“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.
35
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.”