The Broker

"We have to talk. Now."

He began with the mysterious letter postmarked from York, Pe

"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 he 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 "Giova

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 Giova

"Could you remove your sunglasses, please?" the officer said.

"Certamente," Joel said loudly, anxious to prove his Italia

Moving against the rush hour traffic, he was at Pe

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?"

"Do

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 thi

"That's a good question," he said coolly. He had the advantage of pla

Pratt put the gun on a side table.

"Have you talked to Neal?" Backman asked.

"All day long."

"What's going on, Carl?" Do

"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, Do

"Hell no."

"Scratch the coffee."

Carl had been rubbing his chin, assessing things. "Do

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 Do

"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 ru

"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."