The Broker

by Grisham, John

  “I'm not sure. Probably the CIA. You know the CIA?”

  “Yes. I read spy novels. The CIA put you here?”

  “I think the CIA got me out of prison, out of the country, and here to Bologna where they've hidden me in a safe house while they try and figure out what to do with me.”

  “Will they kill you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Luigi?”

  “Possibly.”

  She placed her cup on the table and fiddled with her hair for a while. “Would you like some water?” she asked as she got to her feet.

  “No thanks.”

  “I need to move a little,” she said as she carefully placed weight on her left foot. She walked slowly into the kitchen, where things were quiet for a moment before an argument broke out. She and her mother were disagreeing rather heatedly, but they were forced to do so in loud, tense whispers.

  It dragged on for a few minutes, died down, then flared up as neither side seemed ready to yield. Finally, Francesca came limping back with a small bottle of San Pellegrino and took her place on the sofa.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “I told her you wanted to sleep here tonight. She misunderstood.”

  “Come on. I'll sleep in the closet. I don't care.”

  “She's very old-fashioned.”

  “Is she staying here tonight?”

  “She is now.”

  “Just give me a pillow. I'll sleep on the kitchen table.”

  Signora Altonelli was a different person when she returned to remove the coffee tray. She glared at Marco as if he'd already molested her daughter. She glared at Francesca as if she wanted to slap her. She huffed around the kitchen for a few minutes, then retired somewhere back in the apartment.

  "Are you sleepy?' Francesca asked.

  “No. You?”

  “No. Let's talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  He slept a few hours on the sofa, and was awakened by Francesca tapping on his shoulder. “I have an idea,” she said. “Follow me.”

  He followed her to the kitchen, where a clock read 4:15. On the counter by the sink was a disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, a pair of eyeglasses, and a bottle of hair something or other-he couldn't translate it. She handed him a small burgundy leather case and said, “This is a passport. Giovanni's.”

  He almost dropped it. “No, I can't-”

  “Yes, you can. He won't be needing it. I insist.”

  Marco slowly opened it and looked at the distinguished face of a man he'd never meet. The expiration date was seven months away, so the photo was almost five years old. He found the birthday-Giovanni was now sixty-eight years old, a good twenty years older than his wife.

  During the cab ride back from Bazzano, he'd thought of nothing but a passport. He'd thought about stealing one from an unsuspecting tourist. He'd thought about buying one somewhere on the black market but had no idea where to go. And he'd pondered Giovanni's, one that, sadly, was about to be useless. Null and void.

  But he'd dismissed the thought for fear of endangering Francesca. What if he got caught? What if an immigration guard at an airport got suspicious and called his supervisor over? But his biggest fear was getting caught by the people who were chasing him. The passport could implicate her, and he would never do that.

  'Are you sure?" he asked. Now that he was holding the passport he really wanted to keep it.

  “Please, Marco, I want to help. Giovanni would insist.”

  “I don't know what to say.”

  “We have work to do. There's a bus for Parma that leaves in two hours. It would be a safe way out of town.”

  “I want to get to Milano,” he said.

  “Good idea.”

  She took the passport and opened it. They studied the photo of her husband. “Let's start with that thing around your mouth,” she said.

  Ten minutes later the mustache and goatee were gone, his face completely shaven. She held a mirror for him as he hovered over the kitchen sink. Giovanni at sixty-three had less gray hair than Marco at fifty-two, but then he'd not had the experience of a federal indictment and six years in prison.

  He assumed the hair coloring was something she used, but he was not about to ask. It promised results in an hour. He sat in a chair facing the table with a towel draped over his shoulders while she gently worked the solution through his hair. Very little was said. Her mother was asleep. Her husband was still and quiet and heavily medicated.

  Not long ago Giovanni the professor had worn round tortoiseshell eyeglasses, light brown, quite the academic look, and when Marco put them on and studied his new look he was startled at the change. His hair was much darker, his eyes much different. He hardly recognized himself.

