The Broker

by Grisham, John

  The Italians stood in the street and stared in disbelief at the cafe. Their lunch was in there, hah0 eaten and now being ruined. Finally, a thin light puff of smoke emerged and made its way through the door and into the air. A waiter could be seen running by the front tables with a fire extinguisher. Then some more smoke, but not much.

  “I lost my bag,” Marco said to Luigi as they watched and waited.

  “The blue one?”

  How many bags do I carry around, Luigi? “Yes, the blue one.” He already had suspicions that the bag had been snatched.

  A small fire truck with an enormous siren arrived, slid to a stop, and kept wailing as the firemen raced inside. Minutes passed, and the Italians began to drift away. The decisive ones left to find lunch elsewhere while there was still time. The others just kept gawking at this horrible injustice.

  The siren was finally neutralized. Evidently the fire was too, and without the need for water being sprayed all over the restaurant. After an hour of discussion and debate and very little firefighting, the situation was under control. “Something in the restroom,” a waiter yelled to one of his friends, one of the few remaining weakened and unfed patrons. The lights were back on.

  They allowed them back inside to get their coats. Some who'd left in search of other meals were returning to get their things. Luigi became very helpful in the hunt for Marco's bag. He discussed the situation with the headwaiter, and before long half the staff was scouring the restaurant. Among the excited chatter, Marco heard a waiter say something about a “smoke bomb.”

  The bag was gone, and Marco knew it.

  They had a panino and a beer at a sidewalk cafe, under the sun where they could watch pretty girls stroll by. Marco was preoccupied with the theft, but he worked hard to appear unconcerned.

  “Sorry about the bag,” Luigi said at one point.

  “No big deal.”

  “I'll get you another cell phone.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What else did you lose?”

  “Nothing. Just some maps of the city, some aspirin, a few euros.”

  In a hotel room a few blocks away, Zellman and Krater had the bag on the bed, its contents neatly arranged. Other than the Ankyo smartphone, there were two maps of Bologna, both well marked and well used but revealing little, four $100 bills, the cell phone Luigi had loaned him, a bottle of aspirin, and the owner's manual for the Ankyo.

  Zellman, the more agile computer whiz of the two, plugged the smartphone into an Internet access jack and was soon fiddling with the menu. “This is good stuff,” he was saying, quite impressed with Marco his gadget. “The absolute latest toy on the market.”

  Not surprisingly, he was stopped by the password. They would have to dissect it at Langley. With his laptop, he e-mailed a message to Julia Javier, passing along the serial number and other information.

  Within two hours of the theft, a CIA agent was sitting in the parking lot outside Chatter in suburban Alexandria, waiting for the store to open.

  From a distance he watched her shuffle along gamely,

  bravely, with her cane down the sidewalk beside Via Minzoni. He followed and was soon fifty feet away. Today she wore brown suede boots, no doubt for the support. The boots had low heels. Flat shoes would We been more comfortable, but then she was Italian and fashion always took priority. The light brown skirt stopped at her knees. She was wearing a tight wool sweater, bright red in color, and it was the first time he'd seen her when she wasn't bundled up for cold weather. No overcoat to hide her really nice figure.

  She was walking cautiously and limping slightly, but with a determination that gave him heart. It was just coffee at Nino's, for an hour or two of Italian. And it was all for him!

  And the money.

  For a moment he thought about her money. Whatever the dire situation with her poor husband, and her seasonal work as a tour guide, she managed to dress stylishly and live in a beautifully decorated apartment. Giovanni had been a professor. Perhaps he'd saved carefully over the years, and now his illness was straining their budget.

  Whatever. Marco had his own problems. He'd just lost $400 in cash and his only lifeline to the outside world. People who weren't sup

  posed to know his whereabouts now knew his exact address. Nine hours earlier he'd heard his real name used on Via Fondazza.

