Marco would chew for a few seconds, buying time to think of something—in Italian dammit!—that might get him off the hook. He was learning to listen, though, to catch the key words. Both of his friends had repeatedly said that he would always understand much more than he could say.
The food saved him. Of particular importance was the distinction between tortellini (small pasta stuffed with pork) and tortelloni (larger pasta stuffed with ricotta cheese). The chef, upon realizing that Marco was a Canadian very curious about Bolognese cuisine, insisted on serving both dishes. As always, Luigi explained that
both were exclusively the creations of the great chefs of Bologna.
Marco simply ate, trying his best to devour the delicious servings while avoiding the Italian language.
After two hours, Marco insisted on a break. He finished his second espresso and said goodbye. He left them in front of the restaurant and walked away, alone, his ears ringing and his head spinning from the workout.
______
HE
made a two-block loop off Via Rizzoli. Then he did it again to make sure no one was following. The long porticoed walkways were ideal for ducking and hiding. When they were thick with students again he crossed Piazza Verdi, where the World Bank protest had yielded to a fiery speech that, for a moment, made Marco quite happy he could not understand Italian. He stopped at 22 Via Zamboni and once again looked at the massive wooden door that led to the law school. He walked through it and tried his best to appear as if this was his turf. No directory was in sight, but a student bulletin board advertised apartments, books, companionship, almost everything, it seemed, including a summer studies program at Wake Forest Law School.
Through the hallway, the building yielded to an open courtyard where students were milling around, chatting on cell phones, smoking, waiting for classes.
A stairway to his left caught his attention. He climbed to the third floor, where he finally located a directory of sorts. He understood the word “uffici,” and followed a corridor past two classrooms until he found the faculty offices. Most had names, a few did not. The last
belonged to Rudolph Viscovitch, so far the only non-Italian name in the building. Marco knocked and no one answered. He twisted the knob but the door was locked. He quickly removed from his coat pocket a sheet of paper he’d taken from the Albergo Campeol in Treviso and scribbled a note:
Dear Rudolph: I was wandering around the campus, stumbled upon your office and wanted to say hello. Maybe I’ll catch you again at the Bar Fontana. Enjoyed our chat yesterday. Nice to hear English occasionally. Your Canadian friend, Marco Lazzeri
He slid it under the door and walked down the stairs behind a group of students. Back on Via Zamboni, he drifted along with no particular destination in mind. He stopped for a gelato, then slowly made his way back to his hotel. His dark little room was too cold for a nap. He promised himself again that he would complain to his handler. Lunch had cost more than three nights’ worth of his room. Surely Luigi and those above him could spring for a nicer place.
He dragged himself back to Ermanno’s cupboard-sized apartment for the afternoon session.
______
LUIGI
waited patiently at Bologna Centrale for the nonstop Eurostar from Milano. The train station was relatively quiet, the lull before the five o’clock rush hour. At 3:35, precisely on schedule, the sleek bullet blew in for a quick stop and Whitaker bounced off.
Since Whitaker never smiled, they barely said hello.
After a cursory handshake was complete, they walked to Luigi’s Fiat. “How’s our boy?” Whitaker asked as soon as he slammed the door.
“Doing fine,” Luigi said as he started the engine and drove away. “He’s studying hard. There’s not much else for him to do.”
“And he’s staying close?”
“Yes. He likes to walk around the city, but he’s afraid to venture too far. Plus, he has no money.”
“Keep him broke. How’s his Italian?”
“He’s learning rapidly.” They were on the Via dell’ Indipendenza, a wide avenue that was taking them directly south, into the center of the city. “Very motivated.”
“Is he scared?”
“I think so.”
“He’s smart, and he’s a manipulator, Luigi, don’t forget that. And because he’s smart, he’s also very frightened. He knows the danger.”
“I told him about Critz.”
“And?”
“He was bewildered.”
“Did it scare him?”
“Yes, I think so. Who got Critz?”
“I’m assuming we did, but you never know. Is the safe house ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s see Marco’s apartment.”
