The Broker

by Grisham, John

  “Here's the deal, gentlemen. You give me your word that you'll get the CIA out of my life, and that you'll act quickly to appease the Israelis and the Saudis. Do whatever is possible with the Chinese, which I understand may be very little. And you give me two passports-one Australian and one Canadian. As soon as they're ready, and this afternoon would not be too soon, you bring them to me and I'll hand over the other two disks.”

  “It's a deal,” Roland said. “But, of course, we need to have a look at the software.”

  Joel reached into his pocket and removed disks one and two. Roland called the computer technicians back in, and the entire group huddled around the large monitor.

  A Mossad agent with the code name of Albert thought he saw Neal Backman enter the lobby of the Marriott on 22nd Street. He called his supervisor, and within thirty minutes two other agents were inside the hotel. Albert again saw Neal Backman an hour later, as he

  left an elevator carrying a briefcase that he had not carried into the hotel, went to the front desk, and appeared to fill out a registration form. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed over a credit card.

  He returned to the elevator, where Albert missed him by a matter of seconds.

  The knowledge that Joel Backman was probably staying at the Marriott on 22nd Street was extremely important, but it also posed enormous problems. First, the killing of an American on American soil was an operation so delicate that the prime minister would have to be consulted. Second, the actual assassination itself was a logistical nightmare. The hotel had six hundred rooms, hundreds of guests, hundreds of employees, hundreds of visitors, no less than five conventions in progress- Thousands of potential witnesses.

  However, a plan came together quickly.

  They had lunch with the senator in the rear of a Vietnamese

  deli near Dupont Circle, a place they judged to be safe from lobbyists and old-timers who might see them together and start one of the hot rumors that kept the city alive and gridlocked. For an hour, as they struggled with spicy noodles almost too hot to eat, Joel and Neal listened as the fisherman from Ocracoke regaled them with endless stories of his glory days in Washington. He said more than once that he did not miss politics, yet his memories of those days were filled with intrigue, humor, and many friendships.

  Clayburn had started the day thinking that a bullet in the head would We been too good for Joel Backman, but when they said goodbye on the sidewalk outside the cafe he was begging him to please come see his boat, and bring Neal too. Joel had not been fishing since childhood, and he knew he would never make it to the Outer Banks, but out of gratitude he promised to try.

  Joel came closer to a bullet in the head than he would ever know. As he and Neal strolled along Connecticut Avenue after lunch, they were closely watched by the Mossad. A sharpshooter was ready in the rear of a rented panel truck. Final approval, though, was still hung up in Tel Aviv. And the sidewalk was very crowded.

  Using the yellow pages in his hotel room, Neal had found a men's shop that advertised overnight alterations. He was anxious to help- his father desperately needed some new clothes. Joel bought a navy three-piece suit, a white dress shirt, two ties, some chinos and casual clothes, and, thankfully, two pairs of black dress shoes. The total was $3,100, and he paid in cash. The bowling shoes were left in a wastebasket, though the salesman had been somewhat complimentary of them.

  At exactly 4:00 p.m., while sitting in a star bucks coffee shop on Massachusetts Avenue, Neal took his cell phone and dialed the number given by Major Roland. He handed the phone to his father.

  Roland himself answered. “We're on our way,” he said.

  “Room five-twenty,'' Joel said, eyes watching the other coffee drinkers. ”How many are coming?"

  “It's a nice group,” Roland said.

  “I don't care how many you bring, just leave everybody else in the lobby.”

  “I can do that.”

  They forgot the coffee and walked ten blocks back to the Marriott, with every step watched closely by well-armed Mossad agents. Still no action in Tel Aviv.

  The Backmans were in the room for a few minutes when there was a knock on the door.

  Joel shot a nervous glance at his son, who froze and looked as anxious as his father. This could be it, Joel said to himself. The epic journey that began on the streets of Bologna, on foot, then a cab, then a bus to Modena, a taxi all the way to Milan, more little hikes, more cabs, then the train destined for Stuttgart, but with an unexpected detour in Zug, where another driver took the cash and hauled him into Zurich, two streetcars, then Franz and the green BMW doing 150 kilometers all the way to Munich, where the warm and welcome arms of Lufthansa brought him home. This could be the end of the road.

