Sr. Rudolph Viscovitch, Università degli Studi, University of Bologna, Via Zamboni 22, 44041, Bologna, Italy. Use two envelopes—the first for
Viscovitch, the second for me. In your note to him ask him to hold the package for Marco Lazzeri
.
Hurry! Love, Marco
Neal placed the letter on his desk and walked over to lock his door. He sat on a small leather sofa and tried to arrange his thoughts. He had already decided his father was out of the country, otherwise he would’ve made contact weeks earlier. Why was he in Italy? Why was the letter mailed from York, Pennsylvania?
Neal’s wife had never met her father-in-law. He’d been in prison for two years when they met and married. They had sent photos of the wedding, and later a photo of their child, Joel’s second granddaughter.
Joel was not a topic Neal liked to talk about. Or think about. He had been a lousy father, absent for most of his childhood, and his astounding plunge from power had embarrassed everyone close to him. Neal had grudgingly sent letters and cards during the incarceration, but he could truthfully say, at least to himself and his wife, that he did not miss his father. He’d rarely been around the man.
Now he was back, asking for money that Neal did not have, assuming with no hesitation that Neal would do exactly as he was instructed, perfectly willing to endanger someone else.
Neal walked to his desk and read the letter again, then again. It was the same scarcely readable chicken scratch he’d seen throughout his life. And it was his same method of operation, whether at home or at the office. Do this, this, and this, and everything will work. Do it my way, and do it now! Hurry! Risk everything because I need you.
And what if everything worked smoothly and the broker came back? He certainly wouldn’t have time for Neal and the granddaughter. If given the chance, Joel Backman, fifty-two, would once again rise to glory in the power circles of Washington. He’d make the right friends, hustle the right clients, marry the right woman, find the right partners, and within a year he’d once again work from a vast office where he would charge outrageous fees and bully congressmen.
Life had been much simpler with his father in prison.
What would he tell Lisa, his wife? Honey, that $2,000 we have buried in our savings account has just been spoken for. Plus a few hundred bucks for an encrypted e-mail system. And you and the baby keep the doors locked at all times because life just became much more dangerous.
With the day shot to hell, Neal buzzed his secretary and asked her to hold his calls. He stretched out on the sofa, kicked off his loafers, closed his eyes, and began massaging his temples.
18
IN THE NASTY LITTLE WAR BETWEEN THE CIA AND THE
FBI, both sides often used certain journalists for tactical reasons. Preemptive strikes could be launched, counterattacks blunted, hasty retreats glossed over, even damage control could be implemented by manipulating the press. Dan Sandberg had cultivated sources on both sides for almost twenty years and was perfectly willing to be used when the information was correct, and exclusive. He was also willing to assume the role of courier, cautiously moving between the armies with sensitive gossip to see how much the other side knew. In his effort to confirm the story that the FBI was investigating a cash-for-pardon scandal, he contacted his most reliable source at the CIA. He was met with the usual stonewall, one that lasted less than forty-eight hours.
His contact at Langley was Rusty Lowell, a frazzled career man with shifting titles. Whatever he was paid to do, his real job was watching the press and advising Teddy Maynard on how to use and abuse it. He was not a snitch, not one to pass along anything that wasn’t true. After
years of working at the relationship, Sandberg was reasonably confident that most of what he got from Lowell was doled out by Teddy himself.
They met at Tyson’s Corner Mall, over in Virginia, just off the Beltway, in the back of a cheap pizzeria on the upper-level food court. They each bought one slice of pepperoni and cheese and a soft drink, then found a booth where no one could see them. The usual rules applied: (1) everything was off the record and deep background; (2) Lowell would give the green light before Sandberg could run any story; and (3) if anything Lowell said was contradicted by another source, he, Lowell, would have the chance to review it and offer the last word.
As an investigative journalist, Sandberg hated the rules. However, Lowell had never been wrong, and he was not talking to anyone else. If Sandberg wanted to mine this rich source, he had to play by the rules.
“They’ve found some money,” Sandberg began. “And they think it’s linked to a pardon.”
