The Broker (23 page)

Since he’d never borrowed with no collateral, Neal wasn’t sure what to expect. He had no idea what his
signature would command, but somehow $3,000 sounded about right. “Can you go four thousand?” he asked.

Another frown, another hard study of the monitor, then it revealed the answer. “Sure, why not? I know where to find you, don’t I?”

“Good. I’ll keep you posted on the stock.”

“Is this a hot tip, something on the inside?”

“Give me a month. If the price goes up, I’ll come back and brag a little.”

“Fair enough.”

Richard was opening a drawer, looking for forms. Neal said, “Look, Richard, this is just between us boys, okay? Know what I mean? Lisa won’t be signing the papers.”

“No problem,” the banker said, the epitome of discretion. “My wife doesn’t know half of what I do on the financial end. Women just don’t understand.”

“You got it. And along those lines, would it be possible to get the funds in cash?”

A pause, a puzzled look, but then anything was possible at Piedmont National. “Sure, give me an hour or so.”

“I need to run to the office and sue a guy, okay? I’ll be back around noon to sign everything and get the money.”

Neal hustled to his office, two blocks away, with a nervous pain in his stomach. Lisa would kill him if she found out, and in a small town secrets were hard to bury. In four years of a very happy marriage they had made all decisions together. Explaining the loan would be painful, though she would probably come around if he told the truth.

Repaying the money would pose a challenge. His
father had always been one to make easy promises. Sometimes he came through, sometimes he didn’t, and he was never too concerned one way or the other. But that was the old Joel Backman. The new one was a desperate man with no friends, no one to trust.

What the hell. It was only $4,000. Richard would keep it quiet. Neal would worry about the loan later. He was, after all, a lawyer. He could squeeze in some extra fees here and there, put in a few more hours.

His primary concern at that moment was the package to be shipped to Rudolph Viscovitch.

______

WITH
the cash bulging in his pocket, Neal fled Culpeper during the lunch hour and hurried up to Alexandria, ninety minutes away. He found the store, Chatter, in a small strip mall on Russell Road, a mile or so from the Potomac River. It advertised itself online as the place to go for the latest in telecom gadgetry, and one of the few places in the United States where one could purchase unlocked cell phones that would work in Europe. As he browsed for a few moments, he was astounded at the selection of phones, pagers, computers, satellite phones—everything one could possibly need to keep in touch. He couldn’t browse for long—there was a four o’clock deposition in his office. Lisa would be making one of her many daily check-ins to see what, if anything, was happening downtown.

He asked a clerk to show him the Ankyo 850 PC Pocket Smartphone, the greatest technological marvel to hit the market in the past ninety days. The clerk removed it from a display case and, with great enthusiasm,
switched languages and described it as “Full QWERTY keyboard, tri-band operation on five continents, eighty megabyte built-in memory, high-speed data connectivity with EGPRS, wireless LAN access, Bluetooth wireless technology, IPv4 and IPv6 dual stack support, infrared, Pop-Port interface, Symbian operating system version 7.0S, Series 80 platform.”

“Automatic switching between bands?”

“Yes.”

“Covered by European networks?”

“Of course.”

The smartphone was slightly larger than the typical business phone, but it was comfortable in the hand. It had a smooth metallic surface with a rough plastic back cover that prevented sliding when in use.

“It’s larger,” the clerk was saying. “But it’s packed with goodies—e-mail, multimedia messaging, camera, video player, complete word processing, Internet browsing—and complete wireless access almost anywhere in the world. Where are you going with it?”

“Italy.”

“It’s ready to go. You’ll just need to open an account with a service provider.”

Opening an account meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leaving a trail, something Neal was determined not to do. “What about a prepaid SIM card?” he asked.

“We got ’em. For Italy it’s called a TIM—Telecom Italia Mobile. It’s the largest provider in Italy, covers about ninety-five percent of the country.”

“I’ll take it.”

