The Broker

by Grisham, John

  He turned onto Via Santo Stefano, a main avenue that ran from the southeast corner of old Bologna into the thick of things around Piazza Maggiore. Luigi crossed over and followed from the other side. As he practically jogged along, he quickly radioed Zellman, a new guy in town, sent by Whitaker to tighten the web. Zellman was waiting on Strada Maggiore, another busy avenue between the safe house and the university.

  Zellman's arrival was an indication of the plan moving forward. Luigi knew most of the details now, and was somewhat saddened by the fact that Marco's days were numbered. He wasn't sure who would take him out, and he got the impression that Whitaker didn't know either.

  Luigi was praying that he would not be called upon to do the deed. He'd killed two other men, and preferred to avoid such messes. Plus, he liked Marco.

  Before Zellman picked up the trail, Marco vanished. Luigi stopped and listened. He ducked into the darkness of a doorway, just in case Marco had stopped too.

  He heard him back there, walking a little too heavily, breathing a little too hard. A quick left on a narrow street, Via Castellata, a sprint for fifty yards, then another left onto Via de' Chiari, and a complete

  change of direction, from due north to due west, a hard pace for a long time until he came to an opening, a small square called Piazza Cavour. He knew the old city so well now, the avenues, alleys, dead ends, intersections, the endless maze of crooked little streets, the names of ever)' square and many of the shops and stores. He knew which tobacco stores opened at six and which waited until seven. He could find five coffee shops that were filled by sunrise, though most waited until daylight. He knew where to sit in the front window, behind a newspaper, with a view of the sidewalk and wait for Luigi to stroll by.

  He could lose Luigi anytime he wanted, though most days he played along and kept his trails wide and easy to follow. But it was the fact that he was being watched so closely that spoke volumes.

  They don't want me to disappear, he kept saying to himself. And why? Because I'm here for a reason.

  He swung wide to the west of the city, far away from where he might be expected to be. After almost an hour of zigzagging through and looping around dozens of short streets and alleys, he stepped onto Via Irnerio and watched the foot traffic. Bar Fontana was directly across the street. There was no one watching it.

  Rudolph was tucked away in the rear, head buried low in the morning paper, pipe smoke rising in a lazy blue spiral. They hadn't seen each other in ten days, and after the usual warm greetings his first question was “Did you make it to Venice?”

  Yes, a delightful visit. Marco dropped the names of all the places he'd memorized from the guidebook. He raved about the beauty of the canals, the amazing variety of bridges, the smothering hordes of tourists. A fabulous place. Couldn't wait to go back. Rudolph added some of his own memories. Marco described the church of San Marco as if he'd spent a week there.

  Where to next? Rudolph inquired. Probably south, toward warmer weather. Maybe Sicily, the Amalfi coast. Rudolph, of course, adored Sicily and described his visits there. After half an hour of travel talk, Marco finally got around to business. “I'm traveling so much, I really have no address. A friend from the States is sending me a package. I gave him your address at the law school. Hope you don't mind.”

  Rudolph was relighting his pipe. “It's already here. Came yesterday,” he said, with heavy smoke pouring out with the words.

  Marco's heart skipped a beat. “Was there a return address?”

  “Some place in Virginia.”

  “Good.” His mouth was instantly dry. He took a sip of water and tried to conceal his excitement. “Hope it wasn't a problem.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I'll swing by later and pick it up.”

  “I'm in the office from eleven to twelve-thirty.”

  “Good, thanks.” Another sip. "Just curious, how big is the package?

  Rudolph chewed on the stem of his pipe and said, “A small cigar box maybe.”

  A cold rain started at mid-morning. Marco and Ermanno were walking through the university area and found shelter in a quiet little bar. They finished the lesson early, primarily because the student pushed so hard. Ermanno was always ready to quit early.