  He slowed and allowed her to enter Nino's, where she was again greeted like a beloved member of the family by Nino's boys. Then he circled the block to give them time to get her situated, to fuss over her, bring her coffee, chat for a moment and catch up on the neighborhood gossip. Ten minutes after she arrived, he walked through the door and got bear-hugged by Nino's youngest son. A friend of Francesca's was a friend for life.

  Her moods changed so much that Marco did not know what to expect. He was still touched by the warmth of yesterday, but he knew that the indifference could return today. When she smiled and grabbed his hand and started all the cheek pecking he knew instantly the lesson would be the highlight of a rotten day.

  When they were finally alone he asked about her husband. Things had not changed. “It's only a matter of days,” she said with stiff lip, as if she'd already accepted death and was ready for the grieving.

  He asked about her mother, Signora Altonelli, and got a full report. She was baking a pear torta, one of Giovanni's favorites, just in case he got a whiff of it from the kitchen.

  “And how was your day?” she asked.

  It would be impossible to fictionalize a worse set of occurrences. From the shock of hearing his real name barked through the darkness, to being the victim of a carefully staged theft, he couldn't imagine a worse day.

  'A little excitement during lunch," he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  He described his hike up to San Luca, to the spot where she fell, her bench, the views, the canceled session with Ermanno, lunch with Luigi, the fire but not the loss of his bag. She had not noticed the absence of it until he told the story.

  “There's so little crime in Bologna,” she said, half apologetic. “I know Caffe Atene. It's not a place for thieves.”

  These were probably not Italians, he wanted to say, but managed to nod gravely as if to say: Yes, yes, what's the world coming to?

  When the small talk was over, she switched gears like a stern professor and said she was in the mood to tackle some verbs. He said he was not, but his moods were unimportant. She drilled him on the

  future tense of abitare (to live) and vedere (to see). Then she made him weave both verbs in all tenses into a hundred random sentences. Far from being distracted, she pounced on any wayward accent. A grammatical mistake prompted a quick reprimand, as if he'd just insulted the entire country.

  She had spent the day penned up in her apartment, with a dying husband and a busy mother. The lesson was her only chance to release some energy. Marco, however, was exhausted. The stress of the day was taking its toll, but Francesca's high-octane demands took his mind off his fatigue and confusion. One hour passed quickly. They recharged with more coffee, and she launched into the murky and difficult world of the subjunctive-present, imperfect, and past perfect. Finally, he began to founder. She tried to prop him up with reassurances that the subjunctive sinks a lot of students. But he was tired and ready to sink.

  He surrendered after two hours, thoroughly drained and in need of another long walk. It took fifteen minutes to say goodbye to Nino's boys. He happily escorted her back to her apartment. They hugged and pecked cheeks and promised to study tomorrow.

  If he walked as directly as possible, his apartment was twenty- five minutes away. But he had not walked directly to any place in more than a month.

  He began to wander.

  At 4:00 p.m., eight of the ktdon were on Via Fondazza, at various points-one drinking coffee at a sidewalk cafe, three strolling aimlessly a block apart, one cruising back and forth on a scooter, and one looking out a window from the third floor.

  Half a mile away, outside the central ci
ty, on the second floor above a flower shop owned by an elderly Jew, the four other members of the kidon were playing cards and waiting nervously. One, Ari, was one of the top English interrogators within the Mossad.

  They played with little conversation. The night ahead would be long and unpleasant.

  Throughout the day, Marco had struggled with the question of whether to return to Via Fondazza. The FBI boys could still be there,

  ready for another ugly confrontation. He felt sure they would not be stiff-armed so easily. They wouldn't simply call it quits and catch a plane. They had superiors back home who demanded results.

  Though far from certain, he had a strong hunch that Luigi was behind the theft of his Silvio bag. The fire had not really been a fire; it was more of a diversion, a reason for the lights to go off and a cover for someone to grab the bag.

  He didn't trust Luigi because he trusted no one.

