John Grisham: The Broker

Kinda hard to make appointments when you’re hiding in toilet stalls. Joel smiled at her. Ol’ Marco was history now. Finally laid to rest after a good two-month run. Marco had served him well, kept him alive, taught him the basics of Italian, walked him around Treviso and Bologna, and introduced him to Francesca, a woman he would not soon forget.

But Marco would also get him killed, so he ditched him there on the third floor of the Rhineland Bank, while looking at Elke’s black stiletto heels and waiting on her boss. Marco was gone, never to return.

Mikel Van Thiessen’s office was designed to smack his visitors with a powerful right hook. Power in the massive Persian rug. Power in the leather sofa and chairs. Power in the ancient mahogany desk that wouldn’t have fit in the cell at Rudley. Power in the array of electronic gadgets at his disposal. He met Joel at the powerful oak door and they shook hands properly, but not like old friends. They had met exactly once before.

If Joel had lost sixty pounds since their last visit, Van Thiessen had found most of it. He was much grayer too, not nearly as crisp and sharp as the younger bankers Joel had seen on the streetcar. Van Thiessen directed his client to the leather chairs while Elke and another assistant scurried around to fetch coffee and pastries.

When they were alone, with the door shut, Van Thiessen said, “I’ve been reading about you.”

“Oh really. And what have you read?”

“Bribing a president for a pardon, come on, Mr. Backman. Is it really that easy over there?”

Joel couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Joel was in an upbeat mood, but he didn’t exactly feel like swapping one-liners.

“I didn’t bribe anyone, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Yes, well, the newspapers are certainly filled with speculation.” His tone was more accusatory than jovial, and Joel decided not to waste time. “Do you believe everything you read in the newspapers?”

“Of course not, Mr. Backman.”

“I’m here for three reasons. I want access to my security box. I want to review my account. I want to withdraw ten thousand dollars in cash. After that, I may have another favor or two.”

Van Thiessen shoved a small cookie in his mouth and chewed rapidly. “Yes, of course. I don’t think we’ll have a problem with any of that.”

“Why should you have a problem?”

“Not a problem, sir. I’ll just need a few minutes.”

“For what?”

“I’ll need to consult with a colleague.”

“Can you do so quickly?”

Van Thiessen practically bolted from the room and slammed the door behind him. The pain in Joel’s stomach was not from hunger. If the wheels came off now, he had no plan B. He’d walk out of the bank with nothing, hopefully make it across the Paradeplatz to a streetcar, and once on board he would have no place to go. The escape would be over. Marco would be back, and Marco would eventually get him killed.

As time came to an abrupt halt, he kept thinking about the pardon. With it, his slate was wiped clean. The U.S. government was in no position to pressure the Swiss to freeze his account. The Swiss didn’t freeze accounts! The Swiss were immune from pressure! That’s why their banks were filled with loot from around the world.

They were the Swiss!

Elke retrieved him and asked if he would follow her downstairs. In other days, he would’ve followed Elke anywhere, but now it was only downstairs.

He’d been to the vault during his prior visit. It was in the basement, several levels below ground, though the clients never knew how deep into Swiss soil they were descending. Every door was a foot thick, every wall appeared to be made of lead, every ceiling had surveillance cameras. Elke handed him off to Van Thiessen again.

Both thumbs were scanned for matching prints. An optical scanner took his photo. “Number seven,” Van Thiessen said, pointing. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, and left through a door.

Joel walked down a short hallway, passing six windowless steel doors until he came to the seventh. He pushed a button, all sorts of things tumbled and clicked inside, and the door finally opened. He stepped inside, where Van Thiessen was waiting.

The room was a twelve-foot square, with three walls lined with individual vaults, most about the size of a large shoe box.

“Your vault number?” he asked.

“L2270.”

“Correct.”

Van Thiessen stepped to his right, bent slightly to face L2270. On the vault’s small keypad he punched some numbers, then straightened himself and said, “If you wish.”

Under Van Thiessen’s watchful eyes, Joel stepped to his vault and entered the code. As he did so, he softly whispered the numbers, forever seared in his memory: “Eighty-one, fifty-five, ninety-four, ninety-three, twenty-three.” A small green light began blinking on the keypad. Van Thiessen smiled and said, “I’ll be waiting at the front. Just ring when you’re finished.”

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 naïve 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 Bolling 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 activity.”

“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.