Lowell’s eyes always betrayed him because he was never deceitful. They narrowed immediately and it was obvious that this was something new.
“Does the CIA know this?” Sandberg asked.
“No,” Lowell said bluntly. He had never been afraid of the truth. “We’ve been watching some accounts offshore, but nothing’s happened. How much money?”
“A lot. I don’t know how much. And I don’t know how they found it.”
“Where did it come from?”
“They don’t know for sure, but they’re desperate to link it to Joel Backman. They’re talking to the White House.”
“And not us.”
“Evidently not. It reeks of politics. They’d love to pin a scandal on President Morgan, and Backman would be the perfect conspirator.”
“Duke Mongo would be a nice target too.”
“Yes, but he’s practically dead. He’s had a long, colorful career as a tax cheat, but now he’s out to pasture. Backman has secrets. They want to haul him back, run him through the grinder over at Justice, blow the top off Washington for a few months. It will humiliate Morgan.”
“The economy’s sliding like hell. What a wonderful diversion.”
“Like I said, it’s all about politics.”
Lowell finally took a bite of pizza and chewed it quickly as he thought. “Can’t be Backman. They’re way off target.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m positive. Backman had no idea a pardon was in the works. We literally yanked him out of his cell in the middle of the night, made him sign some papers, then shipped him out of the country before sunrise.”
“And where did he go?”
“Hell, I don’t know. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you. The point is that Backman had no time to arrange a bribe. He was buried so deep in prison he couldn’t even dream of a pardon. It was Teddy’s idea, not his. Backman’s not their man.”
“They intend to find him.”
“Why? He’s a free man, fully pardoned, not some convict on the run. He can’t be extradited, unless of course they squeeze an indictment.”
“Which they can do.”
Lowell frowned at the table for a second or two. “I can’t see an indictment. They have no proof. They have some suspicious money sitting in a bank, as you say, but they don’t know where it came from. I assure you it’s not Backman’s money.”
“Can they find him?”
“They’re gonna put the pressure on Teddy, and that’s why I wanted to talk.” He shoved the half-eaten pizza aside and leaned in closer. “There will soon be a meeting in the Oval Office. Teddy will be there, and he’ll be asked by the President to see the sensitive stuff on Backman. He will refuse. Then it’s showdown time. Will the Prez have the guts to fire the old man?”
“Will he?”
“Probably. At least Teddy is expecting it. This is his fourth president, which, as you know, is a record, and the first three have all wanted to fire him. Now, though, he’s old and ready to go.”
“He’s been old and ready to go forever.”
“True, but he’s run a tight ship. This time it’s different.”
“Why doesn’t he just resign?”
“Because he’s a cranky, contrary, stubborn old son of a bitch, you know that.”
“That’s well established.”
“And if he gets fired, he’s not going peacefully. He’d like balanced coverage.”
“Balanced coverage” was their long-standing buzzword for “slant it our way.”
Sandberg slid his pizza away too and cracked his knuckles. “Here’s the story as I see it,” he said, part of the ritual. “After eighteen years of solid leadership at the CIA,
Teddy Maynard gets sacked by a brand-new president. The reason is that Maynard refused to divulge details of sensitive ongoing operations. He stood his ground to protect national security, and stared down the President, who, along with the FBI, wants classified information so that it, the FBI, can pursue an investigation relating to pardons granted by former president Morgan.”
“You cannot mention Backman.”
“I’m not ready to use names. I don’t have confirmation.”
“I assure you the money did not come from Backman. And if you use his name at this point, there’s a chance he’ll see it and do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like, run for his life.”
“Why is that stupid?”
“Because we don’t want him running for his life.”
“You want him dead?”
“Of course. That’s the plan. We want to see who kills him.”
Sandberg settled back against the hard plastic bench and looked away. Lowell picked slices of pepperoni off his cold rubbery pizza, and for a long time they thought in silence. Sandberg drained his Diet Coke, and finally said, “Teddy somehow convinced Morgan to pardon Backman, who’s stashed away somewhere as bait for the kill.”
