed his eyes tightly, gritted his teeth, and asked God to please allow the engine to start, the wheels to move, the gates to open, the paperwork to be sufficient; please, God, no cruel jokes. This is not a dream, God, please!

Twenty minutes later, Sizemore spoke first. "Say, Mr. Backman, are you hungry?"

Mr. Backman had ceased praying and had begun crying. The vehicle had been moving steadily, though he had not opened his eyes. He was lying on the rear seat, fighting his emotions and losing badly.

"Sure," he managed to say. He sat up and looked outside. They were on an interstate highway, a green sign flew by-Perry Exit. They stopped in the parking lot of a pancake house, less than a quarter of a mile from the interstate. Big trucks were in the distance, their diesel engines grinding along. Joel watched them for a second, and listened. He glanced upward again and saw a half-moon.

"Are we in a hurry?" he asked Sizemore as they entered the restaurant.

"We’re on schedule," came the reply.

They sat at a table near the front window, with Joel looking out. He ordered french toast and fruit, nothing heavy because he was afraid his system was too accustomed to the gruel he’d been living on. Conversation was stiff; the two government boys were programmed to say little and were thoroughly incapable of small talk. Not that Joel wanted to hear anything they had to say.

He tried not to smile. Sizemore would report later that Backman glanced occasionally at the door and seemed to keep a close eye on the other customers. He did not appear to be frightened; quite the contrary. As the minutes dragged on and the shock wore off, he seemed to adjust quickly and became somewhat animated. He devoured two orders of french toast and had four cups of black coffee.

A few minutes after 4:00 a.m. they entered the gates of Fort Summit, near Brinkley, Texas. Backman was taken to the base hospital and examined by two physicians. Except for a head cold and the cough, and general gauntness, he wasnt in bad shape. He was then taken to a hangar where he met a Colonel Gantner, who instantly became his best friend. At Gantner’s instructions, and under his close supervision, Joel changed into a green army jumpsuit with the name herzog stenciled above the right pocket. "Is that me?" Joel asked, looking at the name.

"It is for the next forty-eight hours," Gantner said.

"And my rank?’

"Major."

"Not bad."

At some point during this quick briefing, Mr. Sizemore from Washington and Agent Adair slipped away, never to be seen again by Joel Backman. With the first hint of sunlight, Joel stepped through the rear hatch of a C-130 cargo plane and followed Gantner to the upper level, to a small bunk room where six other soldiers were preparing for a long flight.

"Take that bunk," Gantner said, pointing to one close to the floor.

"Can I ask where we’re going?" Joel whispered.

"You can ask, but I can’t answer."

"Just curious."

"I’ll brief you before we land."

"And when might that be?"

"In about fourteen hours."

With no windows to distract him, Joel situated himself on his bunk, pulled a blanket over his head, and was snoring by takeoff.

Critz slept a few hours, then left home long before the inauguration mess began. Just after dawn, he and his wife were whisked off to London on one of his new employer’s many private jets. He was to spend two weeks there, then return to the grind of the Beltway as a new lobbyist playing a very old game. He hated the idea. For years he’d watched the losers cross the street and start new careers twisting the arms of their former colleagues, selling their souls to anyone with enough money to buy whatever influence they advertised. It was such a rotten business. He was sick of the political life, but, sadly, he knew nothing else.

He’d make some speeches, maybe write a book, hang on for a few years hoping someone remembered him. But Critz knew how quickly the once powerful are forgotten in Washington.

President Morgan and Director Maynard had agreed to sit on the Backman story for twenty-four hours, until well after the inauguration. Morgan didn’t care; he’d be in Barbados. Critz, however, did not feel bound by any agreement, especially one made with the likes of Teddy Maynard. After a long dinner with lots of wine, sometime around 2:00 a.m. in London, he called a White House correspondent for CBS and whispered the basics of the Backman pardon. As he pre dieted, CBS broke the story during its early-morning gossip hour, and before 8:00 a.m. the news was roaring around D.C.