The Broker (24 page)

“Certamente.”

The lunches were becoming less frequent, with Marco getting more chances to dine by himself and handle the menu and the service.

“Ho trovato un nuovo ristorante.” I have found a new restaurant.

“Andiamo.” Let’s go.

It wasn’t clear what Luigi did with his time during the course of a day, but there was no doubt he spent hours scouring the city for different cafés, trattorias, and restaurants. They had never eaten at the same place twice.

They walked through some narrow streets and came to Via dell’ Indipendenza. Luigi did most of the talking, always in very slow, deliberate, precise Italian. He’d forgotten English as far as Marco was concerned.

“Francesca can’t study this afternoon,” he said.

“Why not?”

“She has a tour. A group of Australians called her yesterday. Her business is very slow this time of the year. Do you like her?”

“Am I supposed to like her?”

“Well, that would be nice.”

“She’s not exactly warm and fuzzy.”

“Is she a good teacher?”

“Excellent. Her perfect English inspires me to study more.”

“She says you study very hard, and that you are a nice man.”

“She likes me?”

“Yes, as a student. Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Most Italian women are pretty, including Francesca.”

They turned onto a small street, Via Goito, and Luigi
pointed just ahead. “Here,” Luigi said, and they stopped at the door to Franco Rossi’s. “I’ve never been here, but I hear it’s very good.”

Franco himself greeted them with a smile and open arms. He wore a stylish dark suit that contrasted nicely with his thick gray hair. He took their coats and chatted with Luigi as if they were old friends. Luigi was dropping names and Franco was approving of them. A table near the front window was selected. “Our best one,” Franco said with a gush. Marco looked around and didn’t see a bad table.

“The antipasti here are superb,” Franco said modestly, as if he hated to brag about his food. “My favorite of the day, however, would be the sliced mushroom salad. Lino adds some truffles, some Parmesan, a few sliced apples …” At that point Franco’s words faded as he kissed the tips of his fingers. “Really good,” he managed to say with his eyes closed, dreaming.

They agreed on the salad and Franco was off to welcome the next guests. “Who’s Lino?” asked Marco.

“His brother, the chef.” Luigi dipped some Tuscan bread in a bowl of olive oil. A waiter stopped by and asked about wine. “Certainly,” Luigi said. “I’d like something red, from the region.”

There was no question about it. The waiter stabbed his pen at the wine list and said, “This one here, a Liano from Imola. It is fantastic.” He took a whiff of air just to emphasize the point. Luigi had no choice. “We’ll try it.”

“We were talking about Francesca,” Marco said. “She seems so distracted. Is something wrong with her?”

Luigi dipped some bread in the olive oil and chewed
on a large bite while debating how much to tell Marco. “Her husband is not well,” he said.

“Does she have children?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s wrong with her husband?”

“He’s very sick. I think he’s older. I’ve never met him.”

Il Signore Rossi was back to guide them through the menus, which wasn’t really needed. He explained that the tortellini just happened to be the best in Bologna, and particularly superb that day. Lino would be happy to come out of the kitchen and verify this. After the tortellini, an excellent choice would be the veal filet with truffles.

For more than two hours they followed Franco’s advice, and when they left they pushed their stomachs back down Via dell’ Indipendenza and discussed their siestas.

______

HE
found her by accident at the Piazza Maggiore. He was having an espresso at an outdoor table, braving the chill in the bright sunshine, after a vigorous thirty-minute walk, when he saw a small group of fair-haired seniors coming out of the Palazzo Comunale, the city’s town hall. A familiar figure was leading, a thin, slightly built woman who held her shoulders high and straight, her dark hair falling out from under a burgundy beret. He left one euro on the table and headed toward them. At the fountain of Neptune, he eased in behind the group—ten in all—and listened to Francesca at work. She was explaining that the gigantic bronze image of the Roman god of the sea was sculpted by a Frenchman over a three-year
period, from 1563 to 1566. It was commissioned by a bishop under an urban beautification program aimed at pleasing the pope. Legend has it that before he began the actual work, the Frenchman was concerned about the ample nudity of the project—Neptune is stark naked—so he sent the design to the pope in Rome for approval. The pope wrote back, “For Bologna, it’s okay.”