  “Not bad” was her assessment of her own work. “It will do for now.”

  She brought in a navy corduroy sports coat, with well-worn patches on the elbows. “He's about two inches shorter than you,” she said. The sleeves needed another inch, and the jacket wouldVe been tight through the chest, but Marco was so thin these days that anything would swallow him.

  “What's your real name?” she said as she tugged on the sleeves and adjusted the collar.

  ¦Joel."

  “I think you should travel with a briefcase. It will look normal.”

  He couldn't argue. Her generosity was overwhelming, and he needed every damned bit of it. She left, then came back with a beautiful old briefcase, tan leather with a silver buckle.

  “I don't know what to say,” Marco mumbled.

  “It's Giovanni's favorite, a gift from me twenty years ago. Italian leather.”

  “Of course.”

  “If you get caught somehow with the passport, what will you say?” she asked.

  “I stole it. You're my tutor. I was in your home as a guest. I managed to find the drawer with your documents, and I stole your husband's passport.”

  “You're a good liar.”

  “At one time, I was one of the best. If I get caught, Francesca, I will protect you. I promise. I will tell lies that will baffle everyone.”

  “You won't get caught. But use the passport as little as possible.”

  “Don't worry. I'll destroy it as soon as I can.”

  “Do you need money?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? I have a thousand euros here.”

  “No, Francesca, but thanks.”

  “You'd better hurry.”

  He followed her to the front door where they stopped and looked at each other. “Do you spend much time online?” he asked.

  “A little each day.”

  “Check out Joel Backman, start with The Washington Post. There's a lot of stuff there, but don't believe everything you read. I'm not the monster they've created.”

  “You're not a monster at all, Joel.”

  “I don't know how to thank you.”

  She took his right hand and squeezed it with both of hers. “Will you ever return to Bologna?” she asked. It was more of an invitation than a question.

  “I don't know. I really don't have any idea whats about to happen. But, maybe. Can I knock on your door if I make it back?”

  “Please do. Be careful out there.”

  He stood in the shadows of Via Minzoni for a few minutes, not wanting to leave her, not ready to begin the long journey.

  Then there was a cough from under the darkened porticoes across the street, and Giovanni Ferro was on the run.

  As THE HOURS PASSED WITH EXCRUCIATING SLOWNESS, LuiGI GRADU-

  ally moved from worry to panic. One of two things had happened: either the hit had already occurred, or Marco had gotten wind of something and was trying to flee. Luigi worried about the stolen bag. Was it too strong a move? Had it scared Marco to the point of disappearing?

  The expensive smartphone had shaken everyone. Their boy had been doing much more than studying Italian, walking the streets, and sampling every cafe and bar in town. He'd be
en planning, and communicating.

  The smartphone was in a lab in the basement of the American embassy in Milan, where, according to the latest from Whitaker, and they were talking every fifteen minutes, the technicians had been unable to crack its codes.

  A few minutes after midnight, the two intruders next door evidently got tired of waiting. As they were making their exit, they spoke a few words loud enough to be recorded. It was English with a trace of an accent. Luigi had immediately called Whitaker and reported that they were probably Israeli.

  He was correct. The two agents were instructed by Efraim to leave the apartment and take up other positions.

  When they left, Luigi decided to send Krater to the bus station and Zellman to the train station. With no passport, Marco could not buy a plane ticket. Luigi decided to ignore the airport. But, as he told Whitaker, if their boy can somehow buy a state-of-the-art cell phone PC that cost about a thousand bucks, maybe he could also find himself a passport.

  By 3:00 a.m. Whitaker was yelling in Milano and Luigi, who couldn't yell for security reasons, could only curse, which he was doing in English and Italian and holding his own in both languages.

  “You've lost him, dammit!” Whitaker screeched.

  “Not yet!”

  “He's already dead!”

  Luigi hung up again, for the third time that morning.

