The Broker

In the month before Backman was indicted, arrested, and released on a very restricted bail arrangement, he had made two quick trips to Europe. For the first one, he’d flown Air France business class with his favorite secretary to Paris, where they frolicked for a few days and saw the sights. She later told investigators that Backman had spent one long day dashing off to Berlin for some quick business, but made it back in time for dinner at Alain Ducasse. She did not accompany him.

There were no records of Backman traveling by a commercial airliner to Berlin, or anywhere else within Europe, during that week. A passport would’ve been required, and the FBI was positive he had not used his. A passport would not have been required for a train ride. Geneva, Bern, Lausanne, and Zurich are all within four hours of Paris by train.

The second trip was a seventy-two-hour sprint from Dulles, first class on Lufthansa to Frankfurt, again for business, though no business contacts had been discovered there. Backman had paid for two nights in a luxury hotel in Frankfurt, and there was no evidence that he had slept elsewhere. Like Paris, the banking centers of Switzerland are within a few hours’ train ride from Frankfurt.

When Julia Javier finally found the file and read the report, she immediately called Whitaker and said, "He’s headed for Switzerland."

Madame had enough luggage for an affluent family of five. A harried porter helped her haul the heavy suitcases on board and into the first-class car, which she consumed with herself, her belongings, and her perfume. The cabin had six seats, at least four of which she laid claim to. She sat in one across from Marco and wiggled her ample rear as if to make it expand. She glanced at him, cowering against the window, and gushed over a sultry "Bonsoir." French, he thought, and since it didn’t seem right to respond in Italian, he relied on old faithful. "Hello."

"Ah, American."

With languages, identities, names, cultures, backgrounds, lies, lies, and more lies all swirling around, he managed to say with no conviction whatsoever, "No, Canadian."

"Ah, yes," she said, still arranging bags and settling in. Evidently American would’ve been more welcome than Canadian. Madame was a robust woman of sixty, with a tight red dress, thick calves, and stout black pumps that had traveled a million miles. Her heavily decorated eyes were puffy, and the reason was soon evident. Long before the train moved, she pulled out a large flask, unscrewed its top which became a cup, and knocked back a shot of something strong. She swallowed hard, then smiled at Marco and said, "Would you like a drink?"

"No thanks."

"It’s a very good brandy."

"No thanks."

"Very well." She poured another one, drained it, then put away the flask.

A long train ride just got longer.

"Where are you going?" she asked in very good English.

"Stuttgart. And you?"

"Stuttgart, then on to Strasbourg. Can’t stay too long in Stuttgart, you know." Her nose wrinkled as if the entire city was swimming in raw sewage.

"I love Stuttgart," Marco said, just to watch it unwrinkle.

"Oh, well.1′ Her shoes caught her attention. She kicked them off with little regard as to where they might land. Marco braced for a jolt of foot odor but then realized it had little chance of competing with the cheap perfume.

In self-defense, he pretended to nod off. She ignored him for a few minutes, then said loudly, "You speak Polish?" She was looking at his book of poetry.

He jerked his head as if he’d just been awakened. "No, not exactly. I’m trying to learn it, though. My family is Polish." He held his breath as he finished, half expecting her to unleash a torrent of proper Polish and bury him with it.

"I see," she said, not really approving.

At exactly 6:15, an unseen conductor blew a whistle and the train started to move. Fortunately, there were no other passengers assigned to Madame’s car. Several had walked down the aisle and stopped, glanced in, seen the congestion, then moved on to another cabin where there was more room.

Marco watched the platform intensely as they began moving. The man from the bus was nowhere to be seen.

Madame worked the brandy until she began snoring. She was awakened by the conductor who punched their tickets. A porter came through with a pushcart loaded with drinks. Marco bought a beer and offered one to his cabinmate. His offer was greeted with another mammoth wrinkle of the nose, as if she’d rather drink urine.

Their first stop was Como/San Giovanni, a two-minute break during which no one got on. Five minutes later they stopped at Chiasso. It was almost dark now, and Marco was pondering a quick exit. He studied the itinerary; there were four more stops before Zurich, one in Italy and three in Switzerland. Which country would work best?

He couldn’t risk being followed now. If they were on the train, then they had stuck to him from Bologna, through Modena and Milano, through various disguises. They were professionals, and he was no match for them. Sipping his beer, Marco felt like a miserable amateur.

Madame was staring at the butchered hems of his slacks. Then he caught her glancing down at the modified bowling shoes, and for that he didn’t blame her at all. Then the bright red watchband caught her attention. Her face conveyed the obvious-she did not approve of his low sense of fashion. Typical American, or Canadian, or whatever he was.

He caught a glimpse of lights shimmering off Lake Lugano. They were snaking through the lake region, gaining altitude. Switzerland was not far away.

An occasional drifter moved down the darkened aisle outside their cabin. They would look in, through the glass door, then move along toward the rear, where there was a restroom. Madame had plopped her large feet in the seat opposite her, not too far from Marco. An hour into the trip, and she had managed to spread her boxes and magazines and clothing throughout the entire cabin. Marco was afraid to leave his seat.

Fatigue finally set in, and Marco fell asleep. He was awakened by the racket at the Bellinzona station, the first stop in Switzerland. A passenger entered the first-class car and couldn’t find the right seat. He opened the door to Madame’s cabin, looked around, didn’t like what he saw, then went off to yell at the conductor. They found him a spot elsewhere. Madame hardly looked up from her fashion magazines.

The next stretch was an hour and forty minutes, and when Madame went back to her flask Marco said, "I’ll try some of that." She smiled for the first time in hours. Though she certainly didn’t mind drinking alone, it was always more pleasant with a friend. A couple of shots, though, and Marco was nodding off again.

The train jerked as it slowed for the stop at ArthGoldau. Marco’s head jerked too, and his hat fell off. Madame was watching him closely. When he opened his eyes for good, she said, "A strange man has been looking at you."

"Where?” "Where? Here, of course, on this train. He’s been by at least three times. He stops at the door, looks closely at you, then sneaks away."

Maybe it’s my shoes, thought Marco. Or my slacks. Watchband? He rubbed his eyes and tried to act as though it happened all the time.

"What does he look like?"

"Blond hair, about thirty-five, cute, brown jacket. Do you know him?"

"No, I have no idea." The man on the bus at Modena had neither blond hair nor a brown jacket, but those minor points were irrelevant now. Marco was frightened enough to switch plans.

Zug was twenty-five minutes away, the last stop before Zurich. He could not run the risk of leading them to Zurich. Ten minutes out, he announced he needed to use the restroom. Between his seat and the door was Madame’s obstacle course. As he began stepping through it, he placed his briefcase and cane in his seat.