The Broker

by Grisham, John

  “Buon giorno. Mind if I tag along?” he asked in English.

  “No. Sorry I had to cancel.”

  “No problem. How about dinner?”

  She glanced around as if she'd done something wrong.

  “To study, of course. Nothing more,” he said.

  “No, I'm sorry,” she said. She looked beyond him, across the piazza to the Basilica di San Petronio. “That little cafe over there,” she said, “beside the church, at the corner. Meet me there at five and we'll study for an hour.”

  “Va bene.”

  The tour continued a few steps to the west wall of the Palazzo Comunale, where she stopped them in front of three large framed collections of black-and-white photos. The history lesson was that during World War II the heart of the Italian Resistance was in and around Bologna. The Bolognesi hated Mussolini and his fascists and the German occupiers, and worked diligently in the underground. The Nazis retaliated with a vengeance-their well-publicized rule was that they would murder ten Italians for every one German soldier killed by the Resistance. In a series of fifty-five massacres in and around Bologna they murdered thousands of young Italian fighters. Their names and faces were on the wall, forever memorialized.

  It was a somber moment, and the elderly Australians inched closer to look at the heroes. Marco moved closer too. He was struck by

  their youthfulness, by their promise that was forever lost-slaughtered for their bravery.

  As Francesca moved on with her group, he stayed behind, staring at the faces that covered much of the long wall. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. A pretty female face here and there. Brothers. Fathers and sons. An entire family.

  Peasants willing to die for their country and their beliefs. Loyal patriots with nothing to give but their lives. But not Marco. No sir. When forced to choose between loyalty and money, Marco had done what he always did. He'd gone for the money. He'd turned his back on his country.

  All for the glory of cash.

  She was standing inside the door of the cafe, waiting, not drinking anything but, of course, having a smoke. Marco had decided that her willingness to meet so late for a lesson was further evidence of her need for the work.

  “Do you feel like walking?” she said before she said hello.

  “Of course.” He'd walked several miles with Ermanno before lunch, then for hours after lunch waiting on her. He'd walked enough for one day, but then what else was there to do? After a month of doing several miles a day he was in shape. “Where?”

  “It's a long one,” she said.

  They wound through narrow streets, heading to the southwest, chatting slowly in Italian, discussing the morning's lesson with Ermanno. She talked about the Australians, always an easy and amiable group. Near the edge of the old city they approached the Porta Saragozza and Marco realized where he was, and where he was going.

  “Up to San Luca,” he said.

  “Yes. The weather is very clear, the night will be beautiful. Are you okay?”

  His feet were killing him but he would never think of declining. “Andiamo,” he said. Let's go.

  Sitting almost one thousand feet above the city on the Colle della Guardia, one of the first foothills of the Apennines, the Santuario di San Luca has, for eight centuries, looked over Bologna as its protector and guardian. To get up to it, without getting wet or sun

  burned, the Bolognesi decided to do what they'd always done best- build a covered sidewalk. Beginning in 1674, and continuing without interruption for sixty-five years, they built arches; 666 arches over a walkway that eventually runs for 3.6 kilometers, the longest porticoed sidewalk in the world.

  Though Marco had studied the history, the details were much more interesting when they came from Francesca. The hike up was a steady climb, and they paced themselves accordingly. After a hundred arches, his calves were screaming for relief. She, on the other hand, glided along as if she could climb mountains. He kept waiting for all that cigarette smoking to slow her down.

  To finance such a grandiose and extravagant project, Bologna used its considerable wealth. In a rare display of unity among the feuding factions, each arch of the portico was funded by a different group of merchants, artisans, students, churches, and noble families. To record their achievement, and to secure their immortality, they were allowed to hang plaques opposite their arches. Most had disappeared over time.

  Francesca stopped for a brief rest at the 170th arch, where one of the few remaining plaques still hung. It was known as “la Madonna grassa,” the fat Madonna. There were fifteen chapels en route. They stopped again between the eighth and ninth chapels, where a bridge had been built to straddle a road. Long shadows were falling through the porticoes as they trudged up the steepest part of the incline. “It's well lighted at night,” she assured him. “For the trip down.”

  Marco wasn't thinking about the trip down. He was still looking up, still gazing at the church, which at times seemed closer and at other times seemed to be sneaking away from them. His thighs were aching now, his steps growing heavier.

  When they reached the crest and stepped from under the 666th portico, the magnificent basilica spread before them. Its lights were coming on as darkness surrounded the hills above Bologna, and its dome glowed in shades of gold. “It's closed now,” she said. “We'll have to see it another day.”

  During the hike up, he'd caught a glimpse of a bus easing down the hill. If he ever decided to visit San Luca again for the sole purpose of wandering through another cathedral, he'd be sure to take the bus.

  “This way,” she said softly, beckoning him over. “I know a secret path.”

  He followed her along a gravel trail behind the church to a ledge where they stopped and took in the city below them. “This is my favorite spot,” she said, breathing deeply, as if trying to inhale the beauty of Bologna.

  “How often do you come here?”

