John Grisham: The Broker

“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. It’s 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 unnecessary drama. He nodded at Neal, who left the room. “Just a minute,” he said to Roland, whose eyebrows were arching up while his eyes grew narrow.

“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. Let’s 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. Let’s 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.”

Her 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.”

“Tell her yes, we’ll find him!”

“And where are you looking, Whitaker?”

“Between here, in Milano, and Zurich.”

“Well, you’re wasting your time, Whitaker, because ol’ Marco has popped up here in Washington. Met with the Pentagon this afternoon. Slipped right through your fingers, Whitaker, made us look stupid.”

“What!”

“Come home, Whitaker, and get here quickly.”

Twenty-five rows back, Luigi was crouching low in coach, rubbing knees with a twelve-year-old girl who was listening to some of the raunchiest rap he’d ever heard. He was on his fourth drink himself. It wasn’t free and he didn’t care what it cost.

He knew Whitaker was up there making notes on exactly how to pin all the blame on Luigi. He should be doing the same, but for the moment he just wanted to drink. The next week in Washington would be quite unpleasant.

At 6:02 p.m., eastern standard time, the call came from Tel Aviv to halt the Backman killing. Stand down. Abort. Pack up and withdraw, there would be no dead body this time.

For the agents it was welcome news. They were trained to move in with great stealth, do their deed, disappear with no clues, no evidence, no trail. Bologna was a far better place than the crowded streets of Washington, D.C.

An hour later, Joel checked out of the Marriott and enjoyed a long walk through the cool air. He stayed on the busy streets, though, and didn’t waste any time. This wasn’t Bologna. This city was far different after hours. Once the commuters were gone and the traffic died down, things got dangerous.

The clerk at the Hay-Adams preferred credit, something plastic, something that would not upset the bookkeeping. Rarely did a client insist on paying in cash, but this client wouldn’t take no for an answer. The reservation had been confirmed, and with a proper smile he handed over a key and welcomed Mr. Ferro to their hotel.

“Any bags, sir?”

“None.”

And that was the end of their little conversation.

Mr. Ferro headed for the elevators carrying only a cheap black-leather briefcase.