The Broker

He slowed and allowed her to enter Nino’s, where she was again greeted like a beloved member of the family by Nino’s boys. Then he circled the block to give them time to get her situated, to fuss over her, bring her coffee, chat for a moment and catch up on the neighborhood gossip. Ten minutes after she arrived, he walked through the door and got bear-hugged by Nino’s youngest son. A friend of Francesca’s was a friend for life.

Her moods changed so much that Marco did not know what to expect. He was still touched by the warmth of yesterday, but he knew that the indifference could return today. When she smiled and grabbed his hand and started all the cheek pecking he knew instantly the lesson would be the highlight of a rotten day.

When they were finally alone he asked about her husband. Things had not changed. "It’s only a matter of days," she said with stiff lip, as if she’d already accepted death and was ready for the grieving.

He asked about her mother, Signora Altonelli, and got a full report. She was baking a pear torta, one of Giovanni’s favorites, just in case he got a whiff of it from the kitchen.

"And how was your day?" she asked.

It would be impossible to fictionalize a worse set of occurrences. From the shock of hearing his real name barked through the darkness, to being the victim of a carefully staged theft, he couldn’t imagine a worse day.

‘A little excitement during lunch," he said.

"Tell me about it."

He described his hike up to San Luca, to the spot where she fell, her bench, the views, the canceled session with Ermanno, lunch with Luigi, the fire but not the loss of his bag. She had not noticed the absence of it until he told the story.

"There’s so little crime in Bologna," she said, half apologetic. "I know Caffe Atene. It’s not a place for thieves."

These were probably not Italians, he wanted to say, but managed to nod gravely as if to say: Yes, yes, what’s the world coming to?

When the small talk was over, she switched gears like a stern professor and said she was in the mood to tackle some verbs. He said he was not, but his moods were unimportant. She drilled him on the future tense of abitare (to live) and vedere (to see). Then she made him weave both verbs in all tenses into a hundred random sentences. Far from being distracted, she pounced on any wayward accent. A grammatical mistake prompted a quick reprimand, as if he’d just insulted the entire country.

She had spent the day penned up in her apartment, with a dying husband and a busy mother. The lesson was her only chance to release some energy. Marco, however, was exhausted. The stress of the day was taking its toll, but Francesca’s high-octane demands took his mind off his fatigue and confusion. One hour passed quickly. They recharged with more coffee, and she launched into the murky and difficult world of the subjunctive-present, imperfect, and past perfect. Finally, he began to founder. She tried to prop him up with reassurances that the subjunctive sinks a lot of students. But he was tired and ready to sink.

He surrendered after two hours, thoroughly drained and in need of another long walk. It took fifteen minutes to say goodbye to Nino’s boys. He happily escorted her back to her apartment. They hugged and pecked cheeks and promised to study tomorrow.

If he walked as directly as possible, his apartment was twenty – five minutes away. But he had not walked directly to any place in more than a month.

He began to wander.

At 4:00 p.m., eight of the ktdon were on Via Fondazza, at various points-one drinking coffee at a sidewalk cafe, three strolling aimlessly a block apart, one cruising back and forth on a scooter, and one looking out a window from the third floor.

Half a mile away, outside the central city, on the second floor above a flower shop owned by an elderly Jew, the four other members of the kidon were playing cards and waiting nervously. One, Ari, was one of the top English interrogators within the Mossad.

They played with little conversation. The night ahead would be long and unpleasant.

Throughout the day, Marco had struggled with the question of whether to return to Via Fondazza. The FBI boys could still be there,

ready for another ugly confrontation. He felt sure they would not be stiff-armed so easily. They wouldn’t simply call it quits and catch a plane. They had superiors back home who demanded results.

Though far from certain, he had a strong hunch that Luigi was behind the theft of his Silvio bag. The fire had not really been a fire; it was more of a diversion, a reason for the lights to go off and a cover for someone to grab the bag.

He didn’t trust Luigi because he trusted no one.

They had his cute little smartphone. Neal’s codes were in there somewhere. Could they be broken? Could the trail lead to his son? Marco had not the slightest idea how those things worked, what was possible, what was impossible.

The urge to leave Bologna was overwhelming. Where to go and how to get there were questions he had not sorted out. He was rambling now, and he felt vulnerable, almost helpless. Every face glancing at him was someone else who knew his real name. At a crowded bus stop he cut the line and climbed on, not sure where he was going. The bus was packed with weary commuters, shoulder to shoulder as they bounced along. Through the windows he watched the foot traffic under the marvelous crowded porticoes of the city center.

At the last second he jumped off, then walked three blocks along Via San Vitale until he saw another bus. He rode in circles for almost an hour, then finally stepped off near the train station. He drifted with another crowd, then darted across Via dell’ Indipendenza to the bus station. Inside he found the departures, saw that one was leaving in ten minutes for Piacenza, an hour and a half away with five stops in between. He bought a ticket for thirty euros and hid in the restroom until the last minute. The bus was almost full. The seats were wide with high headrests, and as the bus moved slowly through heavy traffic, Marco almost nodded off. Then he caught himself. Sleeping was not permissible.

This was it-the escape he’d been contemplating since the first day in Bologna. He’d become convinced that to survive he would be forced to disappear, to leave Luigi behind and make it on his own. He had often wondered exactly how and when the flight would begin. What would trigger it? A face? A threat? Would he take a bus or train, cab or plane? Where would he go? Where would he hide? Would his rudimentary Italian get him through it? How much money would he have at the time?

This was it. It was happening. There was no turning back now.

The first stop was the small village of Bazzano, fifteen kilometers west of Bologna. Marco got off the bus and did not get back on. Again, he hid in the restroom of the station until the bus was gone, then crossed the street to a bar where he ordered a beer and asked the bartender about the nearest hotel.

Over his second beer he asked about the train station, and learned that Bazzano did not have one. Only buses, said the bartender.

Albergo Cantino was near the center of the village, five or six blocks away. It was dark when he arrived at the front desk, with no bags, something that did not go unnoticed by the signora who handled things.

"I’d like a room," he said in Italian.

"For how many nights?"

"Only one."

"The rate is fifty-five euros."

"Fine."

"Your passport, please."

"Sorry, but I lost it."

Her plucked and painted eyebrows arched in great suspicion, then she began shaking her head. "Sorry."

Marco laid two hundred-euro bills on the counter in front of her. The bribe was obvious-just take the cash, no paperwork, and give me a key.

More shaking, more frowning.