When he was alone, Joel removed the steel box from his vault
and pulled open the top. He picked up the padded mailing envelope and opened it. There were the four two-gigabyte Jaz disks that had once been worth $1 billion.
He allowed himself a moment, but no more than sixty seconds. He was, after all, very safe at that time, and if he wanted to reflect, what was the harm?
He thought of Safi Mirza, Fazal Sharif, and Farooq Khan, the brilliant boys who'd discovered Neptune, then wrote reams of software to manipulate the system. They were all dead now, killed by their naive greed and their choice of lawyer. He thought of Jacy Hubbard, the brash, gregarious, infinitely charismatic crook who had snowed the voters for an entire career and finally gotten much too greedy. He thought of Carl Pratt and Kim Boiling and dozens of other partners he'd brought into their prosperous firm, and the lives that had been wrecked by what he was now holding in his hand. He thought of Neal and the humiliation he'd caused his son when the scandal engulfed Washington and prison became not only a certainty but a sanctuary.
And he thought of himself, not in selfish terms, not in pity, not passing the blame to anyone else. What a miserable mess of a life he'd lived, so far anyway. As much as he'd like to go back and do it differently, he had no time to waste on such thoughts. You've only got a few years left, Joel, or Marco, or Giovanni, or whatever the hell your name is. For the first time in your rotten life, why don't you do what's right, as opposed to what's profitable?
He put the disks in the envelope, the envelope in his briefcase, then replaced the steel box in the vault. He rang for Van Thiessen.
Back in the power office, Van Thiessen handed him a file with one sheet of paper in it. “This is a summary of your account,” he was saying. "It's very straightforward. As you know, there's been no activ
ity."
“You guys are paying one percent interest,” Joel said. “You were aware of our rates when you opened the account, Mr. Backman.”
“Yes, I was.”
“We protect your money in other ways.”
“Of course.” Joel closed the file and handed it back. “I don't want to keep this. Do you have the cash?”
“Yes, it's on the way up.”
“Good. I need a few things.”
Van Thiessen pulled over his writing pad and stood ready with his fountain pen. “Yes,” he said.
“I want to wire a hundred thousand to a bank in Washington, D.C. Can you recommend one?”
“Certainly. We work closely with Maryland Trust.”
“Good, wire the money there, and with the wire open a generic savings account. I will not be writing checks, just making withdrawals.”
“In what name?”
“Joel Backman and Neal Backman.” He was getting used to his name again, not ducking when he said it. Not cowering in fear, waiting for gunfire. He liked it.
“Very well,” Van Thiessen said. Anything was possible.
“I need some help in getting back to the US. Could your girl check the Lufthansa flights to Philadelphia and New York?”
“Of course. When, and from where?”
“Today, as soon as possible. I'd like to avoid the airport here. How far away is Munich by car?”
“By car, three to four hours.”
“Can you provide a car?”
“I'm sure we can arrange that.”
“I prefer to leave from the basement here, in a car driven by someone not dressed like a chauffeur. Not a black car either, something that will not attract attention.”
Van Thiessen stopped writing and shot a puzzled look. “Are you in danger, Mr. Backman?”
“Perhaps. I'm not sure, and I'm not taking chances.”
Van Thiessen pondered this for a few seconds, then said, “Would you like for us to make the airline reservations?”
“Yes.”
“Then I need to see your passport.”
Joel pulled out Giovanni's borrowed passport. Van Thiessen studied it for a long time, his stoic banker's face betraying him. He was
confused and worried. He finally managed, “Mr. Backman, you will be traveling with someone else's passport.”
“That's correct.”
“And this is a valid passport?”
It IS.
“I assume you do not have one of your own.”
“They took it a long time ago.”
“This bank cannot take part in the commission of a crime. If this is stolen, then-”
“I assure you it's not stolen.”
“Then how did-”
“Let's just say it's borrowed, okay?”
“But using someone else's passport is a violation of the law.”
“Let's not get hung up on US. immigration policy, Mr. Van Thiessen. Just get the schedules. I'll pick the nights. Your girl makes the reservations using the bank's account. Deduct it from my balance. Get me a car and a driver. Deduct that from my balance, if you wish. It's all very simple.”
It was just a passport. Hell, other clients had three or four of them. Van Thiessen handed it back to Joel and said, “Very well. Anything else?”
“Yes, I need to go online. I'm sure your computers are secure.”
“Absolutely.”
His e-mail to Neal read:
Grinch-With a bit of luck, I should arrive in US. tonight. Get a new cellphone today. Don't let it out of your sight. Tomorrow morning call the Hilton, Marriott, and Sheraton, in downtown Washington. Ask for Giovanni Ferro. Thats me. Call Carl Pratt first thing this morning, on the new phone. Push hard to get Senator Clayburn in D. C. We will cover his expenses. Tell him it's urgent. A favor to an old friend. Don't take no for an answer. No more e-mails until I get home. Marco
After a quick sandwich and a cola in Van Thiessen's office, Joel Backman left the bank building riding shotgun in a shiny green BMW
four-door sedan. For good measure, he kept a Swiss newspaper in front of his face until they were on the autobahn. The driver was Franz. Franz fancied himself a Formula One hopeful, and when Joel let it be known that he was in somewhat of a hurry, Franz slipped into the left lane and hit 150 kilometers per hour.