Via Fondazza was a quiet residential street in the southeast section of the old city, a few blocks south of the university section. As in the rest of Bologna, the walkways on both sides of the street were covered with porticoes. Doors to the homes and apartments opened directly onto
the sidewalks. Most had building directories on brass plaques next to intercoms, but the one at 112 Via Fondazza did not. It was unmarked and had been for the three years it had been leased to a mysterious businessman in Milan who paid the rent but seldom used it. Whitaker had not seen it in more than a year; not that it was much of an attraction. It was a simple apartment of about six hundred square feet; four rooms with basic furnishings that cost 1,200 euros a month. It was a safe house, nothing more or less; one of three currently under his control in northern Italy.
There were two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a living area with a sofa, a desk, two leather chairs, no television. Luigi pointed to the phone and they discussed, in near coded language, the bugging device that had been installed and could never be detected. There were two hidden mikes in each room, powerful little collectors that missed no human sound. There were also two microscopic cameras—one hidden in a crack of an old tile high above the den, and from there it offered a view of the front door. The other was hidden in a cheap light fixture hanging from a kitchen wall, with a clear view of the rear door.
They would not be watching his bedroom, and Luigi said he was relieved by that. If Marco managed to find a woman willing to visit him, they could catch her coming and going with the camera in the den, and that was certainly enough for Luigi. If he got really bored, he could hit a switch and listen for fun.
The safe house was bordered to the south by another apartment, with a thick stone wall separating the two. Luigi was staying there, hiding next door in a five-room
flat slightly larger than Marco’s. His rear door opened into a small garden that could not be seen from the safe house, thus concealing his movements. His kitchen had been converted into a high-tech snooping room where he could switch on a camera anytime he wanted and take a look at what was happening next door.
“Will they study here?” Whitaker asked.
“Yes. I think it’s secure enough. Plus I can monitor things.”
Whitaker walked through each room again. When he’d seen enough he said, “Everything’s set up next door?”
“Everything. I’ve spent the last two nights there. We’re ready.”
“How soon can you move him?”
“This afternoon.”
“Very well. Let’s go see the boy.”
They walked north along Via Fondazza until it came to an end, then northwest along a wider avenue, Strada Maggiore. The rendezvous point was a small café called Lestre’s. Luigi found a newspaper and sat alone at a table. Whitaker found another newspaper and sat nearby, each man ignoring the other. At precisely four-thirty, Ermanno and his student stopped by for a quick espresso with Luigi.
When the greetings were exchanged and the coats removed, Luigi asked, “Are you tired of Italian, Marco?”
“I’m sick of it,” Marco replied with a smile.
“Good. Let’s talk English.”
“God bless you,” Marco said.
Whitaker sat five feet away, partially hidden behind a newspaper, smoking a cigarette as if he had no
interest in anyone around him. He of course knew of Ermanno, but had never actually seen him. Marco was another story.
Whitaker had been in Washington for a stint at Langley a dozen or so years earlier, back when everyone knew the broker. He remembered Joel Backman as a political force who spent almost as much time cultivating his oversized image as he did representing his important clients. He’d been the epitome of money and power, the perfect fat cat who could bully and cajole and throw around enough money to get whatever he wanted.
Amazing what six years in prison could do. He was very thin now, and looking quite European behind the Armani eyewear. He had the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper goatee. Whitaker was certain that virtually no one from back home could walk into Lestre’s at that moment and identify Joel Backman.
Marco caught the man five feet away glancing over one time too often but thought nothing of it. They were chatting in English, and perhaps few people did so, at Lestre’s anyway. Nearer the university, one could hear several languages in every coffee shop.
Ermanno excused himself after one espresso. A few minutes later Whitaker left too. He walked a few blocks and found an Internet café, one he’d used before. He plugged in his laptop, got online, and typed a message to Julia Javier at Langley:
Fondazza flat is ready to go, should move in tonight. Laid eyes on our man, having a coffee with our friends. Would not have known him otherwise. Adjusting
nicely to a new life. All is in order here; no problems whatsoever
.