Neal slid down the lower part of the cover to reveal a full keypad. The clerk explained, “It’s best to hold it with
both hands and type with the thumbs. You can’t fit all ten fingers on the keypad.” He took it from Neal and demonstrated the preferred method of thumb-typing.

“Got it,” Neal said. “I’ll take it.”

The price was $925 plus tax, plus another $89 for the TIM card. Neal paid in cash as he simultaneously declined the extended warranty, rebate registration, owner’s program, anything that would create paperwork and leave a trail. The clerk asked for his name and address and Neal declined. At one point he said, with great irritation, “Is it possible to simply pay for this and leave?”

“Well, sure, I guess,” the clerk said.

“Then let’s do it. I’m in a hurry.”

He left and drove half a mile to a large office supply store. He quickly found a Hewlett-Packard Tablet PC with integrated wireless capability. Another $440 got invested in his father’s security, though Neal would keep the laptop and hide it in his office. Using a map he’d downloaded, he found the PackagePost in another strip mall nearby. Inside, at a shipping desk, he hurriedly wrote two pages of instructions for his father, then folded them into an envelope containing a letter and more instructions he’d prepared earlier that morning. When he was certain no one was watching, he wedged twenty $100 bills in the small black carrying case that came with the Ankyo marvel. Then he placed the letter and the instructions, the smartphone, and the case inside a mailing carton from the store. He sealed it tightly, and on the outside he wrote with a black marker PLEASE HOLD FOR MARCO LAZZERI. The carton was then placed inside another, slightly larger one that was addressed to Rudolph Viscovitch at Via Zamboni 22, Bologna. The return address was
Package-Post, 8851 Braddock Road, Alexandria, Virginia 22302. Because he had no choice, he left his name, address, and phone number on the registry, in case the package got returned. The clerk weighed the package and asked about insurance. Neal declined, and prevented more paperwork. The clerk added the international stamps, and finally said, “Total is eighteen dollars and twenty cents.”

Neal paid him and was assured again that it would be mailed that afternoon.

19

IN THE SEMIDARKNESS OF HIS SMALL APARTMENT, MARCO
went through his early-morning routine with his usual efficiency. Except for prison, when he had little choice and no motivation to hit the ground running, he’d never been one to linger after waking. There was too much to do, too much to see. He’d often arrived at his office before 6:00 a.m. breathing fire and looking for the day’s first brawl, and often after only three or four hours of sleep.

Those habits were returning now. He wasn’t attacking each day, wasn’t looking for a fight, but there were other challenges.

He showered in less than three minutes, another old habit that was aided mightily on Via Fondazza by a severe shortage of warm water. Over the lavatory he shaved and worked carefully around the quite handsome growth he was cultivating on his face. The mustache was almost complete; the chin was solid gray. He looked nothing like Joel Backman, nor did he sound like him. He was training himself to speak much slower and in a
softer voice. And of course he was doing so in another language.

His quick morning routine included a little espionage. Beside his bed was a chest of drawers where he kept his things. Four drawers, all the same size, with the last one six inches above the floor. He took a very thin strand of white thread he’d unraveled from a bed sheet; the same thread he used every day. He licked both ends, leaving as much saliva as possible, then stuck one end under the bottom of the last drawer. The other end was stuck to the side brace of the chest, so that when the drawer was opened the invisible thread was pulled out of position.

Someone, Luigi he presumed, entered his room every day while he was studying with either Ermanno or Francesca and went through the drawers.

His desk was in the small living room, under the only window. On it he kept an assortment of papers, notepads, books; Ermanno’s guide to Bologna, a few copies of the
Herald Tribune
, a sad collection of free shopping guides he’d gathered from Gypsies who passed them out on the streets, his well-used Italian-English dictionary, and the growing pile of study aids Ermanno was burdening him with. The desk was only moderately well organized, a condition that irritated him. His old lawyer’s desk, one that wouldn’t fit in his current living room, had been famous for its meticulous order. A secretary fussed over it late every afternoon.