  “Several times a year, usually with groups. They always take the bus. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon I'll enjoy the walk up.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, by myself.”

  “Could we sit somewhere?”

  “Yes, there is a small bench hidden over there. No one knows about it.” He followed her down a few steps, then along a rocky path to another ledge with views just as spectacular.

  “Are your legs tired?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he lied.

  She lit a cigarette and enjoyed it as few people could possibly enjoy one. They sat in silence for a long time, both resting, both thinking and gazing at the shimmering lights of Bologna.

  Marco finally spoke. “Luigi tells me your husband is very ill. I'm sorry.”

  She glanced at him with a look of surprise, then turned away. “Luigi told me the personal stuff is off-limits.”

  “Luigi changes the rules. What has he told you about me?”

  “I haven't asked. You're from Canada, traveling around, trying to learn Italian.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you claim to have a wife and a family, yet you leave them for a long trip to Italy. And if you're just a businessman off on a pleasure trip, then where does Luigi fit in? And Ermanno? Why do you need those people?”

  “Good questions. I have no wife.”

  “So it's all a lie.” Yes.

  “What's the truth?”

  “I can't tell you.” “Good. I don't want to know.” “You have enough problems, don't you, Francesca?” “My problems are my business.”

  She lit another cigarette. “Can I have one of those?” he asked. “You smoke?”

  “Many years ago.” He picked one from the pack and lit it. The lights from the city grew brighter as the night engulfed them. “Do you tell Luigi everything we do?” he asked. “I tell him very little.” “Good.”

  Teddy's last visit to the White House was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. He planned to be late. Beginning at seven
that morning, he met with his unofficial transition team-all four deputy directors and his senior people. In quiet little conferences he informed those he'd trusted for many years that he was on the way out, that it had been inevitable for a long time, that the agency was in good shape and life would go on.

  Those who knew him well sensed an air of relief. He was, after all, pushing eighty and his legendary bad health was actually getting worse.

  At precisely 8:45, while meeting with William Lucat, his deputy director for operations, he summoned Julia Javier for their Backman meeting. The Backman case was important, but in the scheme of global intelligence it was mid-list.

  How odd that an operation dealing with a disgraced former lobbyist would be Teddy's downfall.

  Julia Javier sat next to the ever vigilant Hoby, who was still taking notes that no one would ever see, and began matter-of-factly. “He's in place, still in Bologna, so if we had to activate now we could do so.”

  “I thought the plan was to move him to a village in the countryside, someplace where we could watch him more closely,” Teddy said.

  “That's a few months down the road.”

  “We don't have a few months.” Teddy turned to Lucat and said, “What happens if we push the button now?”

  “It'll work. They'll get him somewhere in Bologna. It's a nice city with almost no crime. Murders are unheard of, so his death will get some attention if his body is found there. The Italians will quickly realize that he's not-what's his name, Julia?”

  “Marco,” Teddy said without looking at notes. “Marco Lazzeri.”

  “Right, they'll scratch their heads and wonder who the hell he is.”

  Julia said, “There's no clue as to his real identity. They'll have a body, a fake ID, but no family, no friends, no address, no job, nothing. They'll bury him like a pauper and keep the file open for a year. Then they'll close it.”

  “That's not our problem,” Teddy said. “We're not doing the killing.”

  “Right,” said Lucat. “It'll be a bit messier in the city, but the boy likes to wander the streets. They'll get him. Maybe a car will hit him. The Italians drive like hell, you know.”

  “It won't be that difficult, will it?”

  “I wouldn't think so.”

  “And what are our chances of knowing when it happens?” Teddy asked.

  Lucat scratched his beard and looked across the table at Julia, who was biting a nail and looking over at Hoby, who was stirring green tea with a plastic stick. Lucat finally said, “I'd say fifty-fifty, at the scene anyway. We'll be watching twenty-four/seven, but the people who'll take him out will be the best of the best. There may be no witnesses.”

  Julia added, “Our best chance will be later, a few weeks after they bury the pauper. We have good people in place. We'll listen closely. I think we'll hear it later.”

  Lucat said, “As always, when we're not pulling the trigger, there's a chance we won't know for sure.”

  "We cannot screw this up, understand? It'll be nice to know that Backman is dead-God knows he deserves it-but the goal of the op

  eration is to see who kills him," Teddy said as his white wrinkled hands slowly lifted a paper cup of green tea to his mouth. He slurped it loudly, crudely.

  Maybe it was time for the old man to fade away in a retirement home.

  “I'm reasonably confident,” Lucat said. Hoby wrote that down.

  “If we leak it now, how long before he's dead?” Teddy asked.

  Lucat shrugged and looked away as he pondered the question. Julia was chewing another nail. “It depends,” she said cautiously. “If the Israelis move, it could happen in a week. The Chinese are usually slower. The Saudis will probably hire a freelance agent; it could take a month to get one on the ground.”

  “The Russians could do it in a week,” Lucat added.

  “I won't be here when it happens,” Teddy said sadly. “And no one on this side of the Atlantic will ever know. Promise me you'll give me a call.”