______
AFTER
dark, the Fiat stopped in the middle of Via Fondazza, and its contents were quickly unloaded. Marco packed light because he owned practically nothing. Two bags of clothes and some Italian study books, and he was completely mobile. When he stepped into his new apartment, the first thing he noticed was that it was sufficiently heated. “This is more like it,” he said to Luigi.
“I’ll move the car. Have a look around.”
He looked around, counted four rooms with nice furnishings, nothing extravagant but a huge step up from the last place. Life was improving—ten days ago he’d been in prison.
Luigi returned in a rush. “What do you think?”
“I’ll keep it. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“And thank the folks in Washington too.”
“Did you see the kitchen?” Luigi asked, flipping on a light switch.
“Yes, it’s perfect. How long do I stay here, Luigi?”
“I don’t make those decisions. You know that.”
“I know.”
They were back in the den. “A couple of things,” Luigi said. “First, Ermanno will come here each day to study. Eight until eleven, then two until five or whenever you wish to stop.”
“Wonderful. Please get the boy a new flat, would
you? His dump is an embarrassment to the American taxpayers.”
“Second, this is a very quiet street, mainly apartments. Come and go quickly, don’t chat with your neighbors, don’t make any friends. Remember, Marco, you are leaving a trail. Make it wide enough and someone will find you.”
“I heard you the first ten times.”
“Then hear me again.”
“Relax, Luigi. My neighbors will never see me, I promise. I like it here. It’s much nicer than my prison cell.”
14
THE MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR ROBERT CRITZ WAS HELD
in a country club–like mausoleum in a ritzy suburb of Philadelphia, the city of his birth but a place he’d avoided for at least the past thirty years. He died without a will and without a thought as to his final arrangements, leaving poor Mrs. Critz with the burden of not only getting him home from London but then deciding how to properly dispose of him. A son pressed the idea of cremation and a rather neat interment in a marble vault, one shielded from the weather. By that point Mrs. Critz would have agreed to almost any plan. Flying seven hours across the Atlantic (in coach) with her husband’s remains somewhere below her, in a rather stark air-transport box made especially for dead humans, had nearly pushed her over the edge. And then there had been the chaos at the airport when no one was there to greet her and take charge. What a mess!
The service was by invitation only, a condition laid down by former president Arthur Morgan, who, after only two weeks on Barbados, was quite unwilling to return and
be seen by anyone. If he was truly saddened by the death of his lifelong friend, he didn’t show it. He’d haggled over the details of the service with the Critz family until he was almost asked to stay away. The date had been moved because of Morgan. The order of service didn’t suit him. He reluctantly agreed to deliver a eulogy, but only if it could be very brief. Truth was, he’d never liked Mrs. Critz and she’d never liked him.
To the small circle of friends and family, it seemed implausible that Robert Critz would get so drunk in a London pub that he would stagger into a busy street and fall in front of a car. When the autopsy revealed a significant level of heroin, Mrs. Critz had become so distraught that she insisted that the report be sealed and buried. She had refused to tell even her children about the narcotic. She was absolutely certain her husband had never touched an illicit drug—he drank too much but few people knew it—but she nonetheless was determined to protect his good name.
The London police had readily agreed to lock away the autopsy findings and close the case. They had their questions all right, but they had many other cases to keep them busy, and they also had a widow who couldn’t wait to get home and put it all behind her.
The service began at two on a Thursday afternoon—the time also dictated by Morgan so that the private jet could fly nonstop from Barbados to Philly International—and lasted for an hour. Eighty-two people had been invited, and fifty-one showed up, a fair majority of them more curious to see President Morgan than to say goodbye to ol’ Critz. A semi-Protestant minister of some variety presided. Critz had not seen the inside of a church
in forty years, except for weddings and funerals. The minister was faced with the difficult task of bringing to life the memory of a man he’d never met, and though he tried gamely he failed completely. He read from the book of Psalms. He offered a generic prayer that would’ve fit a deacon or a serial killer. He offered soothing words to the family, but, again, they were total strangers to him.