"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 dif ferent 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.
The presidential suite at the Hay-Adams was on the eighth floor, with three large windows overlooking H Street, then Lafayette Park, then the White House. It had a king-size bedroom, a bathroom well appointed with brass and marble, and a sitting room with period antiques, a slightly out-of-date television and phones, and a fax machine that was seldom used. It went for $3,000 a night, but then what did the broker care about such things?
When Sandberg knocked on the door at nine, he waited only a second before it was yanked open and a hearty "Morning, Dan!" greeted him. Backman lunged for his right hand and as he pumped it furiously he dragged Sandberg into his domain.
"Glad you could make it," he said. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Yeah, sure, black."
Sandberg dropped his satchel onto a chair and watched Backman pour from a silver coffeepot. Much thinner, with hair that was shorter and almost white, gaunt through the face. There was a slight resemblance to defendant Backman, but not much.
"Make yourself at home," Backman was saying. "I've ordered some breakfast. Should be up in a minute."
He carefully set two cups with saucers on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and said, "Let's work here. You plan to use a recorder?"
"If that's all right."
"I prefer it that way. Eliminates misunderstandings." They took their positions. Sandberg placed a small recorder on the table, then got his pad and pen ready. Backman was all smiles as he sat low in his chair, legs casually crossed, the confident air of a man who wasn't afraid of any question. Sandberg noticed the shoes, hard rubber soles that had barely been used. Not a scuff or speck of dirt anywhere on the black leather. Typically, the lawyer was put together-navy suit, bright white shirt with cuffs, gold links, a collar bar, a red-and-gold tie that begged for attention.
"Well, the first question is, where have you been?"
"Europe, knocking about, seeing the Continent."
"For two months?"
"Yep, that's enough."
"Anyplace in particular?"
"Not really. I spent a lot of time on the trains over there, a marvelous way to travel. You can see so much."
"Why have you returned?"
"This is home. Where else would I go? What else would I do? Bumming around Europe sounds like great fun, and it was, but you can't make a career out of it. I've got work to do."
"What kind of work?"
"The usual. Government relations, consulting."
"That means lobbying, right?"
"My firm will have a lobbying arm, yes. That will be a very important part of our business, but by no means the centerpiece."
"And what firm is that?"
"The new one."
"Help me out here, Mr. Backman."
"I'm opening a new firm, the Backman Group, offices here, New York, and San Francisco. We'll have six partners initially, should be up to twenty in a year or so."
"Who are these people?"
"Oh, I can't name them now. We're hammering out the details, negotiating the fine points, pretty sensitive stuff. We plan to cut the ribbon on the first of May, should be a big splash."
"No doubt. This will not be a law firm?"
"No, but we plan to add a legal section later."
"I thought you lost your license when..." ''I did, yes. But with the pardon, I'm now eligible to sit for the bar exam again. If I get a hankering to start suing people, then I'll brush up on the books and get a license. Not in the near future, though, there's just too much work to do."
"What kind of work?"
"Getting this thing off the ground, raising capital, and, most important, meeting with potential clients."
"Could you give me the names of some clients?"
"Of course not, but just hang on for a few weeks and that information will be available."
The phone on the desk rang, and Backman frowned at it. "Just a second. It's a call I've been waiting on.' He walked over and picked it up. Sandberg heard, "Backman, yes, hello, Bob. Yes, I'll be in New York tomorrow. Look, I'll call you back in an hour, okay? I'm in the middle of something." He hung up and said, "Sorry about that."
It was Neal, calling as planned, at exactly 9:15, and he would call every ten minutes for the next hour.
"No problem," said Sandberg. "Let's talk about your pardon. Have you seen the stories about the alleged buying of presidential pardons?"
"Have I seen the stories? I have a defense team in place, Dan. My guys are all over this. If and when the feds manage to put together a grand jury, if they ever get that far, I've informed them that I want to be the first witness. I have absolutely nothing to hide, and the suggestion that I paid for a pardon is actionable at law."
"You plan to sue?"
"Absolutely. My lawyers are preparing a massive libel action now against The New York Times and that hatchet man, Heath Frick. It'll be ugly. It'll be a nasty trial, and they're gonna pay me a bunch of money."
"You're sure you want me to print that?"
"Hell yes! And while we're at it, I commend you and your newspaper for the restraint you've shown so far. It's rather unusual, but admirable nonetheless."
Sandberg's story of this visit to the presidential suite was big enough to begin with. Now, however, it had just been thrust onto the front page, tomorrow morning.