The Broker

PROBE SEARCHES FOR JOEL BACKMAN.

Citing a host of unnamed sources, Frick reported that the FBI’s cash-for-pardon investigation had intensified and was expanding to include specific individuals who were granted reprieves by former president Arthur Morgan. Duke Mongo was named as a "person of in terest,’ a euphemism often tossed about when the authorities wanted to taint a person they were unable to formally indict. Mongo, though, was hospitalized and rumored to be gasping for his last breath.

The probe was now focusing its attention on Joel Backman, whose eleventh-hour pardon had shocked and outraged many, according to Frick’s gratuitous analysis. Backman’s mysterious disappearance had only fueled the speculation that he’d bought himself a pardon and fled to avoid the obvious questions. Old rumors were still out there, Frick reminded everyone, and various unnamed and supposedly trustworthy sources hinted that the theory about Backman burying a fortune had not been officially laid to rest.

"What garbage!" Sandberg snarled as he scrolled down the screen. He knew the facts better than anyone. This crap could not be substantiated. Backman had not paid for a pardon.

No one even remotely connected with the former president would say a word. For now, the probe was just a probe, with no formal investigation under way, but the heavy federal artillery was not far away. An eager US. attorney was clamoring to get started. He didn’t have his grand jury yet, but his office was sitting on go, waiting on word from the Justice Department.

Frick wrapped it all up with two paragraphs about Backman, historical rehash that the paper had run before.

"Just filler!" Sandberg fumed.

The President read it too but had a different reaction. He made some notes and saved them until seven-thirty, when Susan Penn, his interim director of the CIA, arrived for the morning briefing. The PDB-president’s daily briefing-had historically been handled by the director himself, always in the Oval Office and normally the first item of the day’s business. But Teddy Maynard and his rotten health had changed the routine, and for the past ten years the briefings had been done by someone else. Now traditions were being honored again.

An eight – to ten-page summary of intelligence matters was placed on the President’s desk precisely at 7:00 a.m. After almost two months in office, he had developed the habit of reading every word of it. He found it fascinating. His predecessor had once boasted that he read hardly anything-books, newspapers, magazines. Certainly not legislation, policies, treaties, or daily briefings. He’d often had trouble reading his own speeches. Things were much different now.

Susan Penn was driven in an armored car from her Georgetown home to the White House, where she arrived each morning at 7:15. Along the way she read the daily summary, which was prepared by the CIA. On page four that morning was an item about Joel Backman. He was attracting the attention of some very dangerous people, perhaps even Sammy Tin.

The President greeted her warmly and had coffee waiting by the sofa. They were alone, as always, and they went right to work.

"You’ve seen The New York Times this morning?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What are the chances that Backman paid for a pardon?"

"Very slim. As I’ve explained before, he had no idea one was in the works. He didn’t have time to arrange things. Plus, we’re quite confident he didn’t have the money."

"Then why was Backman pardoned?’

Susan Penn’s loyalty to Teddy Maynard was fast becoming history. Teddy was gone, and would soon be dead, but she, at the age of forty-four, had a career left. Perhaps a long one. She and the President were working well together. He seemed in no hurry to appoint his new director.

"Frankly, Teddy wanted him dead."

"Why? What is your recollection of why Mr. Maynard wanted him dead?"

"It’s a long story-"

"No, it’s not."

"We don’t know everything."

"You know enough. Tell me what you know."

She tossed her copy of the summary on the sofa and took a deep breath. "Backman and Jacy Hubbard got in way over their heads. They had this software, JAM, that their clients had stupidly brought to the United States, to their office, looking for a fortune."

"These clients were the young Pakistanis, right?"

"Yes, and they’re all dead."

"Do you know who killed them?"

"No."

"Do you know who killed Jacy Hubbard?"

"No."

The President stood with his coffee and walked to his desk. He sat on the edge and glared across the room at her. "I find it hard to believe that we don’t know these tilings."

"Frankly, so do I. And it’s not because we haven’t tried. It’s one reason Teddy worked so hard to get Backman pardoned. Sure, he wanted him dead, just on general principle-the two have a history and Teddy has always considered Backman to be a traitor. But he also felt strongly that Backman’s murder might tell us something."

"What?"

"Depends on who kills him. If the Russians do it, then we can believe the satellite system belonged to the Russians. Same for the Chinese. If the Israelis kill him, then there’s a good chance Backman and Hubbard tried to sell their product to the Saudis. If the Saudis get to him, then we can believe that Backman double-crossed them. We’re almost certain that the Saudis thought they had a deal."

"But Backman screwed them?"

"Maybe not. We think Hubbard his death changed everything. Backman packed his bags and ran away to prison. All deals were off."

The President walked back to the coffee table and refilled his cup. He sat across from her and shook his head. "You expect me to believe that three young Pakistani hackers tapped into a satellite system so sophisticated that we didn’t even know about it?"

"Yes. They were brilliant, but they also got lucky. Then they not only hacked their way in, but they wrote some amazing programs that manipulated it."

"And that’s JAM?"

"That’s what they called it."

"Has anybody ever seen the software?"

"The Saudis. That’s how we know that it not only exists but probably works as well as advertised."

"Where is the software now?"

"No one knows, except, maybe, Backman himself."

A long pause as the President sipped his lukewarm coffee. Then he rested his elbows on his knees and said, "What’s best for us, Susan? What’s in our best interests?"

She didn’t hesitate. "To follow Teddy’s plan. Backman will be eliminated. The software hasn’t been seen in six years, so it’s probably gone too. The satellite system is up there, but whoever owns it can’t play with it."

Another sip, another pause. The President shook his head and said, "So be it."

Neal Backman didn’t read The New York Times, but he did a quick search each morning for his father’s name. When he ran across Frick’s story, he attached it to an e-mail and sent it with the morning message from Jerry’s Java.

At his desk, he read the story again, and relived the old rumors of how much money the broker had buried while the firm was collapsing. He’d never asked his father the question point-blank, because he knew he would not get a straight answer. Over the years, though, he had come to accept the common belief that Joel Backman was as broke as most convicted felons.

Then why did he have the nagging feeling that the cash-for – pardon scheme could be true? Because if anyone buried so deep in a federal prison could pull off such a miracle, it was his father. But how did he get to Bologna, Italy? And why? Who was after him?