At 1:55 p.m., Joel Backman was sitting in a lavishly large seat in the first-class section of a Lufthansa 747 as it began its push back from the gate at the Munich airport. Only when it started to move did he dare pick up the glass of champagne he'd been staring at for ten minutes. The glass was empty by the time the plane stopped at the end of the runway for its final check. When the wheels lifted off the pavement, Joel closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a few hours of relief.
His son, on the other hand, and at exactly the same moment, 7:55 Eastern Standard time, was stressed to the point of throwing things. How the hell was he supposed to go buy a new cell phone immediately, then call Carl Pratt again and solicit old favors that did not exist, and somehow cajole a retired and cantankerous old senator from Ocracoke, North Carolina, to drop what he was doing and return immediately to a city he evidently disliked immensely? Not to mention the obvious: he, Neal Backman, had a rather full day at the office. Nothing as pressing as rescuing his wayward father, but still a pretty full docket with clients and other important matters.
He left Jerry's Java, but instead of going to the office he went home. Lisa was bathing their daughter and was surprised to see him. “What's wrong?” she said.
“We have to talk. Now.”
He began with the mysterious letter postmarked from York, Pennsylvania, and went through the $4,000 loan, as painful as it was, then the smartphone, the encrypted e-mails, pretty much the entire story. She took it calmly, much to his relief.
“You should've told me,” she said more than once.
“Yes, and I'm sorry.”
There was no fight, no arguing. Loyalty was one of her strongest traits, and when she said, “We have to help him,” Neal hugged her.
“He'll pay back the money,” he assured her.
“We'll worry about the money later. Is h
e in danger?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, what's the first step?”
“Call the office and tell them I'm in bed with the flu.”
Their entire conversation was captured live and in perfect detail by a tiny mike planted by the Mossad in the light fixture above where they were sitting. It was wired to a transmitter hidden in their attic, and from there it was relayed to a high-frequency receiver a quarter of a mile away in a seldom-used retail office space recently leased for six months by a gentleman from D.C. There, a technician listened to it twice, then quickly e-mailed his field agent in the Israeli embassy in Washington.
Since Backman's disappearance in Bologna more than twenty- four hours ago, the bugs planted around his son had been monitored even more closely.
The e-mail to Washington concluded with “JB's coming home.”
Fortunately, Neal did not mention the name “Giovanni Ferro” during the conversation with Lisa. Unfortunately, he did mention two of the three hotels-the Marriott and the Sheraton.
Backman's return was given the highest priority possible. Eleven Mossad agents were located on the East Coast; all were ordered to D.C. immediately.
Lisa dropped their daughter off at her mother's, then she and Neal sped south to Charlottesville, thirty minutes away. In a shopping center north of town they found the office for US. Cellular. They opened an account, bought a phone, and within thirty minutes were back on the road. Lisa drove while Neal tried to find Carl Pratt.
Aided by generous helpings of champagne and wine, Joel managed to sleep for several hours over the Atlantic. When the plane landed at JFK at 4:30 p.m., the relaxation was gone, replaced by uncertainties and a compulsion to look over his shoulder.
At immigration, he at first stepped into line with the returning Americans, a much shorter line. The mob waiting across the way for non-U.S. was embarrassing. Then he caught himself, glanced around, began cursing under his breath, and hustled over to the foreigners.
How stupid can you be?
A thick-necked uniformed kid from the Bronx was yelling at people to follow this line, not that one, and hurry up while you're at it. Welcome to America. Some things he had not missed.
The passport officer frowned at Giovannis passport, but then he'd frowned at all the others too. Joel had been watching him carefully from behind a pair of cheap sunglasses.
“Could you remove your sunglasses, please?” the officer said.
“Certamente,” Joel said loudly, anxious to prove his Italianness. He took off the sunglasses, squinted as if blinded, then rubbed his eyes while the officer tried to study his face. Reluctantly, he stamped the passport and handed it over without a word. With nothing to declare, the customs officials barely looked at him. Joel hustled through the terminal and found the line at the taxi stand. “Penn Station,” he said. The driver resembled Farooq Khan, the youngest of the three, just a boy, and as Joel studied him from the backseat he pulled his briefcase closer.
The Broker
Moving against the rush hour traffic, he was at Penn Station in forty-five minutes. He bought an Amtrak ticket to D.C., and at 7:00 left New York for Washington.