Francesca was a bit livelier with the real tourists than she was with Marco. Her voice had more energy, her smile came quicker. She was wearing a pair of very stylish eyeglasses that made her look ten years younger. Hiding behind the Australians, he watched and listened for a long time without being noticed.

She explained that the Fontana del Nettuno is now one of the most famous symbols of the city, and perhaps the most popular backdrop for photos. Cameras were pulled from every pocket, and the tourists took their time posing in front of Neptune. At one point, Marco managed to move close enough to make eye contact with Francesca. When she saw him she instinctively smiled, then said a soft “Buon giorno.”

“Buon giorno. Mind if I tag along?” he asked in English.

“No. Sorry I had to cancel.”

“No problem. How about dinner?”

She glanced around as if she’d done something wrong.

“To study, of course. Nothing more,” he said.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said. She looked beyond him, across the piazza to the Basilica di San Petronio. “That little café over there,” she said, “beside the church,
at the corner. Meet me there at five and we’ll study for an hour.”

“Va bene.”

The tour continued a few steps to the west wall of the Palazzo Comunale, where she stopped them in front of three large framed collections of black-and-white photos. The history lesson was that during World War II the heart of the Italian Resistance was in and around Bologna. The Bolognesi hated Mussolini and his fascists and the German occupiers, and worked diligently in the underground. The Nazis retaliated with a vengeance—their well-publicized rule was that they would murder ten Italians for every one German soldier killed by the Resistance. In a series of fifty-five massacres in and around Bologna they murdered thousands of young Italian fighters. Their names and faces were on the wall, forever memorialized.

It was a somber moment, and the elderly Australians inched closer to look at the heroes. Marco moved closer too. He was struck by their youthfulness, by their promise that was forever lost—slaughtered for their bravery.

As Francesca moved on with her group, he stayed behind, staring at the faces that covered much of the long wall. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. A pretty female face here and there. Brothers. Fathers and sons. An entire family.

Peasants willing to die for their country and their beliefs. Loyal patriots with nothing to give but their lives. But not Marco. No sir. When forced to choose between loyalty and money, Marco had done what he always did.

He’d gone for the money. He’d turned his back on his country.

All for the glory of cash.

______

SHE
was standing inside the door of the café, waiting, not drinking anything but, of course, having a smoke. Marco had decided that her willingness to meet so late for a lesson was further evidence of her need for the work.

“Do you feel like walking?” she said before she said hello.

“Of course.” He’d walked several miles with Ermanno before lunch, then for hours after lunch waiting on her. He’d walked enough for one day, but then what else was there to do? After a month of doing several miles a day he was in shape. “Where?”

“It’s a long one,” she said.

They wound through narrow streets, heading to the southwest, chatting slowly in Italian, discussing the morning’s lesson with Ermanno. She talked about the Australians, always an easy and amiable group. Near the edge of the old city they approached the Porta Saragozza and Marco realized where he was, and where he was going.

“Up to San Luca,” he said.

“Yes. The weather is very clear, the night will be beautiful. Are you okay?”

His feet were killing him but he would never think of declining. “Andiamo,” he said. Let’s go.

Sitting almost one thousand feet above the city on the Colle della Guardia, one of the first foothills of the Apennines, the Santuario di San Luca has, for eight centuries, looked over Bologna as its protector and guardian.
To get up to it, without getting wet or sunburned, the Bolognesi decided to do what they’d always done best—build a covered sidewalk. Beginning in 1674, and continuing without interruption for sixty-five years, they built arches; 666 arches over a walkway that eventually runs for 3.6 kilometers, the longest porticoed sidewalk in the world.