  Since Luigi had not booked lunch, Marco was free to roam, presumably without being followed. But he was careful just the same. He did his loops and backtracking maneuvers, and felt silly as always. Silly or not, they were now standard procedure. Back on Via Zamboni he drifted behind a group of students strolling aimlessly along. At the door to the law school he ducked inside, bounded up the stairs, and within seconds was knocking on Rudolphs half-opened door.

  Rudolph was at his ancient typewriter, hammering away at what appeared to be a personal letter. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a pile of rubble covering a table that hadn't been cleared in decades. “That brown thing on top.”

  Marco picked up the package with as little interest as possible. “Thanks again, Rudolph,” he said, but Rudolph was typing again and in no mood for a visit. He'd clearly been interrupted.

  “Don't mention it,” he said over his shoulder, releasing another cloud of pipe smoke.

  “Is there a restroom nearby?” Marco asked.

  “Down the hall, on your left.”

  “Thanks. See you around.”

  There was a prehistoric urinal and three wooden stalls. Marco went into the far one, locked the door, lowered the lid, and took a seat. He carefully opened his package and unfolded the sheets of paper. The

  first one was plain, white, no letterhead of any kind. When he saw the words “Dear Marco,” he felt like crying.

  Dear Marco:

  Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear from you. I thanked God when you were released and I pray for your safety now. As you know, I will do anything to help.

  Here is a stnartphone, state of the art and all that. The Europeans are ahead of us with cell phone and wireless Internet technology, so this should work fine over there. I've written some instructions on another sheet of paper. I know this will sound like Greek, but it's really not that complicated.

  Don't try and call-it's too easy to track. Plus, you would have to use a name and set up an account. E-mail is the way. By using KwyteMail with encryption, it's impossible to track our messages. I suggest that you e-mail only me. I can then handle the relays.

  On this end I have a new laptop that I keep near me at all times.

  This will work, Marco. Trust me. As soon as you're online, email and we can chat.

  Good Luck, Grinch(March 5)

  Grinch? A code or something. He had not used their real names.

  Marco studied the sleek device, thoroughly bewildered by it but also determined to get the damn thing going. He probed its small case, found the cash, and counted it slowly as if it were gold. The door opened and closed; someone was using the urinal. Marco could hardly breathe. Relax, he kept telling himself.

  The restroom door opened and closed again, and he was alone. The page of instructions was handwritten, obviously when Neal didn't have a lot of time. It read:

  Ankyo 850 PC Pocket Smartphone--fully charged battery-6 hours talk time before recharging, recharger included. Step 1) Find Internet cafe with wireless access-list enclosed Step 2) Either enter cafe or get within 200 feet of it Step 3) Turn on, switch is in upper right-hand corner Step 4) Watch screen for 'Access Area“ then the question ”Access Now?“ Press ”Yes" under screen; wait.

  Step 5) Then push keypad switch, bottom right, and unfold keypad

  Step 6) Press Wi-Fi access on screen

  Step 7) Press “Start”for Internet browser

  Step 8) At cursor, type “www.kwytefnail.com”

  Step 9) Type user name “Grinch456”

  Step 10) Type pass phrase “post hoc ergo propter hoc”

  Step 11) Press “Compose” to bring up New Message Form

  Step 12) Select my e-mail address: 123Grinch@kwytemail.com

  Step 13) Type your messa
ge to me

  Step 14) Click on “Encrypt Message”

  Step IS) Click “Send”

  Step 16) Bingo-I'll have the message

  More notes followed on the other side, but Marco needed to pause. The smartphone was growing heavier by the minute as it inspired more questions than answers. For a man who'd never been in an Internet cafe, he could not begin to understand how one could be used from across the street. Or within two hundred feet.

  Secretaries had always handled the e-mail flood. He'd been much too busy to sit in front of a monitor.

  There was an instruction booklet that he opened at random. He read a few lines and didn't understand a single phrase. Trust Neal, he told himself.

  You have no choice here, Marco. You have to master this damn thing.

  From a Web site called www.AxEss.com Neal had printed a list of free wireless Internet places in Bologna-three cafes, two hotels, one library, and one bookstore.