  “Who is it?” Joel asked as he stepped to the door.

  “Wes Roland.”

  Joel looked through the peephole, saw no one. He took a deep breath and opened the door. The major was now wearing a sports coat and tie, and he was all alone and empty-handed. At least he appeared

  to be alone. Joel glanced down the hall and saw people trying to hide. He quickly closed the door and introduced Roland to Neal.

  “Here are the passports,” Roland said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out two broken-in passports. The first had a dark blue cover with Australia in gold letters. Joel opened it and looked at the photo first. The technicians had taken the Pentagon security photo, lightened the hair considerably, removed the eyeglasses and a few of the wrinkles, and produced a pretty good image. His name was Simon Wilson McAvoy. “Not bad,” Joel said.

  The second was bound in navy blue, with Canada in gold letters on the outside. Same photo, and the Canadian name of Ian Rex Hatteboro. Joel nodded his approval and handed both to Neal for his inspection.

  “There is some concern about the grand jury investigation into the pardon scandal,” Roland said. “We didn't discuss it earlier.”

  “Major, you and I both know I'm not involved in that affair. I expect the CIA to convince the boys over at Hoover that I'm clean. I had no idea a pardon was in the works. Its not my scandal.”

  “You may be called to appear before a grand jury.”

  “Fine. I'll volunteer. It'll be a very short appearance.”

  Roland seemed satisfied. He was just the messenger. He began to look around for his end of the bargain. “Now, about that software,” he said.

  “It's not here,” Joel said, with unnecessary drama. He nodded at Neal, who left the room. “Just a minute,” he said to Roland, whose eyebrows were arching up while his eyes grew narrow.

  “Is there a problem?” he said.

  “Not at all. The package is in another room. Sorry, but I've been acting like a spy for too long.”

  “Not a bad practice for a man in your position.”

  “I guess it's now a way of life.”

  “Our technicians are still playing with the first two disks. It's really an impressive piece of work.”

  “My clients were smart boys, and good boys. Just got greedy, I guess. Like a few others.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Neal was back. He handed the envelope to Joel, who removed the two disks, then gave them to Roland. “Thanks,” he said. “It took guts.”

  “Some people have more guts than brains, I guess.”

  The exchange was over. There was nothing left to say. Roland made his way to the door. He grabbed the doorknob, then thought of something else. “Just so you know,” he said gravely, “the CIA is reasonably certain that Sammy Tin landed in New York this afternoon. The flight came from Milan.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Joel said.

  When Roland left the hotel room with the envelope, Joel stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. Neal found two beers in the minibar and fell into a nearby chair. He waited a few minutes, sipped his beer, then finally said, “Dad, who is Sammy Tin?”

  “You don't want to know.”

  “Oh, yeah. I want to know everything. And you're going to tell me.”
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  At 6:00 p.m., Lisa's mother's car stopped outside a hair salon on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Joel got out and said goodbye. And thanks. Neal sped away, anxious to get home.

  Neal had made the appointment by phone a few hours earlier, bribing the receptionist with the promise of $500 in cash. A stout lady named Maureen was waiting, not too happy to be working late but nonetheless anxious to see who would drop that kind of money on a quick coloring job.

  Joel paid first, thanked both the receptionist and Maureen for their flexibility, then sat in front of a mirror.

  “You want it washed?” Maureen said.

  “No. Lets hurry.”

  She put her fingers in his hair and said, “Who did this?”

  “A lady in Italy.”

  “What color do you have in mind?”

  “Gray, solid gray.”

  “Natural?”

  “No, beyond natural. Lets get it almost white.”

  She rolled her eyes at the receptionist. We get all kinds in here.

  Maureen went to work. The receptionist went home, locking the door behind her. A few minutes into the project, Joel asked, “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Nope, it's my day off. Why?”

