The Broker

"Are you sleepy?’ Francesca asked.

"No. You?"

"No. Let’s talk."

"Okay."

"Tell me everything."

He slept a few hours on the sofa, and was awakened by Francesca tapping on his shoulder. "I have an idea," she said. "Follow me."

He followed her to the kitchen, where a clock read 4:15. On the counter by the sink was a disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, a pair of eyeglasses, and a bottle of hair something or other-he couldn’t translate it. She handed him a small burgundy leather case and said, "This is a passport. Giovanni’s."

He almost dropped it. "No, I can’t-"

"Yes, you can. He won’t be needing it. I insist."

Marco slowly opened it and looked at the distinguished face of a man he’d never meet. The expiration date was seven months away, so the photo was almost five years old. He found the birthday-Giovanni was now sixty-eight years old, a good twenty years older than his wife.

During the cab ride back from Bazzano, he’d thought of nothing but a passport. He’d thought about stealing one from an unsuspecting tourist. He’d thought about buying one somewhere on the black market but had no idea where to go. And he’d pondered Giovanni’s, one that, sadly, was about to be useless. Null and void.

But he’d dismissed the thought for fear of endangering Francesca. What if he got caught? What if an immigration guard at an airport got suspicious and called his supervisor over? But his biggest fear was getting caught by the people who were chasing him. The passport could implicate her, and he would never do that.

‘Are you sure?" he asked. Now that he was holding the passport he really wanted to keep it.

"Please, Marco, I want to help. Giovanni would insist."

"I don’t know what to say."

"We have work to do. There’s a bus for Parma that leaves in two hours. It would be a safe way out of town."

"I want to get to Milano," he said.

"Good idea."

She took the passport and opened it. They studied the photo of her husband. "Let’s start with that thing around your mouth," she said.

Ten minutes later the mustache and goatee were gone, his face completely shaven. She held a mirror for him as he hovered over the kitchen sink. Giovanni at sixty-three had less gray hair than Marco at fifty-two, but then he’d not had the experience of a federal indictment and six years in prison.

He assumed the hair coloring was something she used, but he was not about to ask. It promised results in an hour. He sat in a chair facing the table with a towel draped over his shoulders while she gently worked the solution through his hair. Very little was said. Her mother was asleep. Her husband was still and quiet and heavily medicated.

Not long ago Giovanni the professor had worn round tortoiseshell eyeglasses, light brown, quite the academic look, and when Marco put them on and studied his new look he was startled at the change. His hair was much darker, his eyes much different. He hardly recognized himself.

"Not bad" was her assessment of her own work. "It will do for now."

She brought in a navy corduroy sports coat, with well-worn patches on the elbows. "He’s about two inches shorter than you," she said. The sleeves needed another inch, and the jacket wouldVe been tight through the chest, but Marco was so thin these days that anything would swallow him.

"What’s your real name?" she said as she tugged on the sleeves and adjusted the collar. ¦Joel."

"I think you should travel with a briefcase. It will look normal."

He couldn’t argue. Her generosity was overwhelming, and he needed every damned bit of it. She left, then came back with a beautiful old briefcase, tan leather with a silver buckle.

"I don’t know what to say," Marco mumbled.

"It’s Giovanni’s favorite, a gift from me twenty years ago. Italian leather."

"Of course."

"If you get caught somehow with the passport, what will you say?" she asked.

"I stole it. You’re my tutor. I was in your home as a guest. I managed to find the drawer with your documents, and I stole your husband’s passport."

"You’re a good liar."

"At one time, I was one of the best. If I get caught, Francesca, I will protect you. I promise. I will tell lies that will baffle everyone."

"You won’t get caught. But use the passport as little as possible."

"Don’t worry. I’ll destroy it as soon as I can."

"Do you need money?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I have a thousand euros here."

"No, Francesca, but thanks."

"You’d better hurry."

He followed her to the front door where they stopped and looked at each other. "Do you spend much time online?" he asked.

"A little each day."

"Check out Joel Backman, start with The Washington Post. There’s a lot of stuff there, but don’t believe everything you read. I’m not the monster they’ve created."

"You’re not a monster at all, Joel."

"I don’t know how to thank you."

She took his right hand and squeezed it with both of hers. "Will you ever return to Bologna?" she asked. It was more of an invitation than a question.

"I don’t know. I really don’t have any idea whats about to happen. But, maybe. Can I knock on your door if I make it back?"

"Please do. Be careful out there."

He stood in the shadows of Via Minzoni for a few minutes, not wanting to leave her, not ready to begin the long journey.

Then there was a cough from under the darkened porticoes across the street, and Giovanni Ferro was on the run.

AS THE HOURS PASSED WITH EXCRUCIATING SLOWNESS, LUIGI GRADUALLY moved from worry to panic. One of two things had happened: either the hit had already occurred, or Marco had gotten wind of something and was trying to flee. Luigi worried about the stolen bag. Was it too strong a move? Had it scared Marco to the point of disappearing?

The expensive smartphone had shaken everyone. Their boy had been doing much more than studying Italian, walking the streets, and sampling every cafe and bar in town. He’d been planning, and communicating.

The smartphone was in a lab in the basement of the American embassy in Milan, where, according to the latest from Whitaker, and they were talking every fifteen minutes, the technicians had been unable to crack its codes.

A few minutes after midnight, the two intruders next door evidently got tired of waiting. As they were making their exit, they spoke a few words loud enough to be recorded. It was English with a trace of an accent. Luigi had immediately called Whitaker and reported that they were probably Israeli. He was correct. The two agents were instructed by Efraim to leave the apartment and take up other positions.

When they left, Luigi decided to send Krater to the bus station and Zellman to the train station. With no passport, Marco could not buy a plane ticket. Luigi decided to ignore the airport. But, as he told Whitaker, if their boy can somehow buy a state-of-the-art cell phone PC that cost about a thousand bucks, maybe he could also find himself a passport.

By 3:00 a.m. Whitaker was yelling in Milano and Luigi, who couldn’t yell for security reasons, could only curse, which he was doing in English and Italian and holding his own in both languages.

"You’ve lost him, dammit!" Whitaker screeched.

"Not yet!"

"He’s already dead!"

Luigi hung up again, for the third time that morning.

The kidon pulled back around 3:30 a.m. They would all rest for a few hours, then plan the day ahead.