  Marco folded his cash, stuck it in his pocket, then slowly put his package back together. He stood, flushed the toilet for some reason, and left the restroom. The phone, the papers, the case, and the small recharger were easily buried in the deep pockets of his parka.

  The rain had turned to snow when he left the law school, but the covered sidewalks protected him and the crowd of students hurrying to lunch. As he drifted away from the university area, he pondered ways to hide the wonderful little assets Neal had sent him. The phone would never leave his person. Nor would the cash. But the paperwork-the letter, the instructions, the manual-where could he stash

  them? Nothing was protected in his apartment. He saw in a store window an attractive shoulder bag of some sort. He went and inquired. It was a Silvio brand laptop case, navy blue, waterproof, made of a synthetic fabric that the saleslady could not translate. It cost sixty euros, and Marco reluctantly placed them on the counter. As she finished the sale, he carefully placed the smartphone and its related items into the bag. Outside, he flung it over his shoulder and tucked it snugly under his right arm.

  The bag meant freedom for Marco Lazzeri. He would guard it with his life.

  He found the bookstore on Via Ugo Bassi. The magazines were on the second level. He stood by the rack for five minutes, holding a soccer weekly while watching the front door for anyone suspicious. Silly. But it was a habit now. The Internet hookups were on the third floor, in a small coffee shop. He bought a pastry and a Coke and found a narrow booth where he could sit and watch everyone going and coming.

  No one could find him there.

  He pulled out his Ankyo 850 with as much confidence as he could muster and glanced through its manual. He reread Neal's instructions. He followed them nervously, typing on the tiny keypad with both thumbs, the way it was illustrated in the owner's manual. After each step he looked up to check the movements around the cafe.

  The steps worked perfectly. He was online in short order, much to his amazement, and when the codes worked he was looking at a screen that was giving him the okay to write a message. Slowy, he moved his thumbs around and typed his first wireless Internet email:

  Grinch: Got the package. You'll never know how much it means to me. Thank you for your help. Are you sure our messages are completely secure? If so, I will tell you more about my situation. I fear I am not safe. It's about 8:30 a.m. your time. Til send this message now, and check back in a few hours. Love, Marco

  He sent the message, turned the machine off, then stayed for an hour poring over the manual. Before he left to meet Francesca, he turned it on again and followed the route to get online. On the screen

  he tapped “Google Search,” then typed in “Washington Post.” Sand- berg's story caught his attention, and he scrolled through it.

  He'd never met Teddy Maynard, but they had spoken several times by phone. Very tense conversations. The man had been practically dead ten years ago. In his other life Joel had butted heads a few times with the CIA, usually over shenanigans his defense-contractor clients were trying to pull.

  Outside the bookstore, Marco sized up the street, saw nothing of interest, and began another long walk.

  Cash for pardons? What a sensational story, but it was asking too much to believe that an outgoing president would take bribes like that. During his spectacular fall from power, Joel had read many things about himself, about half of them true. He'd learned the hard way to believe little of what got printed.

  At an unnamed, unnumbered, nondescript building on Pinsker

  Street in downtown Tel Aviv, an agent named Efraim entered from the sidewalk and walked past the elevator to a dead-end corridor with one locked door. There was no knob, no handle. He pulled a device that resembled a small television remote from his pocket and aimed it at the door. Thick tumblers fell somewhere inside, a sharp click, and the door opened into one of the many safe houses maintained by the Mossad, the Israeli secret police. It had four rooms-two with bunk beds where Efraim and his three colleagues slept, a small kitchen where they cooked their simple meals, and a large cluttered workroom where they spent hours every day planning an operation that had been practically dormant for six years but was suddenly one of the Mossad's highest priorities.

