The Broker

He asked the driver to change streets, to move on to more pleasant sights. They turned onto Constitution and drove along the Mall, past the Washington Monument. His youngest child, Anna Lee, had begged him for years to take her for a springtime walk along the Mall, like the other kids in her class. She wanted to see Mr. Lincoln and spend a day at the Smithsonian. He’d promised and promised until she was gone. Anna Lee was in Denver now, he thought, with a child he’d never seen.

As the dome of the Capitol drew nearer, Joel suddenly had enough. This little trip down memory lane was depressing. The memories in his life were too unpleasant.

"Take me to the hotel," he said.

Neal made the first pot of coffee, then stepped outside onto the cool bricks of the patio and admired the beauty of an early-spring daybreak.

If his father had indeed arrived back in D.C., he would not be asleep at six-thirty in the morning. The night before, Neal had coded his new phone with the numbers of the Washington hotels, and as the sun came up he started with the Sheraton. No Giovanni Ferro. Then the Marriott.

"One moment, please," the operator said, then the phone to the room began ringing. "Hello," came a familiar voice.

"Marco, please," Neal said.

"Marco here. Is this the Grinch?" It is.

"Where are you right now?"

"Standing on my patio, waiting for the sun."

"And what type of phone are you using?"

"It’s a brand-new Motorola that I’ve kept in my pocket since I bought it yesterday."

"You’re sure it’s secure."

"Yes."

A pause as Joel breathed deeply. "It’s good to hear your voice, son."

"And yours as well. How was your trip?"

"Very eventful. Can you come to Washington?"

"When?" ”Today, this morning."

"Sure, everybody thinks I have the flu. I’m covered at the office. When and where?"

"Come to the Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Walk in the lobby at eight forty-five, take the elevator to the sixth floor, then the stairs down to the fifth. Room five-twenty."

"Is all this necessary?"

"Trust me. Can you use another car?"

"I don’t know. I’m not sure who-"

"Lisa’s mother. Borrow her car, make sure no one is following you. When you get to the city, park it at the garage on Sixteenth then walk to the Marriott. Watch your rear at all times. If you see anything suspicious, then call me and we’ll abort."

Neal glanced around his backyard, half expecting to see agents dressed in black moving in on him. Where did his father pick up the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Six years in solitary maybe? A thousand spy novels?

"Are you with me?" Joel snapped.

"Yeah, sure. I’m on my way."

Ira Clayburn looked like a man who’d spent his life on a fishing boat, as opposed to one who’d served thirty-four years in the US. Senate. His ancestors had fished the Outer Banks of North Carolina, around their home at Ocracoke, for a hundred years. Ira would’ve done the same, except for a sixth-grade math teacher who discovered his exceptional IQ^ A scholarship to Chapel Hill pulled him away from home. Another one to Yale got him a master’s. A third, to Stanford, placed the title of "Doctor" before his name. He was happily teaching economics at Davidson when a compromise appointment sent him to the Senate to fill an unexpired term. He reluctantly ran for a full term, and for the next three decades tried his best to leave Washington. At the age of seventy-one he finally walked away. When he left the Sen ate, he took with him a mastery of US. intelligence that no politician could equal.

He agreed to go to the Marriott with Carl Pratt, an old friend from a tennis club, only out of curiosity. The Neptune mystery had never been solved, as far as he knew. But then he’d been out of the loop for the last five years, during which time he’d been fishing almost every day, happily taking his boat out and trolling the waters from Hatteras to Cape Lookout.

During the twilight of his Senate career, he had watched Joel Backman become the latest in a long line of hotshot lobbyists who perfected the art of twisting arms for huge fees. He was leaving Washington when Jacy Hubbard, another cobra who got what he deserved, was found dead.

He had no use for their ilk.

When the door to room 520 opened, he stepped inside behind Carl Pratt and came face-to-face with the devil himself.

But the devil was quite pleasant, remarkably gracious, a different man. Prison.

Joel introduced himself and his son Neal to Senator Clayburn. All hands were properly shaken, all thanks duly given. The table in the small suite was covered with pastries, coffee, and juice. Four chairs had been pulled around in a loose circle, and they sat down.

"This shouldn’t take long," Joel said. "Senator, I need your help. I don t know how much you know about the rather messy affair that sent me away for a few years…"

"I know the basics, but there have always been questions."

"I’m pretty sure I know the answers."

"Whose satellite system is it?"

Joel couldn’t sit. He walked to the window, looked out at nothing, then took a deep breath. "It was built by Red China, at an astronomical cost. As you know, the Chinese are far behind us in conventional weapons, so they’re spending heavily on the high-tech stuff. They stole some of our technology, and they successfully launched the system-nicknamed Neptune-without the knowledge of the CIA."

"How did they do that?"

"Something as low-tech as forest fires. They torched twenty thousand acres one night in a northern province. It created an enor mous cloud and in the middle of it they launched three rockets, each with three satellites."

"The Russians did that once," Clayburn said.

"And the Russians got fooled by their own trick. They missed Neptune too-everybody did. No one in the world knew it existed until my clients stumbled across it."

"Those Pakistani students."

"Yes, and all three are dead."

"Who killed them?"

"I suspect agents of Red China."

"Who killed Jacy Hubbard?"

"Same."

"And how close are these people to you?"

"Closer than I would like."

Clayburn reached for a doughnut and Pratt drained a glass of orange juice. Joel continued, "I have the software-JAM as they called it. There was only one copy."

"The one you tried to sell?" Clayburn said.

"Yes. And I really want to get rid of it. It’s proving to be quite deadly, and I’m desperate to hand it over. I’m just not sure who should get it."

"What about the CIA?" Pratt said, because he had yet to say anything.

Clayburn was already shaking his head no.

"I can’t trust them," Joel said. "Teddy Maynard got me pardoned so he could sit back and watch someone else kill me. Now there’s an interim director."

"And a new President," Clayburn said. "The CIA is a mess right now. I wouldn’t go near it." And with that Senator Clayburn stepped over the line, becoming an advisor, not just a curious spectator.

"Who do I talk to?" Joel asked. "Who can I trust?"

"DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency," Clayburn said without hesitation. "The head guy there is Major Wes Roland, an old friend."

"How long has he been there?"

Clayburn thought for a second, then said, "Ten, maybe twelve years. He has a ton of experience, smart as hell. And an honorable man."