  “Because I need to come in around noon for another session. I'll be in the mood for something darker tomorrow, something to hide the gray you're doing now.”

  Pier hands stopped. “What's with you?”

  “Meet me here at noon, and I'll pay a thousand bucks in cash.”

  “Sure. What about the next day?”

  “I'll be fine when some of the gray is gone.”

  Dan Sandberg had been loafing at his desk at the Post late in the afternoon when the call came. The gentleman on the other end identified himself as Joel Backman, said he wanted to talk. Sandberg's caller ID showed an unknown number.

  “The real Joel Backman?” Sandberg said, scrambling for his laptop.

  “The only one I know.”

  “A real pleasure. Last time I saw you, you were in court, pleading guilty to all sorts of bad stuff.”

  “All of which was wiped clean with a presidential pardon.”

  “I thought you were tucked away on the other side of the world.”

  “Yeah, I got tired of Europe. Kinda missed my old stomping grounds. I'm back now, ready to do business again.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “My specialty, of course. That's what I wanted to talk about.”

  “I'd be delighted. But I'll have to ask questions about the pardon. Lots of wild rumors out there.”

  “That's the first thing we'll cover, Mr. Sandberg. How about tomorrow morning at nine?”

  “I wouldn't miss it. Where do we meet?”

  “I'll have the presidential suite at the Hay-Adams. Bring a photographer if you like. The broker is back in town.”

  Sandberg hung up and called Rusty Lowell, his best source at the CIA. Lowell was out, and as usual no one had any idea where he was. He tried another source at Langley, but found nothing.

  Whitaker sat in the first-class section of the Alitalia flight from Milano to Dulles. Up front, the booze was free and free-flowing, and Whitaker tried his best to get hammered. The call from Julia Javier had been a shock. She had begun pleasantly enough with the question 'Anyone seen Marco over there, Whitaker?"

  “No, but we're looking.”

  “Do you think you'll find him?”

  “Yes, I'm quite sure he'll turn up.”

  “The director is very anxious right now, Whitaker. She wants to know if you're going to find Marco.”

  “Tell her yes, we'll find him!”

  “And where are you looking, Whitaker?”

  "Between here, in Milano, and Zurich.'

  “Well, you're wasting your time, Whitaker, because ol' Marco has popped up here in Washington. Met with the Pentagon this afternoon. Slipped right through your fingers, Whitaker, made us look stupid.”

  “What!”

  “Come home, Whitaker, and get here quickly.”

  Twenty-five rows back, Luigi was crouching low in coach, rubbing knees with a twelve-year-old girl who was listening to some of the raunchiest rap he'd ever heard. He was on his fourth drink himself. It wasn't free and he didn't care what it cost.

  He knew Whitaker was up there making notes on exactly how to pin all the blame on Luigi. He should be doing the same, but for the moment he just wanted to drink. The next week in Washington would be quite unpleasant.

  At 6:02 p.m., eastern standard time, the call came from Tel Aviv to halt the Backman killing. Stand down. Abort. Pack up and withdraw, there would be no dead body this time.

  For the agents it was welcome news. They were trained to move in with great stealth, do their deed, disappear with no clues, no evidence, no trail. Bologna was a far better place than the crowded streets of Washington, D.C.

  An hour later, Joel checked out of the Marriott and enjoyed a long walk through the cool air. He stayed on the busy streets, though, and didn't waste any time. This wasn't Bologna. This city was far dif

  ferent after hours. Once the commuters were gone and the traffic died down, things got dangerous.

  The clerk at the Hay-Adams preferred credit, something plastic, something that would not upset the bookkeeping. Rarely did a client insist on paying in cash, but this client wouldn't take no for an answer. The reservation had been confirmed, and with a proper smile he handed over a key and welcomed Mr. Ferro to their hotel.

  “Any bags, sir?”

  “None.”

  And that was the end of their little conversation.

  Mr. Ferro headed for the elevators carrying only a cheap black- leather briefcase.