  “This is the green light?” Lucat asked.

  “Yes. Careful how you leak it, though. All hunters must be given an equal chance at the prey.”

  They gave Teddy their final farewells and left his office. At nine- thirty, Hoby pushed him into the hall and to the elevator. They rode down eight levels to the basement where the bulletproof white vans were waiting for his last trip to the White House.

  The meeting was brief. Dan Sandberg was sitting at his desk at the Post when it began in the Oval Office a few minutes after ten. And he hadn't moved twenty minutes later when the call came from Rusty Lowell. “It's over,” he said.

  “What happened?” Sandberg asked, already pecking at his keyboard.

  “As scripted. The President wanted to know about Backman. Teddy wouldn't budge. The President said he was entitled to know everything. Teddy agreed but said the information was going to be abused for political purposes and it would compromise a sensitive operation. They argued briefly. Teddy got himself fired. Just like I told you.”

  “Wow.”

  “The White House is making an announcement in five minutes. You might want to watch.”

  As always, the spin began immediately. The somber-faced press secretary announced that the President had decided to “pursue a fresher course with our intelligence operations.” He praised Director Maynard for his legendary leadership and seemed downright saddened by the prospect of having to find his successor. The first question, shot from the front row, was whether Maynard resigned or had been fired.

  “The President and Director Maynard reached a mutual understanding.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  And so it went for thirty minutes.

  Sandberg's front-page story the following morning dropped two bombs. It began with the definite confirmation that Maynard had been fired after he refused to divulge sensitive information for what he deemed to be raw political purposes. There was no resignation, no “reaching of a mutual understanding.” It was an old-fashioned sacking. The second blast announced to the world that the President's insistence on obtaining intelligence data was directly tied to a new FBI investigation into the selling of pardons. The cash-for-pardon scandal had been a distant rumbling until Sandberg opened the door. His scoop practically stopped traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

  While Sandberg was hanging around the press room, reveling in his coup, his cell phone rang. It was Rusty Lowell, who abruptly said, “Call me on a land line, and do it quickly.” Sandberg went to a small office for privacy and dialed Lowell's number at Langley.

  “Lucat just got fired,” Lowell said. “At eight o'clock this morning he met with the President in the Oval Office. He was asked to step in as the interim director. He said yes. They met for an hour. The President pushed on Backman. Lucat wouldn't budge. Got himself fired, just like Teddy.”

  “Damn, he's been there a hundred years.”

  “Thirty-eight to be exact. One of the best men here. A great administrator.”

  “Who's next?”

  “That's a very good question. We're all afraid of the knock on the door.”

  “Somebody's got to run the agency.”

  “Ever meet Susan Penn?”

  “No. I know who she is, but I never met her.”

  “Deputy director for science and technology. Very loyal to Teddy, hell we all are, but she's also a survivor. She's in the Oval Office right now. If she's offered the interim, she'll take it. And she'll give up Back- man to get it.”

  “He is the President, Rusty. He's entitled to know everything.”

  “Of course. And it's a matter of principle. Can't really blame the guy. He's new on the job, wants to flex his muscle. Looks like he'll fire us all until he gets what he wants. I told Susan Penn to take the job to stop the bleeding.”

  “So the FBI should know about Backman real soon?”

  “Today, I would guess. Not sure what they'll do when they find out where he is. They're weeks away
from an indictment. They'll probably just screw up our operation.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Don't know.”

  “Come on, Rusty, things are different now.”

  “The answer is no. End of story. I'll keep you posted on the bloodletting.”

  An hour later, the White House press secretary met with the press and announced the appointment of Susan Penn as interim director of the CIA. He made much of the fact that she was the first female to hold the position, thus proving once again how determined this President was to labor diligently for the cause of equal rights.

  Luigi was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and all alone, waiting for the signal from next door. It came at fourteen minutes after 6:00 a.m.-Marco was becoming such a creature of habit. Luigi walked to his control room and pushed a button to silence the buzzer that indicated that his friend had exited through the front door. A computer recorded the exact time and within seconds someone at Langley would know that Marco Lazzeri had just left their safe house on Via Fondazza at precisely 6:14.

  He hadn't trailed him in a few days. Simona had been sleeping over. He waited a few seconds, slipped out his rear door, cut through a

  narrow alley, then peeked through the shadows of the arcades along Via Fondazza. Marco was to his left, headed south and walking at his usual brisk pace, which was getting faster the longer he stayed in Bologna. He was at least twenty years older than Luigi, but with his penchant for walking miles every day he was in better shape. Plus he didn t smoke, didn't drink much, didn't seem to be interested in ladies and the nightlife, and he'd spent the last six years in a cage. Little wonder he could roam the streets for hours, doing nothing.

  He wore the new hiking boots every day. Luigi had not been able to get his hands on them. They remained bug-free, leaving no signal behind. Whitaker worried about this in Milan, but then he worried about everything. Luigi was convinced that Marco might walk for a hundred miles within the city, but he wasnt leaving town. He'd disappear for a while, go exploring or sightseeing, but he could always be found.