  The kidon pulled back around 3:30 a.m. They would all rest for a few hours, then plan the day ahead.

  He sat with a wino on a bench in a small park, not far down Via dell' Indipendenza from the bus station. The wino had been nursing a jug of pink fluid for most of the night, and every five minutes or so he managed to lift his head and utter something at Marco, five feet away. Marco mumbled back, and whatever he said seemed to please the wino. Two of his colleagues were completely comatose and were huddled nearby like dead soldiers in a trench. Marco didn't feel exactly safe, but then he had more serious problems.

  A few people loitered in front of the bus station. Around five- thirty activity increased when a large group of what appeared to be Gypsies came bustling out, all speaking loudly at once, obviously delighted to be off the bus after a long ride from somewhere. More departing passengers were arriving, and Marco decided it was time to leave the wino. He entered the station behind a young couple and their child and followed them to the ticket counter where he listened as they bought tickets to Parma. He did the same, then hurried to the restroom and again hid in a stall.

  Krater was sitting in the stations all-night diner, drinking bad coffee behind a newspaper while he watched the passengers come and

  go. He watched Marco walk by. He noted his height, build, age. The walk was familiar, though much slower. The Marco Lazzeri he'd been following for weeks could walk as fast as most men could jog. This fellow's pace was much slower, but then there was nowhere to go. Why hurry? On the streets Lazzeri was always trying to lose them, and at times he was successful.

  But the face was very different. The hair was much darker. The brown corduroy cap was gone, but then it was an accessory and easy to lose. The tortoiseshell eyeglasses caught Krater's attention. Glasses were wonderful diversions but so often they were overplayed. Marco's stylish arm ani frames had fit him perfectly, slightly altering his appearance without calling attention to his face. The round glasses on this guy begged for attention.

  The facial hair was gone; a five-minute job, something anyone would do. The shirt was not one Krater had seen before, and he'd been in Marco's apartment with Luigi during sweeps when they looked at every item of clothing. The faded jeans were very generic, and Marco had purchased a similar pair. The blue sports coat with worn elbow patches, along with the handsome attache, kept Krater in his chair. The jacket had many miles on it, something Marco could not have acquired. The sleeves were a bit short, but that was not uncommon. The briefcase was made of fine leather. Marco might somehow find and spend some cash on a smartphone, but why waste it on such an expensive briefcase? His last bag, the navy blue Silvio he'd owned until about sixteen hours ago when Krater grabbed it during the melee at Caffe Atene, had cost sixty euros.

  Krater watched him until he rounded a corner and was out of sight. A possibility, nothing more. He sipped his coffee and for a few minutes contemplated the gentleman he'd just seen.

  Marco stood in the stall with his jeans bunched around his ankles, feeling quite silly but much more concerned with a good cover at this point. The door opened. The wall to the left of the door had four urinals; across were six lavatories, and next to them were the four stalls. The other three were empty. There was very little traffic at the moment. Marco listened carefully, waiting to hear the sounds of human relief-the zipper, the jangle of a belt buckle, the deep sigh men often make, the spray of urine.

  Nothing. There was no noise from the lavatories, no one wash

  ing their hands. The doors to the other three stalls did not open. Maybe it was the custodian making his rounds, and doing so very quietly.

  In front of the lavatories, Krater bent low and saw the jeans around the ankles in the last stall. Next to the jeans was the fine briefcase. The gentleman was taking care of his business and in no hurry about it.

  The next bus left at 6:00 a.m. for Parma; after that there was a 6:20 departure for Florence. Krater hurried to the booth and bought tickets for both. The clerk looked at him oddly, but Krater couldn't have cared less. He went back to the restroom. The gentleman in the last stall was still there.

  Krater stepped outside and called Luigi. He gave a description of the man, and explained that he appeared to be in no hurry to leave the men's room.

  “The best place to hide,” Luigi said.

  “I've done it many times.”

  “Do you think it's Marco?”

