The Broker

Back in the power office, Van Thiessen handed him a file with one sheet of paper in it. "This is a summary of your account," he was saying. "It’s very straightforward. As you know, there’s been no activ ity."

"You guys are paying one percent interest," Joel said. "You were aware of our rates when you opened the account, Mr. Backman."

"Yes, I was."

"We protect your money in other ways."

"Of course." Joel closed the file and handed it back. "I don’t want to keep this. Do you have the cash?"

"Yes, it’s on the way up."

"Good. I need a few things."

Van Thiessen pulled over his writing pad and stood ready with his fountain pen. "Yes," he said.

"I want to wire a hundred thousand to a bank in Washington, D.C. Can you recommend one?"

"Certainly. We work closely with Maryland Trust."

"Good, wire the money there, and with the wire open a generic savings account. I will not be writing checks, just making withdrawals."

"In what name?"

"Joel Backman and Neal Backman." He was getting used to his name again, not ducking when he said it. Not cowering in fear, waiting for gunfire. He liked it.

"Very well," Van Thiessen said. Anything was possible.

"I need some help in getting back to the US. Could your girl check the Lufthansa flights to Philadelphia and New York?"

"Of course. When, and from where?"

"Today, as soon as possible. I’d like to avoid the airport here. How far away is Munich by car?"

"By car, three to four hours."

"Can you provide a car?"

"I’m sure we can arrange that."

"I prefer to leave from the basement here, in a car driven by someone not dressed like a chauffeur. Not a black car either, something that will not attract attention."

Van Thiessen stopped writing and shot a puzzled look. "Are you in danger, Mr. Backman?"

"Perhaps. I’m not sure, and I’m not taking chances."

Van Thiessen pondered this for a few seconds, then said, "Would you like for us to make the airline reservations?"

"Yes."

"Then I need to see your passport."

Joel pulled out Giovanni’s borrowed passport. Van Thiessen studied it for a long time, his stoic banker’s face betraying him. He was confused and worried. He finally managed, "Mr. Backman, you will be traveling with someone else’s passport."

"That’s correct."

"And this is a valid passport?"

It IS.

"I assume you do not have one of your own."

"They took it a long time ago."

"This bank cannot take part in the commission of a crime. If this is stolen, then-"

"I assure you it’s not stolen."

"Then how did-"

"Let’s just say it’s borrowed, okay?"

"But using someone else’s passport is a violation of the law."

"Let’s not get hung up on US. immigration policy, Mr. Van Thiessen. Just get the schedules. I’ll pick the nights. Your girl makes the reservations using the bank’s account. Deduct it from my balance. Get me a car and a driver. Deduct that from my balance, if you wish. It’s all very simple."

It was just a passport. Hell, other clients had three or four of them. Van Thiessen handed it back to Joel and said, "Very well. Anything else?"

"Yes, I need to go online. I’m sure your computers are secure."

"Absolutely."

His e-mail to Neal read:

Grinch-With a bit of luck, I should arrive in US. tonight. Get a new cellphone today. Don’t let it out of your sight. Tomorrow morning call the Hilton, Marriott, and Sheraton, in downtown Washington. Ask for Giovanni Ferro. Thats me. Call Carl Pratt first thing this morning, on the new phone. Push hard to get Senator Clayburn in D. C. We will cover his expenses. Tell him it’s urgent. A favor to an old friend. Don’t take no for an answer. No more e-mails until I get home. Marco After a quick sandwich and a cola in Van Thiessen’s office, Joel Backman left the bank building riding shotgun in a shiny green BMW four-door sedan. For good measure, he kept a Swiss newspaper in front of his face until they were on the autobahn. The driver was Franz. Franz fancied himself a Formula One hopeful, and when Joel let it be known that he was in somewhat of a hurry, Franz slipped into the left lane and hit 150 kilometers per hour.

At 1:55 p.m., Joel Backman was sitting in a lavishly large seat in the first-class section of a Lufthansa 747 as it began its push back from the gate at the Munich airport. Only when it started to move did he dare pick up the glass of champagne he’d been staring at for ten minutes. The glass was empty by the time the plane stopped at the end of the runway for its final check. When the wheels lifted off the pavement, Joel closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a few hours of relief.

His son, on the other hand, and at exactly the same moment, 7:55 Eastern Standard time, was stressed to the point of throwing things. How the hell was he supposed to go buy a new cell phone immediately, then call Carl Pratt again and solicit old favors that did not exist, and somehow cajole a retired and cantankerous old senator from Ocracoke, North Carolina, to drop what he was doing and return immediately to a city he evidently disliked immensely? Not to mention the obvious: he, Neal Backman, had a rather full day at the office. Nothing as pressing as rescuing his wayward father, but still a pretty full docket with clients and other important matters.

He left Jerry’s Java, but instead of going to the office he went home. Lisa was bathing their daughter and was surprised to see him. "What’s wrong?" she said.

"We have to talk. Now."

He began with the mysterious letter postmarked from York, Pennsylvania, and went through the $4,000 loan, as painful as it was, then the smartphone, the encrypted e-mails, pretty much the entire story. She took it calmly, much to his relief.

"You should’ve told me," she said more than once.

"Yes, and I’m sorry."

There was no fight, no arguing. Loyalty was one of her strongest traits, and when she said, "We have to help him," Neal hugged her.

"He’ll pay back the money," he assured her.

"We’ll worry about the money later. Is he in danger?"

"I think so."

"Okay, what’s the first step?"

"Call the office and tell them I’m in bed with the flu."

Their entire conversation was captured live and in perfect detail by a tiny mike planted by the Mossad in the light fixture above where they were sitting. It was wired to a transmitter hidden in their attic, and from there it was relayed to a high-frequency receiver a quarter of a mile away in a seldom-used retail office space recently leased for six months by a gentleman from D.C. There, a technician listened to it twice, then quickly e-mailed his field agent in the Israeli embassy in Washington.

Since Backman’s disappearance in Bologna more than twenty – four hours ago, the bugs planted around his son had been monitored even more closely.

The e-mail to Washington concluded with "JB’s coming home."

Fortunately, Neal did not mention the name "Giovanni Ferro" during the conversation with Lisa. Unfortunately, he did mention two of the three hotels-the Marriott and the Sheraton.

Backman’s return was given the highest priority possible. Eleven Mossad agents were located on the East Coast; all were ordered to D.C. immediately.

Lisa dropped their daughter off at her mother’s, then she and Neal sped south to Charlottesville, thirty minutes away. In a shopping center north of town they found the office for US. Cellular. They opened an account, bought a phone, and within thirty minutes were back on the road. Lisa drove while Neal tried to find Carl Pratt.