Though Marco had studied the history, the details were much more interesting when they came from Francesca. The hike up was a steady climb, and they paced themselves accordingly. After a hundred arches, his calves were screaming for relief. She, on the other hand, glided along as if she could climb mountains. He kept waiting for all that cigarette smoking to slow her down.

To finance such a grandiose and extravagant project, Bologna used its considerable wealth. In a rare display of unity among the feuding factions, each arch of the portico was funded by a different group of merchants, artisans, students, churches, and noble families. To record their achievement, and to secure their immortality, they were allowed to hang plaques opposite their arches. Most had disappeared over time.

Francesca stopped for a brief rest at the 170th arch, where one of the few remaining plaques still hung. It was known as “la Madonna grassa,” the fat Madonna. There were fifteen chapels en route. They stopped again between the eighth and ninth chapels, where a bridge had been built to straddle a road. Long shadows were falling through the porticoes as they trudged up the steepest part of the incline. “It’s well lighted at night,” she assured him. “For the trip down.”

Marco wasn’t thinking about the trip down. He was
still looking up, still gazing at the church, which at times seemed closer and at other times seemed to be sneaking away from them. His thighs were aching now, his steps growing heavier.

When they reached the crest and stepped from under the 666th portico, the magnificent basilica spread before them. Its lights were coming on as darkness surrounded the hills above Bologna, and its dome glowed in shades of gold. “It’s closed now,” she said. “We’ll have to see it another day.”

During the hike up, he’d caught a glimpse of a bus easing down the hill. If he ever decided to visit San Luca again for the sole purpose of wandering through another cathedral, he’d be sure to take the bus.

“This way,” she said softly, beckoning him over. “I know a secret path.”

He followed her along a gravel trail behind the church to a ledge where they stopped and took in the city below them. “This is my favorite spot,” she said, breathing deeply, as if trying to inhale the beauty of Bologna.

“How often do you come here?”

“Several times a year, usually with groups. They always take the bus. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon I’ll enjoy the walk up.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes, by myself.”

“Could we sit somewhere?”

“Yes, there is a small bench hidden over there. No one knows about it.” He followed her down a few steps, then along a rocky path to another ledge with views just as spectacular.

“Are your legs tired?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he lied.

She lit a cigarette and enjoyed it as few people could possibly enjoy one. They sat in silence for a long time, both resting, both thinking and gazing at the shimmering lights of Bologna.

Marco finally spoke. “Luigi tells me your husband is very ill. I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him with a look of surprise, then turned away. “Luigi told me the personal stuff is off-limits.”

“Luigi changes the rules. What has he told you about me?”

“I haven’t asked. You’re from Canada, traveling around, trying to learn Italian.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because you claim to have a wife and a family, yet you leave them for a long trip to Italy. And if you’re just a businessman off on a pleasure trip, then where does Luigi fit in? And Ermanno? Why do you need those people?”

“Good questions. I have no wife.”

“So it’s all a lie.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the truth?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Good. I don’t want to know.”

“You have enough problems, don’t you, Francesca?”

“My problems are my business.”

She lit another cigarette. “Can I have one of those?” he asked.

“You smoke?”

“Many years ago.” He picked one from the pack and lit it. The lights from the city grew brighter as the night engulfed them.

“Do you tell Luigi everything we do?” he asked.

“I tell him very little.”

“Good.”

20

TEDDY’S LAST VISIT TO THE WHITE HOUSE WAS SCHEDULED
for 10:00 a.m. He planned to be late. Beginning at seven that morning, he met with his unofficial transition team—all four deputy directors and his senior people. In quiet little conferences he informed those he’d trusted for many years that he was on the way out, that it had been inevitable for a long time, that the agency was in good shape and life would go on.

Those who knew him well sensed an air of relief. He was, after all, pushing eighty and his legendary bad health was actually getting worse.

At precisely 8:45, while meeting with William Lucat, his deputy director for operations, he summoned Julia Javier for their Backman meeting. The Backman case was important, but in the scheme of global intelligence it was mid-list.