John Grisham: The Broker

“Poor Carl,” Clayburn said. “Always afraid of his shadow.” He picked up the phone and went to work.

In the middle of the fourth call, and the second straight to the Pentagon, Clayburn placed his hand over the receiver and said to Joel, “They prefer to meet at the Pentagon.”

Joel was already shaking his head. “No. I’m not going in there with the software until there’s a deal. I’ll leave it behind and give it to them later, but I’m not walking in there with it.”

Clayburn relayed this, then listened for a long time. When he covered the receiver again he asked, “The software, what’s it on?”

“Four disks,” Joel said.

“They have to verify it, you understand?”

“Okay, I’ll take two disks with me into the Pentagon. That’s about half of it. They can take a quick look.”

Clayburn huddled over the receiver and repeated Joel’s conditions. Again, he listened for a long time, then he asked Joel, “Will you show me the disks?”

“Yes.”

He placed the call on hold while Joel picked up his briefcase. He removed the envelope, then the four disks, and placed them on the bed for Neal and Clayburn to gawk at. Clayburn went back to the phone and said, “I’m looking at four disks. Mr. Backman assures me it is what it is.” He listened for a few minutes, then punched the hold button again.

“They want us at the Pentagon right now,” he said.

“Let’s go.”

Clayburn hung up and said, “Things are hopping over there. I think the boys are excited. Shall we go?”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes,” Joel said.

When the door closed behind Clayburn, Joel quickly gathered the disks and stuck two of them into his coat pocket. The other two — numbers three and four — were placed back in the briefcase, which he handed to Neal as he said, “After we leave, go to the front desk and get another room. Insist on checking in now. Call this room, leave me a message and tell me where you are. Stay there until you hear from me.”

“Sure, Dad. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Just cutting a deal, son. Like in the old days.”

The taxi dropped them at the south lot of the Pentagon, near the Metro stop. Two uniformed members of Major Roland’s staff were waiting with credentials and instructions. They walked them through the security clearances and got their photos made for their temporary ID cards. The entire time Clayburn was griping about how easy it was back in the old days.

Old days or not, he had made a quick transition from the skeptical critic to a major player, and he was thoroughly engaged in Backman’s plot. As they hiked along the wide corridors of the second floor, he reminisced about how simple life had been when there were two superpowers. We always had the Soviets. The bad guys were easy to identify.

They took the stairs to the third floor, C wing, and were led by the staffers through a set of doors and into a suite of offices where they were obviously expected. Major Roland himself was standing by, waiting. He was about sixty, still looking trim and fit in his khaki uniform. Introductions were made, and he invited them into his conference room. At one end of the long, wide center table, three technicians were busy checking out a large computer that had evidently just been rolled in.

Major Roland asked Joel’s permission to have two assistants present. Certainly. Joel had no objection.

“Would you mind if we video the meeting?” Roland asked.

“For what purpose?” Joel asked.

“Just to have it on film in case someone higher up wants to see it.”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps the President.”

Joel looked at Clayburn, his only friend in the room, and a tenuous one at best.

“What about the CIA?” Joel asked.

“Maybe.”

“Let’s forget the video, at least initially. Maybe at some point during the meeting, we’ll agree to switch on the camera.”

“Fair enough. Coffee or soft drinks?”

No one was thirsty. Major Roland asked the computer technicians if their equipment was ready. It was, and he asked them to step outside the room.

Joel and Clayburn sat on one side of the conference table. Major Roland was flanked by his two deputies on the opposite side. All three had pens and notepads ready to go. Joel and Clayburn had nothing.

“Let’s start and finish a conversation about the CIA,” Backman began, determined to be in charge of the proceedings. “As I understand the law, or at least the way things once worked around here, the director of the CIA is in charge of all intelligence activities.”

“That’s correct,” Roland said.

“What will you do with the information I am about to give you?”

The major glanced to his right, and the look that passed between him and the deputy there conveyed a lot of uncertainty. “As you said, sir, the director is entitled to know and have everything.”

Backman smiled and cleared his throat. “Major, the CIA tried to get me killed, okay? And, as far as I know, they’re still after me. I don’t have much use for the guys over at Langley.”

“Mr. Maynard’s gone, Mr. Backman.”

“And someone took his place. I don’t want money, Major. I want protection. First, I want my own government to leave me alone.”

“That can be arranged,” Roland said with authority.

“And I’ll need some help with a few others.”

“Why don’t you tell us everything, Mr. Backman? The more we know, the more we can help you.”

With the exception of Neal, Joel Backman didn’t trust another person on the face of the earth. But the time had come to lay it all on the table and hope for the best. The chase was over; there was no place else to run.

He began with Neptune itself, and described how it was built by Red China, how the technology was stolen from two different U.S. defense contractors, how it was launched under cover and fooled not only the U.S. but also the Russians, the British, and the Israelis. He narrated the lengthy story of the three Pakistanis — their ill-fated discovery, their fear of what they found, their curiosity at being able to communicate with Neptune, and their brilliance in writing software that could manipulate and neutralize the system. He spoke harshly of his own giddy greed in shopping JAM to various governments, hoping to make more money than anyone could dream of. He pulled no punches when recalling the recklessness of Jacy Hubbard, and the foolishness of their schemes to peddle their product. Without hesitation, he admitted his mistakes and took full responsibility for the havoc he’d caused. Then he pressed on.

No, the Russians had no interest in what he was selling. They had their own satellites and couldn’t afford to negotiate for more.

No, the Israelis never had a deal. They were on the fringes, close enough to know that a deal with the Saudis was looming. The Saudis were desperate to purchase JAM. They had a few satellites of their own, but nothing to match Neptune.

Nothing could match Neptune, not even the latest generation of American satellites.

The Saudis had actually seen the four disks. In a tightly controlled experiment, two agents from their secret police were given a demonstration of the software by the three Pakistanis. It took place in a computer lab on the campus of the University of Maryland, and it had been a dazzling, very convincing display. Backman had watched it, as had Hubbard.

The Saudis offered $100 million for JAM. Hubbard, who fancied himself a close friend of the Saudis, was the point man during the negotiations. A “transaction fee” of $1 million was paid, the money wired to an account in Zurich. Hubbard and Backman countered with half a billion.

Then all hell broke loose. The feds attacked with warrants, indictments, investigations, and the Saudis got spooked. Hubbard got murdered. Joel fled to the safety of prison, leaving a wide path of destruction behind and some angry people with serious grudges.