The Broker

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 u

"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."

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."