The Broker

Aided by generous helpings of champagne and wine, Joel managed to sleep for several hours over the Atlantic. When the plane landed at JFK at 4:30 p.m., the relaxation was gone, replaced by uncertainties and a compulsion to look over his shoulder.

At immigration, he at first stepped into line with the returning Americans, a much shorter line. The mob waiting across the way for non-U.S. was embarrassing. Then he caught himself, glanced around, began cursing under his breath, and hustled over to the foreigners.

How stupid can you be?

A thick-necked uniformed kid from the Bronx was yelling at people to follow this line, not that one, and hurry up while you’re at it. Welcome to America. Some things he had not missed.

The passport officer frowned at Giovannis passport, but then he’d frowned at all the others too. Joel had been watching him carefully from behind a pair of cheap sunglasses.

"Could you remove your sunglasses, please?" the officer said.

"Certamente," Joel said loudly, anxious to prove his Italianness. He took off the sunglasses, squinted as if blinded, then rubbed his eyes while the officer tried to study his face. Reluctantly, he stamped the passport and handed it over without a word. With nothing to declare, the customs officials barely looked at him. Joel hustled through the terminal and found the line at the taxi stand. "Penn Station," he said. The driver resembled Farooq Khan, the youngest of the three, just a boy, and as Joel studied him from the backseat he pulled his briefcase closer.

Moving against the rush hour traffic, he was at Penn Station in forty-five minutes. He bought an Amtrak ticket to D.C., and at 7:00 left New York for Washington.

The taxi parked on Brandywine Street in northwest Washington. It was almost eleven, and most of the fine homes were dark. Back – man spoke to the driver, who was already reclining and ready for a nap.

Mrs. Pratt was in bed and struggling with sleep when she heard the doorbell. She grabbed her robe and hurried down the stairs. Her husband slept in the basement most nights, mainly because he snored but also because he was drinking too much and suffering from insomnia. She presumed he was there now.

"Who is it?" she asked through the intercom.

"Joel Backman," came the answer, and she thought it was a prank.

"Who?"

"Donna, it’s me, Joel. I swear. Open the door."

She peeped through the hole in the door and did not recognize the stranger. "Just a minute," she said, then ran to the basement where Carl was watching the news. A minute later he was at the door, wearing a Duke sweat suit and holding a pistol.

"Who is it?" he demanded through the intercom.

"Carl, it’s me, Joel. Put the gun down and open the door."

The voice was unmistakable. He opened the door and Joel Backman walked into his life, an old nightmare back for more. There were no hugs, no handshakes, hardly a smile. The Pratts quietly examined him because he looked so different-much thinner, hair darker and shorter, strange clothing. He got a "What are you doing here?" from Donna.

"That’s a good question," he said coolly. He had the advantage of planning. They were caught completely off guard. "Will you put that gun down?"

Pratt put the gun on a side table.

"Have you talked to Neal?" Backman asked.

"All day long."

"What’s going on, Carl?" Donna asked.

"I don’t really know."

"Can we talk? That’s why I’m here. I don’t trust phones anymore."

"Talk about what?" she demanded.

"Could you make us some coffee, Donna?" Joel asked pleasantly.

"Hell no."

"Scratch the coffee."

Carl had been rubbing his chin, assessing things. "Donna, we need to talk in private. Old law firm stuff. I’ll give you the rundown later."

She shot them both a look that clearly said, Go straight to hell, then stomped back up the stairs. They stepped into the den. Carl said, "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes, something strong."

He went to a small wet bar in a corner and poured single malts – doubles. He handed Joel a drink and without the slightest effort at a smile said, "Cheers."

"Cheers. It’s good to see you, Carl."

"I bet it is. You weren’t supposed to see anyone for another fourteen years."

"Counting the days, huh?"

"We’re still cleaning up after you, Joel. A bunch of good folks got hurt. I’m sorry if Donna and I aren’t exactly thrilled to see you. I can’t think of too many people in this town who’d like to give you a hug."

"Most would like to shoot me."

Carl gave a wary look over at the pistol.

"I can’t worry about that," Backman continued. "Sure, I’d like to go back and change some things, but I don’t have that luxury. I’m running for my life now, Carl, and I need some help."

"Maybe I don’t want to get involved."

"I can’t blame you. But I need a favor, a big one. Help me now, and I promise I’ll never show up on your doorstep again."

"I’ll shoot the next time."

"Where’s Senator Clayburn? Tell me he’s still alive."

"Yes, very much so. And you caught some luck."

"What?"

"He’s here, in D.C."

"Why?"

"Hollis Maples is retiring, after a hundred years in the Senate. They had a bash for him tonight. All the old boys are in town."

"Maples? He was drooling in his soup ten years ago."

"Well, now he can’t see his soup. He and Clayburn were as tight as ticks."

"Have you talked to Clayburn?"

"Yes." ‘

"And?"

Chapter Seventeen

"It might be a tough one, Joel. He didn’t like the sound of your name. Something about being shot for treason." ”Whatever. Tell him he can broker a deal that will make him feel like a real patriot."

"What’s the deal?"

"I have the software, Carl. The whole package. Picked it up this morning from a vault in a bank in Zurich where it’s been sitting for more than six years. You and Clayburn come to my room in the morning, and I’ll show it to you."

"I really don’t want to see it."

"Yes you do."

Pratt sucked down two ounces of scotch. He walked back to the bar and refilled his glass, took another toxic dose, then said, "When and where?"

"The Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Room five-twenty. Nine in the morning."

"Why Joel? Why should I get involved?"

"A favor to an old friend."

"I don’t owe you any favors. And the old friend left a long time ago."

"Please, Carl. Bring in Clayburn, and you’ll be out of the picture by noon tomorrow. I promise you’ll never see me again."

"That is very tempting."

He asked the driver to take his time. They cruised through Georgetown, along K Street, with its late-night restaurants and bars and college hangouts all packed with people living the good life. It was March 22 and spring was coming. The temperature was around sixty – five and the students were anxious to be outside, even at midnight.

The cab slowed at the intersection of I Street and 14th and Joel could see his old office building in the distance on New York Avenue. Somewhere in there, on the top floor, he’d once ruled his own little kingdom, with his minions running behind him, jumping at every command. It was not a nostalgic moment. Instead he was filled with regret for a worthless life spent chasing money and buying friends and women and all the toys a serious big shot could want. They drove on, past the countless office buildings, government on one side, lobbyists on the other.