Lowell was looking away but nodding.
“And the killing will answer some questions over at Langley?”
“Perhaps. That’s the plan.”
“Does Backman know why he was pardoned?”
“We certainly haven’t told him, but he’s fairly bright.”
“Who’s after him?”
“Some very dangerous people who carry grudges.”
“Do you know who?”
A nod, a shrug, a nonanswer. “There are several with potential. We’ll watch closely and maybe learn something. Maybe not.”
“And why are they carrying grudges?”
Lowell laughed at the ridiculous question. “Nice try, Dan. You’ve been asking that for six years now. Look, I gotta go. Work on the balanced piece and let me see it.”
“When is the meeting with the President?”
“Not sure. As soon as he gets back.”
“And if Teddy’s terminated?”
“You’ll be the first person I call.”
______
AS
a small-town lawyer in Culpeper, Virginia, Neal Backman was earning far less than what he had dreamed about in law school. Back then, his father’s firm was such a force in D.C. that he could easily see himself making the big bucks after only a few years of practice. The greenest associates at Backman, Pratt & Bolling started at $100,000 a year, and a rising junior partner thirty years of age would earn three times as much. During his second year of law school, a local magazine put the broker on the cover and talked about his expensive toys. His income was estimated at $10 million a year. This had caused quite a stir around law school, something Neal was not uncomfortable with. He could remember thinking how wonderful the future would be with all that earning potential.
However, less than a year after signing on as a green associate, he was sacked by the firm after his father pled guilty, and was literally thrown out of the building.
But Neal had soon stopped dreaming of the big money and the glitzy lifestyle. He was perfectly content to practice law with a nice little firm on Main Street and hopefully take home $50,000 a year. Lisa stopped working when their daughter was born. She managed the finances and kept their lives on budget.
After a sleepless night, he awoke with a rough idea of how to proceed. The most painful issue had been whether or not to tell his wife. Once he decided not to, the plan began to take shape. He went to the office at eight, as usual, and puttered online for an hour and a half, until he was sure the bank was open. As he walked down Main Street he found it impossible to believe that there might be people lurking nearby watching his movements. Still, he would take no chances.
Richard Koley ran the nearest branch of Piedmont National Bank. They went to church together, hunted grouse, played softball for the Rotary Club. Neal’s law firm had banked there forever. The lobby was empty at such an early hour, and Richard was already at his desk with a tall cup of coffee,
The Wall Street Journal
, and evidently very little to do. He was pleasantly surprised to see Neal, and for twenty minutes they talked about college basketball. When they eventually got around to business, Richard said, “So what can I do for you?”
“Just curious,” Neal said casually, delivering lines he’d been rehearsing all morning. “How much might I borrow with just my signature?”
“Bit of a jam, huh?” Richard was grabbing the
mouse and already glancing at the monitor, where all answers were stored.
“No, nothing like that. Rates are so low and I’ve got my eye on a hot stock.”
“Not a bad strategy, really, though I certainly can’t advertise it. With the Dow at ten thousand again you wonder why more folks don’t load up with credit and buy stocks. It would certainly be good for the old bank.” He managed an awkward banker’s chuckle at his own quick humor. “Income range?” he asked, tapping keys, somberfaced now.
“It varies,” Neal said. “Sixty to eighty.”
Richard frowned even more, and Neal couldn’t tell if it was because he was sad to learn his friend made so little, or because his friend earned so much more than he. He’d never know. Small-town banks were not known for overpaying their people.
“Total debts, outside the mortgage?” he asked, tapping again.
“Hmmm, let’s see.” Neal closed his eyes and ran through the math again. His mortgage was almost $200,000 and Piedmont held that. Lisa was so opposed to debt that their own little balance sheet was remarkably clean. “Car loan of about twenty grand,” he said. “Maybe a thousand or so on the credit cards. Not much, really.”
Richard nodded his approval and never took his eyes off the monitor. When his fingers left the keyboard, he shrugged and turned into the generous banker. “We could do three thousand on a signature. Six percent interest, for twelve months.”