John Grisham: The Broker

The forty-five-minute summary ended without a single interruption. When Joel finished, none of the three on the other side of the table was taking notes. They were too busy listening.

“I’m sure we can talk to the Israelis,” Major Roland said. “If they’re convinced the Saudis will never get their hands on JAM, then they’ll rest much easier. We’ve had discussions with them over the years. JAM has been a favorite topic. I’m quite sure they can be placated.”

“What about the Saudis?”

“They’ve asked about it too, at the highest levels. We have a lot of common interests these days. I’m confident they’ll relax if they know that we have it and no one else will get it. I know the Saudis well, and I think they’ll write it off as a bad deal. There is the small matter of the transaction fee.”

“A million bucks is chump change to them. It’s not negotiable.”

“Very well. I guess that leaves the Chinese.”

“Any suggestions?”

Clayburn had yet to speak. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, “In my opinion, they’ll never forget it. Your clients basically hijacked a zillion-dollar system and rendered it useless without their homemade software. The Chinese have nine of the best satellites ever built floating around up there and they can’t use them. They are not going to forgive and forget, and you really can’t blame them. Unfortunately, we have little leverage with Beijing on delicate intelligence matters.”

Major Roland was nodding. “I’m afraid I must agree with the senator. We can let them know that we have the software, but this is something they’ll never forget.”

“I don’t blame them. I’m just trying to survive, that’s all.”

“We’ll do what we can with the Chinese, but it may not be much.”

“Here’s the deal, gentlemen. You give me your word that you’ll get the CIA out of my life, and that you’ll act quickly to appease the Israelis and the Saudis. Do whatever is possible with the Chinese, which I understand may be very little. And you give me two passports — one Australian and one Canadian. As soon as they’re ready, and this afternoon would not be too soon, you bring them to me and I’ll hand over the other two disks.”

“It’s a deal,” Roland said. “But, of course, we need to have a look at the software.”

Joel reached into his pocket and removed disks one and two. Roland called the computer technicians back in, and the entire group huddled around the large monitor.

A Mossad agent with the code name of Albert thought he saw Neal Backman enter the lobby of the Marriott on 22nd Street. He called his supervisor, and within thirty minutes two other agents were inside the hotel. Albert again saw Neal Backman an hour later, as he left an elevator carrying a briefcase that he had not carried into the hotel, went to the front desk, and appeared to fill out a registration form. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed over a credit card.

He returned to the elevator, where Albert missed him by a matter of seconds.

The knowledge that Joel Backman was probably staying at the Marriott on 22nd Street was extremely important, but it also posed enormous problems. First, the killing of an American on American soil was an operation so delicate that the prime minister would have to be consulted. Second, the actual assassination itself was a logistical nightmare. The hotel had six hundred rooms, hundreds of guests, hundreds of employees, hundreds of visitors, no less than five conventions in progress. Thousands of potential witnesses.

However, a plan came together quickly.

They had lunch with the senator in the rear of a Vietnamese deli near Dupont Circle, a place they judged to be safe from lobbyists and old-timers who might see them together and start one of the hot rumors that kept the city alive and gridlocked. For an hour, as they struggled with spicy noodles almost too hot to eat, Joel and Neal listened as the fisherman from Ocracoke regaled them with endless stories of his glory days in Washington. He said more than once that he did not miss politics, yet his memories of those days were filled with intrigue, humor, and many friendships.

Clayburn had started the day thinking that a bullet in the head would’ve been too good for Joel Backman, but when they said goodbye on the sidewalk outside the café he was begging him to please come see his boat, and bring Neal too. Joel had not been fishing since childhood, and he knew he would never make it to the Outer Banks, but out of gratitude he promised to try.

Joel came closer to a bullet in the head than he would ever know. As he and Neal strolled along Connecticut Avenue after lunch, they were closely watched by the Mossad. A sharpshooter was ready in the rear of a rented panel truck. Final approval, though, was still hung up in Tel Aviv. And the sidewalk was very crowded.

Using the Yellow Pages in his hotel room, Neal had found a men’s shop that advertised overnight alterations. He was anxious to help — his father desperately needed some new clothes. Joel bought a navy three-piece suit, a white dress shirt, two ties, some chinos and casual clothes, and, thankfully, two pairs of black dress shoes. The total was $3,100, and he paid in cash. The bowling shoes were left in a wastebasket, though the salesman had been somewhat complimentary of them.

At exactly 4:00 p.m., while sitting in a Starbucks 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.