  “I don't know. If it is, it's a very good disguise.”

  The Broker

  Rattled by the smartphone, the $400 in American cash, and the disappearance, Luigi was not taking chances. “Follow him,” he said.

  At 5:55, Marco pulled up his jeans, flushed, grabbed his briefcase, and took off for the bus. Waiting on the platform was Krater, nonchalantly eating an apple with one hand and holding a newspaper with the other. When Marco headed for the bus to Parma, so did Krater.

  A third of the seats were empty. Marco took one on the left side, halfway back, by a window. Krater was looking away when he passed by, then found a seat four rows behind him.

  The first stop was Modena, thirty minutes into the trip. As they entered the city, Marco decided to take stock of the faces behind him. He stood and made his way to the rear, to the restroom, and along the way gave a casual glance to each male.

  When he locked himself in the restroom, he closed his eyes and said to himself, “Yes, I've seen that face before.”

  Less than twenty-four hours earlier, in Caflfe Atene, just a few

  minutes before the lights went out. The face had been in a long mirror that lined the wall with an old coatrack, above the tables. The face had been seated nearby, behind him, with another man.

  It was a familiar face. Maybe he'd even seen it before somewhere in Bologna.

  Marco returned to his seat as the bus slowed and approached the station. Think quickly, man, he kept telling himself, but keep your cool. Don't panic. They've followed you out of Bologna; you can't let them follow you out of the country.

  As the bus stopped, the driver announced their arrival in Modena. A brief stop; a departure in fifteen minutes. Four passengers waddled down the aisle and got off. The others kept their seats; most were dozing anyway. Marco closed his eyes and allowed his head to drift to his left, against the window, fast asleep now. A minute passed and two peasants climbed aboard, wild-eyed and clutching heavy cloth bags.

  When the driver returned and was situating himself behind the wheel, Marco suddenly eased from his seat, slid quickly along the aisle, and hopped off the bus just as the door was closing. He walked quickly into the station, then turned around and watched the bus back away. His p
ursuer was still on board.

  Krater's first move was to sprint off the bus, perhaps arguing with the driver in the process, but then no driver will fight to keep someone on board. He caught himself, though, because Marco obviously knew he was being followed. His last-second exit only confirmed what Krater had suspected. It was Marco all right, running like a wounded animal.

  Problem was, he was loose in Modena and Krater was not. The bus turned onto another street, then stopped for a traffic light. Krater rushed to the driver, holding his stomach, begging to get off before he vomited all over the place. The door flew open, Krater jumped off and ran back toward the station.

  Marco wasted no time. When the bus was out of sight, he hurried to the front of the station where three taxis were lined up. He jumped into the backseat of the first one and said, “Can you take me to Milano?” His Italian was very good.

  “Milano?”

  “Si, Milano.”

  “E molto caro!” It's very expensive.

  “Quanto?”

  “Duecento euro.” Two hundred euros.

  “Andiamo.”

  After an hour of scouring the Modena bus station and the two streets next to it, Krater called Luigi with the news that was not all good, and not all bad. He'd lost his man, but the mad dash for freedom confirmed that it was indeed Marco.

  Luigi's reaction was mixed. He was frustrated that Krater had been outfoxed by an amateur. He was impressed that Marco could effectively change his appearance and elude a small army of assassins. And he was angry at Whitaker and the fools in Washington who kept changing the plans and had now created an impending disaster for which he, Luigi, would no doubt get the blame.

  He called Whitaker, yelled and cursed some more, then headed for the train station with Zellman and the two others. They'd meet up with Krater in Milano, where Whitaker was promising a full-court press with all the muscle he could pull in.

  Leaving Bologna on the direct Eurostar, Luigi had a wonderful idea, one he could never mention. Why not just simply call the Israelis and the Chinese and tell them that Backman was last seen in Modena, headed west to Parma and probably Milano? They wanted him much more than Langley did. And they could certainly do a better job of finding him.