The Broker

He could think of nothing but the Times story. To see his name plastered across the front page brought back painful memories, and that was unsettling enough. But to be accused of bribing the President was actionable at law, and in another life he would have started the day by shotgunning lawsuits at everyone involved. He would have owned The New York Times.

But what kept him awake were the questions. What would the attention mean for him now? Would Luigi snatch him again and run away?

And the most important: Was he in more danger today than yesterday?

Chapter Fourteen

He was surviving nicely, tucked away in a lovely city where no one knew his real name. No one recognized his face. No one cared. The Bolognesi went about their lives without disturbing others.

Not even he recognized himself. Each morning when he finished shaving and put on his glasses and his brown corduroy driver’s cap, he stood at the mirror and said hello to Marco. Long gone were the fleshy jowls and puffy dark eyes, the thicker, longer hair. Long gone was the smirk and the arrogance. Now he was just another quiet man on the street.

Marco was living one day at a time, and the days were piling up. No one who read the Times story knew where Marco was or what he was doing.

He passed a man in a dark suit and instantly knew he was in trouble. The suit was out of place. It was a foreign variety, something bought off the rack in a low-end store, one he’d seen every day in another life. The white shirt was the same monotonous button-down he’d seen for thirty years in D.C. He’d once considered floating an office memo banning blue-and-white cotton button-downs, but Carl Pratt had talked him out of it.

He couldn’t tell the color of the tie.

It was not the type of suit you’d ever see under the porticoes along Via Fondazza before dawn, or at any other time for that matter. He took a few steps, glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the suit was now following him. White guy, thirty years old, thick, athletic, the clear winner in a footrace or a fistfight. So Marco used another strategy. He suddenly stopped, turned around, and said, "You want something?"

To which someone else said, "Over here, Backman."

Hearing his name stopped him cold. For a second his knees were rubbery, his shoulders sagged, and he told himself that no, he was not dreaming. In a flash he thought of all the horrors the word "Backman" brought with it. How sad to be so terrified of your own name.

There were two of them. The one with the voice arrived on the scene from the other side of Via Fondazza. He had basically the same suit, but with a bold white shirt with no buttons on the collar. He was older, shorter, and much thinner. Mutt and Jeff. Thick ‘n’ Thin.

"What do you want?" Marco said.

They were slowly reaching for their pockets. "We’re with the FBI," the thick one said. American English, probably Midwest.

"Sure you are," Marco said.

They went through the required ritual of flashing their badges, but under the darkness of the portico Marco could read nothing. The dim light over an apartment door helped a little. "I can’t read those," he said.

"Let’s take a walk," said the thin one. Boston, Irish. "Walk" came out "wok."

"You guys lost?" Marco said without moving. He didn’t want to move, and his feet were quite heavy anyway.

"We know exactly where we are."

"I doubt that. You got a warrant?’

"We don’t need one."

The thick one made the mistake of touching Marco his left elbow, as if he would help him move along to where they wanted to go. Marco jerked away. "Don’t touch me! You boys get lost. You can’t make an arrest here. All you can do is talk."

"Fine, let’s go have a chat," said the thin one.

"I don’t have to talk."

"There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks away," said the thick one.

"Great, have some coffee. And a pastry. But leave me alone."

Thick ‘n’ Thin looked at each other, then glanced around, not sure what to do next, not sure what plan B entailed.

Marco wasn’t moving; not that he felt very safe where he was, but he could almost see a dark car waiting around the corner.

Where the hell is Luigi right now? he asked himself. Is this part of his conspiracy?

He’d been discovered, found, unmasked, called by his real name on Via Fondazza. This would certainly mean another move, another safe house.

The thin one decided to take control of the encounter. "Sure, we can meet right here. There are a lot of folks back home who’d like to talk to you."

"Maybe that’s why I’m over here."

"We’re investigating the pardon you bought."

"Then you’re wasting a helluva lot of time and money, which would surprise no one."

"We have some questions about the transaction."

"What a stupid investigation," Marco said, spitting the words down at the thin one. For the first time in many years he felt like the broker again, berating some haughty bureaucrat or dim-witted congressman. "The FBI spends good money sending two clowns like you all the way to Bologna, Italy, to tackle me on a sidewalk so you can ask me questions that no fool in his right mind would answer. You’re a couple of dumbasses, you know that? Go back home and tell your boss that he’s a dumbass too. And while you’re talking to him, tell him he’s wasting a lot of time and money if he thinks I paid for a pardon."

"So you deny-"

"I deny nothing. I admit nothing. I say nothing, except that this is the FBI at its absolute worst. You boys are in deep water and you can’t swim."

Back home they’d slap him around a little, push him, curse him, swap insults. But on foreign soil they weren’t sure how to behave. Their orders were to find him, to see if he did in fact live where the CIA said he was living. And if found, they were supposed to jolt him, scare him, hit him with some questions about wire transfers and offshore accounts.

They had it all mapped out and had rehearsed it many times. But under the porticoes of Via Fondazza, Mr. Lazzeri was annihilating their plans.

"We’re not leaving Bologna until we talk," said the thick one.

"Congratulations, you’re in for a long vacation."

"We have our orders, Mr. Backman."

"And I’ve got mine."

"Just a few questions, please," said the thin one.

"Go see my lawyer," Marco said, and began to walk away, in the direction of his apartment.

"Who’s your lawyer?"

"Carl Pratt."

They weren’t moving, weren’t following, and Marco picked up his pace. He crossed the street, glanced quickly at his safe house, but didn’t slow down. If they wanted to follow, they waited too long. By the time he darted onto Via del Piombo, he knew they could never find him. These were his streets now, his alleys, his darkened doorways to shops that wouldn’t open for three more hours.

They found him on Via Fondazza only because they knew his address.

At the southwestern edge of old Bologna, near the Porto San Stefano, he caught a city bus and rode it for half an hour, until he stopped near the train station at the northern perimeter. There he caught another bus and rode into the center of the city. The buses were filling; the early risers were getting to work. A third bus took him across the city again to the Porta Saragozza, where he began the 3.6kilometer hike up to San Luca. At the four-hundredth arch he stopped to catch his breath, and between the columns he looked down and waited for someone to come sneaking up behind him. There was no one back there, as he expected.

He slowed his pace and finished the climb in fifty-five minutes. Behind the Santuario di San Luca he followed the narrow pathway where Francesca had fallen, and finally parked himself on the bench where she had waited. From there, his early-morning view of Bologna was magnificent. He removed his parka to cool off. The sun was up, the air was as light and clear as any he’d ever breathed, and for a long time Marco sat very much alone and watched the city come to life.