The Broker

He treasured the solitude, and the safety of the moment. Why couldn’t he make the climb every morning, and sit high above Bologna with nothing to do but think, and maybe read the newspapers? Perhaps call a friend on the phone and catch up on the gossip?

He’d have to find the friends first.

It was a dream that would not come true.

With Luigi’s very limited cell phone he called Ermanno and canceled their morning session. Then he called Luigi and explained that he didn’t feel like studying.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. I just need a break."

"That’s fine, Marco, but we’re paying Ermanno to teach you, okay? You need to study every day."

"Drop it, Luigi. I’m not studying today." ‘I don’t like this."

"And I don’t care. Suspend me. Kick me out of school."

"Are you upset?"

"No, Luigi, I’m fine. It’s a beautiful day, springtime in Bologna, and I’m going for a long walk."

"Where?"

"No thanks, Luigi. I don’t want company."

"What about lunch?"

Hunger pains shot through Marco’s stomach. Lunch with Luigi was always delicious and he always grabbed the check. "Sure."

"Let me think. I’ll call you back."

"Sure, Luigi. Ciao."

They met at twelve-thirty at Caffe Atene, an ancient dive in an alley, down a few steps from street level. It was a tiny place, with small square tables practically touching each other. The waiters jostled around with trays of food held high overhead. Chefs yelled from the kitchen. The cramped dining room was smoky, loud, and packed with hungry people who enjoyed talking at full volume as they ate. Luigi explained that the restaurant had been around for centuries, tables were impossible to get, and the food was, of course, superb. He suggested they share a plate of calamari to get things started.

After a morning of arguing with himself up at San Luca, Marco had decided not to tell Luigi about his encounter with the FBI. At least not then, not that morning. He might do it the next day, or the next, but for the moment he was still sorting things out. His principal reason for holding back was that he did not want to pack up and run again, not on Luigi’s terms.

If he ran, he would be alone.

He couldn’t begin to imagine why the FBI would be in Bologna, evidently without the knowledge of Luigi and whoever he was working for. He was assuming Luigi knew nothing of their presence. He certainly seemed to be much more concerned with the menu and the wine list. Life was good. Everything was normal.

The lights went out. Suddenly, Caffe Atene was completely dark, and in the next instant a waiter with a tray of someone’s lunch came crashing across their table, yelling and cursing and spilling himself onto both Luigi and Marco. The legs of the antique table buckled and its edge crashed hard onto Marco’s lap. At about the same time, a foot or something hit him hard on the left shoulder. Everyone was yelling. Glass was breaking. Bodies were getting shoved, then from the kitchen someone screamed, "Fire!"

The scramble outside and onto the street was completed without serious injury. The last person out was Marco, who ducked low to avoid the stampede while searching for his navy blue Silvio bag. As always, he had hung its strap over the back of his chair, with the bag resting so close to his body he could usually feel it. It had disappeared in the melee.

The Italians stood in the street and stared in disbelief at the cafe. Their lunch was in there, hah0 eaten and now being ruined. Finally, a thin light puff of smoke emerged and made its way through the door and into the air. A waiter could be seen running by the front tables with a fire extinguisher. Then some more smoke, but not much.

"I lost my bag," Marco said to Luigi as they watched and waited.

"The blue one?"

How many bags do I carry around, Luigi? "Yes, the blue one." He already had suspicions that the bag had been snatched.

A small fire truck with an enormous siren arrived, slid to a stop, and kept wailing as the firemen raced inside. Minutes passed, and the Italians began to drift away. The decisive ones left to find lunch elsewhere while there was still time. The others just kept gawking at this horrible injustice.

The siren was finally neutralized. Evidently the fire was too, and without the need for water being sprayed all over the restaurant. After an hour of discussion and debate and very little firefighting, the situation was under control. "Something in the restroom," a waiter yelled to one of his friends, one of the few remaining weakened and unfed patrons. The lights were back on.

They allowed them back inside to get their coats. Some who’d left in search of other meals were returning to get their things. Luigi became very helpful in the hunt for Marco’s bag. He discussed the situation with the headwaiter, and before long half the staff was scouring the restaurant. Among the excited chatter, Marco heard a waiter say something about a "smoke bomb."

The bag was gone, and Marco knew it.

They had a panino and a beer at a sidewalk cafe, under the sun where they could watch pretty girls stroll by. Marco was preoccupied with the theft, but he worked hard to appear unconcerned.

"Sorry about the bag," Luigi said at one point.

"No big deal."

"I’ll get you another cell phone."

"Thanks."

"What else did you lose?"

"Nothing. Just some maps of the city, some aspirin, a few euros."

In a hotel room a few blocks away, Zellman and Krater had the bag on the bed, its contents neatly arranged. Other than the Ankyo smartphone, there were two maps of Bologna, both well marked and well used but revealing little, four $100 bills, the cell phone Luigi had loaned him, a bottle of aspirin, and the owner’s manual for the Ankyo.

Zellman, the more agile computer whiz of the two, plugged the smartphone into an Internet access jack and was soon fiddling with the menu. "This is good stuff," he was saying, quite impressed with Marco his gadget. "The absolute latest toy on the market."

Not surprisingly, he was stopped by the password. They would have to dissect it at Langley. With his laptop, he e-mailed a message to Julia Javier, passing along the serial number and other information.

Within two hours of the theft, a CIA agent was sitting in the parking lot outside Chatter in suburban Alexandria, waiting for the store to open.

From a distance he watched her shuffle along gamely, bravely, with her cane down the sidewalk beside Via Minzoni. He followed and was soon fifty feet away. Today she wore brown suede boots, no doubt for the support. The boots had low heels. Flat shoes would We been more comfortable, but then she was Italian and fashion always took priority. The light brown skirt stopped at her knees. She was wearing a tight wool sweater, bright red in color, and it was the first time he’d seen her when she wasn’t bundled up for cold weather. No overcoat to hide her really nice figure.

She was walking cautiously and limping slightly, but with a determination that gave him heart. It was just coffee at Nino’s, for an hour or two of Italian. And it was all for him!

And the money.

For a moment he thought about her money. Whatever the dire situation with her poor husband, and her seasonal work as a tour guide, she managed to dress stylishly and live in a beautifully decorated apartment. Giovanni had been a professor. Perhaps he’d saved carefully over the years, and now his illness was straining their budget.

Whatever. Marco had his own problems. He’d just lost $400 in cash and his only lifeline to the outside world. People who weren’t sup posed to know his whereabouts now knew his exact address. Nine hours earlier he’d heard his real name used on Via Fondazza.