  They had his cute little smartphone. Neal's codes were in there somewhere. Could they be broken? Could the trail lead to his son? Marco had not the slightest idea how those things worked, what was possible, what was impossible.

  The urge to leave Bologna was overwhelming. Where to go and how to get there were questions he had not sorted out. He was rambling now, and he felt vulnerable, almost helpless. Every face glancing at him was someone else who knew his real name. At a crowded bus stop he cut the line and climbed on, not sure where he was going. The bus was packed with weary commuters, shoulder to shoulder as they bounced along. Through the windows he watched the foot traffic under the marvelous crowded porticoes of the city center.

  At the last second he jumped off, then walked three blocks along Via San Vitale until he saw another bus. He rode in circles for almost an hour, then finally stepped off near the train station. He drifted with another crowd, then darted across Via dell' Indipendenza to the bus station. Inside he found the departures, saw that one was leaving in ten minutes for Piacenza, an hour and a half away with five stops in between. He bought a ticket for thirty euros and hid in the restroom until the last minute. The bus was almost full. The seats were wide with high headrests, and as the bus moved slowly through heavy traffic, Marco almost nodded off. Then he caught himself. Sleeping was not permissible.

  This was it-the escape he'd been contemplating since the first day in Bologna. He'd become convinced that to survive he would be forced to disappear, to leave Luigi behind and make it on his own. He had often wondered exactly how and when the flight would begin. What would trigger it? A face? A threat? Would he take a bus or train, cab or plane? Where would he go? Where would he hide? Would his

  rudimentary Italian get him through it? How much money would he have at the time?

  This was it. It was happening. There was no turning back now.

  The first stop was the small village of Bazzano, fifteen kilometers west of Bologna. Marco got off the bus and did not get back on. Again, he hid in the restroom of the station until the bus was gone, then crossed the street to a bar where he ordered a beer and asked the bartender about the nearest hotel.

  Over his second beer he asked about the train station, and learned that Bazzano did not have one. Only buses, said the bartender.

  Albergo Cantino was near the center of the village, five or six blocks away. It was dark when he arrived at the front desk, with no bags, something that did not go unnoticed by the signora who handled things.

  “I'd like a room,” he said in Italian.

  “For how many nights?”

  “Only one.”

  “The rate is fifty-five euros.”

  “Fine.”

  “Your passport, please.”

  “Sorry, but I lost it.”

  Her plucked and painted eyebrows arched in great suspicion, then she began shaking her head. “Sorry.”

  Marco laid two hundred-euro bills on the counter in front of her. The bribe was obvious-just take the cash, no paperwork, and give me a key.

  More shaking, more frowning.

  “You must have a passport,” she said. Then she folded her arms across her chest, jerked her chin upward, braced for the next exchange. There was no way she was going to lose.

  Outside, Marco walked the streets of the strange town. He found a bar and ordered coffee; no more alcohol, he had to keep his wits.

  “Where can I find a taxi?” he asked the bartender.

  “At the bus station.”

  By 9:00 p.m. Luigi was walking the floors of his apartment, waiting for Marco to return next door. He called Francesca and she re

  ported that they had studied that afternoon; in fact they'd had a delightful lesson. Great, he thought.

  His disappearance was part of the plan, but Whitaker and Langley thought it would take a few more days. Had they lost him already? That quickly? There were now five agents very close by-Luigi, Zellman, Krater, and two others sent from Milano.

  Luigi had always questioned the plan. In a city the size of Bologna it was impossible to maintain physical surveillance of a person twenty-four hours a day. Luigi had argued almost violently that the only way for the plan to work was to stash Backman away in a small village where his movements were limited, his options few, and his visitors much more visible. That had been the original plan, but the details had been abruptly changed in Washington.

  At 9:12, a buzzer quietly went off in the kitchen. He hurried to the monitors in the kitchen. Marco was home. His front door was opening. Luigi stared at the digital image from the hidden camera in the ceiling of the living room next door.