But amid the rubble was an invisible scheme. The desk’s surface was some type of hardwood that had been nicked and marked over the decades. One defect was a small stain of some sort—Marco had decided it was probably ink. It was about the size of a small button and was
located almost in the dead center of the desk. Every morning, as he was leaving, he placed the corner of a sheet of scratch paper directly in the center of the ink stain. Not even the most diligent of spies would have noticed.

And they didn’t. Whoever sneaked in for the daily sweep had never, not once, been careful enough to place the papers and books back in their precise location.

Every day, seven days a week, even on the weekends when he was not studying, Luigi and his gang entered and did their dirty work. Marco was considering a plan whereby he would wake up one Sunday morning with a massive headache, telephone Luigi, still the only person he talked to on the cell phone, and ask him to fetch some aspirin or whatever they used in Italy. He would go through the ruse of nursing himself, staying in bed, keeping the apartment dark, until late in the afternoon when he would call Luigi again and announce he felt much better and needed something to eat. They would walk around the corner, have a quick bite, then Marco would suddenly feel like returning to his apartment. They would be gone for less than an hour.

Would someone else handle the sweep?

The plan was taking shape. Marco wanted to know who else was watching him. How large was the net? If their concern was simply to keep him alive, then why would they sift through his apartment every day? What were they afraid of?

They were afraid he would disappear. And why should that frighten them so? He was a free man, perfectly free to move about. His disguise was good. His language skills were rudimentary but passable and improving daily. Why should they care if he simply drifted away?
Caught a train and toured the country? Never came back? Wouldn’t that make their lives easier?

And why keep him on such a short leash, with no passport and very little cash?

They were afraid he would disappear.

He turned off the lights and opened the door. It was still dark outside under the arcaded sidewalks of Via Fondazza. He locked the door behind him and hurried away, off in search of another early-morning café.

Through the thick wall, Luigi was awakened by a buzzer somewhere in the distance; the same buzzer that awakened him most mornings at such dreadful hours.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said as he flung the covers in her direction and stumbled, naked, out of the room. He hurried across the den to the kitchen, where he unlocked the door, stepped inside, closed and locked it, and looked at the monitors on a folding table. Marco was leaving through his front door, as usual. And at ten minutes after six, again, nothing unusual about that. It was a very frustrating habit. Damn Americans.

He pushed a button and the monitor went silent. Procedures required him to get dressed immediately, hit the streets, find Marco, and watch him until Ermanno made contact. But Luigi was growing tired of procedures. And he had Simona waiting.

She was barely twenty, a student from Naples, an absolute doll he’d met a week earlier at a club he’d discovered. Last night had been their first together, and it would not be their last. She was already sleeping again when he returned and buried himself under the blankets.

It was cold outside. He had Simona. Whitaker was
in Milan, probably still asleep and probably in bed with an Italian woman. There was absolutely no one monitoring what he, Luigi, would do for the entire day. Marco was doing nothing but drinking coffee.

He pulled Simona close and fell asleep.

______

IT
was a clear, sunny day in early March. Marco finished a two-hour session with Ermanno. As always, when the weather cooperated, they walked the streets of central Bologna and spoke nothing but Italian. The verb of the day had been “fare,” translated as “to do” or “to make,” and as far as Marco could tell it was one of the most versatile and overused verbs in the entire language. The act of shopping was “fare la spesa,” translated as “to make the expenses, or to do the acquisitions.” Asking a question was “fare la domanda,” “to make a question.” Having breakfast was “fare la colazione,” “to do breakfast.”

Ermanno signed off a little early, again claiming he had studies of his own to pursue. More often than not, when a strolling lesson came to an end, Luigi made his appearance, taking the handoff from Ermanno, who vanished with remarkable speed. Marco suspected that such coordination was meant to give him the impression that he was always being watched.

They shook hands and said goodbye in front of Feltrinelli’s, one of the many bookstores in the university section. Luigi appeared from around a corner and offered the usual hearty “Buon giorno. Pranziamo?” Are we having lunch?