The taxi parked on Brandywine Street in northwest Washington. It was almost eleven, and most of the fine homes were dark. Back- man spoke to the driver, who was already reclining and ready for a nap.
Mrs. Pratt was in bed and struggling with sleep when she heard the doorbell. She grabbed her robe and hurried down the stairs. Her husband slept in the basement most nights, mainly because he snored but also because he was drinking too much and suffering from insomnia. She presumed he was there now.
“Who is it?” she asked through the intercom.
“Joel Backman,” came the answer, and she thought it was a prank.
“Who?”
“Donna, it's me, Joel. I swear. Open the door.”
She peeped through the hole in the door and did not recognize the stranger. “Just a minute,” she said, then ran to the basement where Carl was watching the news. A minute later he was at the door, wearing a Duke sweat suit and holding a pistol.
“Who is it?” he demanded through the intercom.
“Carl, it's me, Joel. Put the gun down and open the door.”
The voice was unmistakable. He opened the door and Joel Backman walked into his life, an old nightmare back for more. There were no hugs, no handshakes, hardly a smile. The Pratts quietly examined him because he looked so different-much thinner, hair darker and shorter, strange clothing. He got a “What are you doing here?” from Donna.
“That's a good question,” he said coolly. He had the advantage of planning. They were caught completely off guard. “Will you put that gun down?”
Pratt put the gun on a side table.
“Have you talked to Neal?” Backman asked.
“All day long.”
“What's going on, Carl?” Donna asked.
“I don't really know.”
“Can we talk? That's why I'm here. I don't trust phones anymore.”
“Talk about what?” she demanded.
“Could you make us some coffee, Donna?” Joel asked pleasantly.
“Hell no.”
“Scratch the coffee.”
Carl had been rubbing his chin, assessing things. “Donna, we need to talk in private. Old law firm stuff. I'll give you the rundown later.”
She shot them both a look that clearly said, Go straight to hell, then stomped back up the stairs. They stepped into the den. Carl said, “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, something strong.”
He went to a small wet bar in a corner and poured single malts- doubles. He handed Joel a drink and without the slightest effort at a smile said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers. It's good to see you, Carl.”
“I bet it is. You weren't supposed to see anyone for another fourteen years.”
“Counting the days, huh?”
“We're still cleaning up after you, Joel. A bunch of good folks got hurt. I'm sorry if Donna and I aren't exactly thrilled to see you. I can't think of too many people in this town who'd like to give you a hug.”
“Most would like to shoot me.”
Carl gave a wary look over at the pistol.
“I can't worry about that,” Backman continued. “Sure, I'd like to go back and change some things, but I don't have that luxury. I'm running for my life now, Carl, and I need some help.”
“Maybe I don't want to get involved.”
“I can't blame you. But I need a favor, a big one. Help me now, and I promise I'll never show up on your doorstep again.”
“I'll shoot the next time.”
“Where's Senator Clayburn? Tell me he's still alive.”
“Yes, very much so. And you caught some luck.”
“What?”
“He's here, in D.C.”
“Why?”
“Hollis Maples is retiring, after a hundred years in the Senate. They had a bash for him tonight. All the old boys are in town.”
“Maples? He was drooling in his soup ten years ago.”
“Well, now he can't see his soup. He and Clayburn were as tight as ticks.”
“Have you talked to Clayburn?”
“Yes.” '
“And?”
“It might be a tough one, Joel. He didn't like the sound of your name. Something about being shot for treason.”
''Whatever. Tell him he can broker a deal that will make him feel like a real patriot."
“What's the deal?”
“I have the software, Carl. The whole package. Picked it up this morning from a vault in a bank in Zurich where it's been sitting for more than six years. You and Clayburn come to my room in the morning, and I'll show it to you.”
“I really don't want to see it.”
“Yes you do.”
Pratt sucked down two ounces of scotch. He walked back to the bar and refilled his glass, took another toxic dose, then said, “When and where?”
> “The Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Room five-twenty. Nine in the morning.”
“Why Joel? Why should I get involved?”
“A favor to an old friend.”
“I don't owe you any favors. And the old friend left a long time ago.”
“Please, Carl. Bring in Clayburn, and you'll be out of the picture by noon tomorrow. I promise you'll never see me again.”
“That is very tempting.”
He asked the driver to take his time. They cruised through Georgetown, along K Street, with its late-night restaurants and bars and college hangouts all packed with people living the good life. It was March 22 and spring was coming. The temperature was around sixty- five and the students were anxious to be outside, even at midnight.
The cab slowed at the intersection of I Street and 14th and Joel could see his old office building in the distance on New York Avenue. Somewhere in there, on the top floor, he'd once ruled his own little
kingdom, with his minions running behind him, jumping at every command. It was not a nostalgic moment. Instead he was filled with regret for a worthless life spent chasing money and buying friends and women and all the toys a serious big shot could want. They drove on, past the countless office buildings, government on one side, lobbyists on the other.
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.
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