  Two strangers-not Marco. Two men in their thirties, dressed like regular guys. They closed the door quickly, quietly, professionally, then began looking around. One carried a small black bag of some sort.

  They were good, very good. To pick the lock of the safe house they had to be very good.

  Luigi smiled with excitement. With a little luck, his cameras were about to record Marco getting nabbed. Maybe they would kill him right there in the living room, captured on film. Perhaps the plan would work after all.

  He flipped the audio switches and increased the volume. Language was crucial here. Where were they from? What was their tongue? There were no sounds, though, as they moved about silently. They whispered once or twice, but he could barely hear it.

  The taxi made an abrupt stop on Via Gramsci, near the bus and train stations. From the backseat, Marco handed over enough cash, then ducked between two parked cars and was soon lost in the darkness. His escape from Bologna had been very brief indeed, but then it wasn't exactly over. He zigzagged out of habit, looping back, watching his own trail.

  On Via Minzoni he moved quickly under the porticoes and stopped at her apartment building. He didn't have the luxury of second thoughts, of hesitating or guessing. He rang twice, desperately hoping that Francesca, and not Signora Altonelli, would answer.

  “Who is it?” came that lovely voice.

  “Francesca, it's me, Marco. I need some help.”

  A very slight pause, then, “Yes, of course.”

  She met him at her door on the second floor and invited him in. Much to his dismay, Signora Altonelli was still there, standing in the kitchen door with a hand towel, watching his entrance very closely.

  “Are you all right?” Francesca asked in Italian.

  “English, please,” he said, looking and smiling at her mother.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I need a place to stay tonight. I can't get a room because I have no passport. I can't even bribe my way into a small hotel.”

  “That's the law in Europe, you know.”

  “Yes, I'm learning.”

  She waved at the sofa, then turned to her mother and asked her to make some coffee. They sat down. He noticed she was barefoot and moving about without the cane, though she still needed it. She wore tight jeans and a baggy sweater and looked as cute as a coed.

  “Why don't you tell me what's going on?” she said.

  “It's a complicated story and I can't tell you most of it. Let'
s just say that I don't feel very safe right now, that I really need to leave Bologna, as soon as possible.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I'm not sure. Somewhere out of Italy, out of Europe, to a place where I'll hide again.”

  “How long will you hide?”

  “A long time. I'm not sure.”

  She stared at him coldly, without blinking. He stared back because even when cold, the eyes were beautiful. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Well, I'm certainly not Marco Lazzeri.”

  “What are you running from?”

  “My past, and it's rapidly catching up with me. I'm not a criminal, Francesca. I was once a lawyer. I got in some trouble. I served my time. I've been fully pardoned. I'm not a bad guy.”

  “Why is someone after you?”

  “It was a business deal six years ago. Some very nasty people are not happy with how the deal was finished. They blame me. They would like to find me.”

  “To kill you?”

  “Yes. That's what they'd like to do.”

  “This is very confusing. Why did you come here? Why did Luigi help you? Why did he hire me and Ermanno? I don't understand.”

  “And I can't answer those questions. Two months ago I was in prison, and I thought I would be there for another fourteen years. Suddenly, I'm free. I was given a new identity, brought here, hidden first in Treviso, now Bologna. I think they want to kill me here.”

  “Here! In Bologna!”

  He nodded and looked toward the kitchen as Signora Altonelli appeared with a tray of coffee, and also a pear torta that had not yet been sliced. As she placed it delicately on a small plate for Marco, he realized that he had not eaten since lunch.

  Lunch with Luigi. Lunch with the fake fire and the stolen smart- phone. He thought of Neal again and worried about his safety.

  “It's delicious,” he said to her mother in Italian. Francesca was not eating. She watched every move he made, every bite, every sip of coffee. When her mother went back to the kitchen, she said, “Who does Luigi work for?”