The Broker

"You must have a passport," she said. Then she folded her arms across her chest, jerked her chin upward, braced for the next exchange. There was no way she was going to lose.

Outside, Marco walked the streets of the strange town. He found a bar and ordered coffee; no more alcohol, he had to keep his wits.

"Where can I find a taxi?" he asked the bartender.

"At the bus station."

By 9:00 p.m. Luigi was walking the floors of his apartment, waiting for Marco to return next door. He called Francesca and she re ported that they had studied that afternoon; in fact they’d had a delightful lesson. Great, he thought.

His disappearance was part of the plan, but Whitaker and Langley thought it would take a few more days. Had they lost him already? That quickly? There were now five agents very close by-Luigi, Zellman, Krater, and two others sent from Milano.

Luigi had always questioned the plan. In a city the size of Bologna it was impossible to maintain physical surveillance of a person twenty-four hours a day. Luigi had argued almost violently that the only way for the plan to work was to stash Backman away in a small village where his movements were limited, his options few, and his visitors much more visible. That had been the original plan, but the details had been abruptly changed in Washington.

At 9:12, a buzzer quietly went off in the kitchen. He hurried to the monitors in the kitchen. Marco was home. His front door was opening. Luigi stared at the digital image from the hidden camera in the ceiling of the living room next door.

Two strangers-not Marco. Two men in their thirties, dressed like regular guys. They closed the door quickly, quietly, professionally, then began looking around. One carried a small black bag of some sort.

They were good, very good. To pick the lock of the safe house they had to be very good.

Luigi smiled with excitement. With a little luck, his cameras were about to record Marco getting nabbed. Maybe they would kill him right there in the living room, captured on film. Perhaps the plan would work after all.

He flipped the audio switches and increased the volume. Language was crucial here. Where were they from? What was their tongue? There were no sounds, though, as they moved about silently. They whispered once or twice, but he could barely hear it.

The taxi made an abrupt stop on Via Gramsci, near the bus and train stations. From the backseat, Marco handed over enough cash, then ducked between two parked cars and was soon lost in the darkness. His escape from Bologna had been very brief indeed, but then it wasn’t exactly over. He zigzagged out of habit, looping back, watching his own trail.

On Via Minzoni he moved quickly under the porticoes and stopped at her apartment building. He didn’t have the luxury of second thoughts, of hesitating or guessing. He rang twice, desperately hoping that Francesca, and not Signora Altonelli, would answer.

"Who is it?" came that lovely voice.

"Francesca, it’s me, Marco. I need some help."

A very slight pause, then, "Yes, of course."

She met him at her door on the second floor and invited him in. Much to his dismay, Signora Altonelli was still there, standing in the kitchen door with a hand towel, watching his entrance very closely.

"Are you all right?" Francesca asked in Italian.

"English, please," he said, looking and smiling at her mother.

"Yes, of course."

"I need a place to stay tonight. I can’t get a room because I have no passport. I can’t even bribe my way into a small hotel."

"That’s the law in Europe, you know."

"Yes, I’m learning."

She waved at the sofa, then turned to her mother and asked her to make some coffee. They sat down. He noticed she was barefoot and moving about without the cane, though she still needed it. She wore tight jeans and a baggy sweater and looked as cute as a coed.

"Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?" she said.

"It’s a complicated story and I can’t tell you most of it. Let’s just say that I don’t feel very safe right now, that I really need to leave Bologna, as soon as possible."

"Where are you going?"

"I’m not sure. Somewhere out of Italy, out of Europe, to a place where I’ll hide again."

"How long will you hide?"

"A long time. I’m not sure."

She stared at him coldly, without blinking. He stared back because even when cold, the eyes were beautiful. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Well, I’m certainly not Marco Lazzeri."

"What are you running from?"

"My past, and it’s rapidly catching up with me. I’m not a criminal, Francesca. I was once a lawyer. I got in some trouble. I served my time. I’ve been fully pardoned. I’m not a bad guy."

"Why is someone after you?"

"It was a business deal six years ago. Some very nasty people are not happy with how the deal was finished. They blame me. They would like to find me."

"To kill you?"

"Yes. That’s what they’d like to do."

"This is very confusing. Why did you come here? Why did Luigi help you? Why did he hire me and Ermanno? I don’t understand."

"And I can’t answer those questions. Two months ago I was in prison, and I thought I would be there for another fourteen years. Suddenly, I’m free. I was given a new identity, brought here, hidden first in Treviso, now Bologna. I think they want to kill me here."

"Here! In Bologna!"

He nodded and looked toward the kitchen as Signora Altonelli appeared with a tray of coffee, and also a pear torta that had not yet been sliced. As she placed it delicately on a small plate for Marco, he realized that he had not eaten since lunch.

Lunch with Luigi. Lunch with the fake fire and the stolen smart – phone. He thought of Neal again and worried about his safety.

"It’s delicious," he said to her mother in Italian. Francesca was not eating. She watched every move he made, every bite, every sip of coffee. When her mother went back to the kitchen, she said, "Who does Luigi work for?"

"I’m not sure. Probably the CIA. You know the CIA?"

"Yes. I read spy novels. The CIA put you here?"

"I think the CIA got me out of prison, out of the country, and here to Bologna where they’ve hidden me in a safe house while they try and figure out what to do with me."

"Will they kill you?"

"Maybe."

"Luigi?"

"Possibly."

She placed her cup on the table and fiddled with her hair for a while. "Would you like some water?" she asked as she got to her feet.

"No thanks."

"I need to move a little," she said as she carefully placed weight on her left foot. She walked slowly into the kitchen, where things were quiet for a moment before an argument broke out. She and her mother were disagreeing rather heatedly, but they were forced to do so in loud, tense whispers.

It dragged on for a few minutes, died down, then flared up as neither side seemed ready to yield. Finally, Francesca came limping back with a small bottle of San Pellegrino and took her place on the sofa.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

"I told her you wanted to sleep here tonight. She misunderstood."

"Come on. I’ll sleep in the closet. I don’t care."

"She’s very old-fashioned."

"Is she staying here tonight?"

"She is now."

Chapter Fifteen

"Just give me a pillow. I’ll sleep on the kitchen table."

Signora Altonelli was a different person when she returned to remove the coffee tray. She glared at Marco as if he’d already molested her daughter. She glared at Francesca as if she wanted to slap her. She huffed around the kitchen for a few minutes, then retired somewhere back in the apartment.