  The presidential suite at the Hay-Adams was on the eighth

  floor, with three large windows overlooking H Street, then Lafayette Park, then the White House. It had a king-size bedroom, a bathroom well appointed with brass and marble, and a sitting room with period antiques, a slightly out-of-date television and phones, and a fax machine that was seldom used. It went for $3,000 a night, but then what did the broker care about such things?

  When Sandberg knocked on the door at nine, he waited only a second before it was yanked open and a hearty “Morning, Dan!” greeted him. Backman lunged for his right hand and as he pumped it furiously he dragged Sandberg into his domain.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure, black.”

  Sandberg dropped his satchel onto a chair and watched Backman pour from a silver coffeepot. Much thinner, with hair that was shorter and almost white, gaunt through the face. There was a slight resemblance to defendant Backman, but not much.

  “Make yourself at home,” Backman was saying. “I've ordered some breakfast. Should be up in a minute.”

  He carefully set two cups with saucers on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and said, “Let's work here. You plan to use a recorder?”

  “If that's all right.”

  “I prefer it that way. Eliminates misunderstandings.” They took their positions. Sandberg placed a small recorder on the table, then got his pad and pen ready. Backman was all smiles as he sat low in his chair, legs casually crossed, the confident air of a man who wasn't afraid of any question. Sandberg noticed the shoes, hard rubber soles that had barely been used. Not a scuff or speck of dirt anywhere on the black leather. Typically, the lawyer was put together-navy suit, bright white shirt with cuffs, gold links, a collar bar, a red-and-gold tie that begged for attention.

  “Well, the first question is, where have you been?”

  “Europe, knocking about, seeing the Continent.”

  “For two months?”

  “Yep, that's enough.”

  “Anyplace in particular?”

  “Not really. I spent a lot of time on the trains over there, a marvelous way to travel. You can see so much.”

  “Why have you returned?”

  “This is home. Where else would I go? What
else would I do? Bumming around Europe sounds like great fun, and it was, but you can't make a career out of it. I've got work to do.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “The usual. Government relations, consulting.”

  “That means lobbying, right?”

  “My firm will have a lobbying arm, yes. That will be a very important part of our business, but by no means the centerpiece.”

  “And what firm is that?”

  “The new one.”

  “Help me out here, Mr. Backman.”

  “I'm opening a new firm, the Backman Group, offices here, New York, and San Francisco. We'll have six partners initially, should be up to twenty in a year or so.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “Oh, I can't name them now. We're hammering out the details, negotiating the fine points, pretty sensitive stuff. We plan to cut the ribbon on the first of May, should be a big splash.”

  “No doubt. This will not be a law firm?”

  “No, but we plan to add a legal section later.”

  “I thought you lost your license when ...”

  ''I did, yes. But with the pardon, I'm now eligible to sit for the bar exam again. If I get a hankering to start suing people, then I'll brush up on the books and get a license. Not in the near future, though, there's just too much work to do."

  “What kind of work?”

  “Getting this thing off the ground, raising capital, and, most important, meeting with potential clients.”

  “Could you give me the names of some clients?”

  “Of course not, but just hang on for a few weeks and that information will be available.”

  The phone on the desk rang, and Backman frowned at it. “Just a second. It's a call I've been waiting on.' He walked over and picked it up. Sandberg heard, ”Backman, yes, hello, Bob. Yes, I'll be in New York tomorrow. Look, I'll call you back in an hour, okay? I'm in the middle of something.“ He hung up and said, ”Sorry about that."

  It was Neal, calling as planned, at exactly 9:15, and he would call every ten minutes for the next hour.

  “No problem,” said Sandberg. “Let's talk about your pardon. Have you seen the stories about the alleged buying of presidential pardons?”

  “Have I seen the stories? I have a defense team in place, Dan. My guys are all over this. If and when the feds manage to put together a grand jury, if they ever get that far, I've informed them that I want to be the first witness. I have absolutely nothing to hide, and the suggestion that I paid for a pardon is actionable at law.”