  The four were members of kidon, a small, tight unit of highly skilled field agents whose primary function was assassination. Quick, efficient, silent killing. Their targets were enemies of Israel who could not be brought to trial because its courts could not get jurisdiction. Most targets were in Arab and Islamic countries, but kidon were often used in the former Soviet bloc, Europe, Asia, even North Korea and the United States. They had no boundaries, no restraints, nothing to

  stop them from taking out those who wanted to destroy Israel. The men and women of kidon were fully licensed to kill for their country. Once a target was approved, in writing, by the current prime minister, an operation plan was put into place, a unit was organized, and the enemy of Israel was as good as dead. Obtaining such approval at the top had rarely been difficult.

  Efraim tossed a bag of pastries onto one of the folding tables where Ran and Shaul were plowing through research. Amos was in a corner at the computer, studying maps of Bologna, Italy.

  Most of their research was stale; it included pages of mainly useless background on Joel Backman, information that had been collected years ago. They knew everything about his chaotic personal life-the three ex-wives, the three children, the former partners, the girlfriends, the clients, the old lost friends from the power circles in D.C. When his killing had been approved six years earlier, another kidon had worked urgently putting together the background on Backman. A preliminary plan to kill him in a car accident in D.C. had been jettisoned when he suddenly pled guilty and fled to prison. Not even a kidon could reach him in protective custody at Rudley.

  The background was important now only because of his son. Since his surprise pardon and disappearance seven weeks earlier, the Mossad had kept two agents close to Neal Backman. They rotated every three or four days so no one in Culpeper, Virginia, would get suspicious; small towns with their nosy neighbors and bored cops presented enormous challenges. One agent, a pretty lady with a German accent, had actually chatted with Neal on Main Street. She claimed to be a tourist and needed directions to Montpelier, the nearby home of President James Madison. She flirted, or tried her best to, and was perfectly willing go further. He didn't take the bait. They'd bugged his home and office, and they listened to cell phone conversations. From a lab in Tel Aviv, they read every one of his office e-mails and those from home as well. They monitored his bank account and his credit card spending. They knew he'd made a quick trip to Alexandria six days earlier, but they did not know why.

  They were watching Backman's mother too, in Oakland, but the poor lady was fading fast. For years they had debated the idea of slipping her one of the poison pills from their amazing arsenal. They would then ambush her son at her funeral. However, the kidon manual

  on assassination prohibited the killing of family members unless said members were also
involved in threats to Israeli security.

  But the idea was still debated, with Amos being its most vocal proponent.

  They wanted Backman dead, but they also wanted him to live a few hours before passing on. They needed to chat with him, to ask some questions, and if the answers weren't forthcoming they knew how to make him talk. Everyone talked when the Mossad really wanted answers.

  “We have found six agents who speak Italian,” Efraim said. “Two will be here this afternoon at three, for a meeting.” None of the four spoke Italian, but all spoke perfect English, as well as Arabic. Among them there were eight other languages.

  Each of the four had combat experience, extensive computer training, and were skilled at crossing borders (with and without paperwork), interrogation, disguises, and forgery. And they had the ability to kill in cold blood with no regrets. The average age was thirty-four, and each had been involved with at least five successful kidon assassinations.

  When fully operational, their kidon would have twelve members. Four would carry out the actual killing, and the other eight would provide cover, surveillance, and tactical support, and would clean up after the hit.

  “Do we have an address?” Amos asked from the computer.

  “No, not yet,” said Efraim. “And I'm not sure we'll get one. This is coming through counterintelligence.”

  “There are half a million people in Bologna,” Amos said almost to himself.

  “Four hundred thousand,” said Shaul. “And a hundred thousand of those are students.”

  “We're supposed to get a picture of him,” Efraim said, and the other three stopped what they were doing and looked up. “There's a photo of Backman somewhere, one taken recently, after prison. Getting a copy is a possibility.”

  “That would certainly be helpful,” Rafi said.

  They had a hundred old photos of Joel Backman. They had studied every square centimeter of his face, every wrinkle, every vein in his eyes, every strand of hair on his head. They had counted his teeth,