"Just give me a pillow. I'll sleep on the kitchen table."
Signora Altonelli was a different person when she returned to remove the coffee tray. She glared at Marco as if he'd already molested her daughter. She glared at Francesca as if she wanted to slap her. She huffed around the kitchen for a few minutes, then retired somewhere back in the apartment.
"Are you sleepy?' Francesca asked.
"No. You?"
"No. Let's talk."
"Okay."
"Tell me everything."
He slept a few hours on the sofa, and was awakened by Francesca tapping on his shoulder. "I have an idea," she said. "Follow me."
He followed her to the kitchen, where a clock read 4:15. On the counter by the sink was a disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, a pair of eyeglasses, and a bottle of hair something or other-he couldn't translate it. She handed him a small burgundy leather case and said, "This is a passport. Giovanni's."
He almost dropped it. "No, I can't-"
"Yes, you can. He won't be needing it. I insist."
Marco slowly opened it and looked at the distinguished face of a man he'd never meet. The expiration date was seven months away, so the photo was almost five years old. He found the birthday-Giovanni was now sixty-eight years old, a good twenty years older than his wife.
During the cab ride back from Bazzano, he'd thought of nothing but a passport. He'd thought about stealing one from an unsuspecting tourist. He'd thought about buying one somewhere on the black market but had no idea where to go. And he'd pondered Giovanni's, one that, sadly, was about to be useless. Null and void.
But he'd dismissed the thought for fear of endangering Francesca. What if he got caught? What if an immigration guard at an airport got suspicious and called his supervisor over? But his biggest fear was getting caught by the people who were chasing him. The passport could implicate her, and he would never do that.
'Are you sure?" he asked. Now that he was holding the passport he really wanted to keep it.
"Please, Marco, I want to help. Giovanni would insist."
"I don't know what to say."
"We have work to do. There's a bus for Parma that leaves in two hours. It would be a safe way out of town."
"I want to get to Milano," he said.
"Good idea."
She took the passport and opened it. They studied the photo of her husband. "Let's start with that thing around your mouth," she said.
Ten minutes later the mustache and goatee were gone, his face completely shaven. She held a mirror for him as he hovered over the kitchen sink. Giovanni at sixty-three had less gray hair than Marco at fifty-two, but then he'd not had the experience of a federal indictment and six years in prison.
He assumed the hair coloring was something she used, but he was not about to ask. It promised results in an hour. He sat in a chair facing the table with a towel draped over his shoulders while she gently worked the solution through his hair. Very little was said. Her mother was asleep. Her husband was still and quiet and heavily medicated.
Not long ago Giovanni the professor had worn round tortoiseshell eyeglasses, light brown, quite the academic look, and when Marco put them on and studied his new look he was startled at the change. His hair was much darker, his eyes much different. He hardly recognized himself.
"Not bad" was her assessment of her own work. "It will do for now."
She brought in a navy corduroy sports coat, with well-worn patches on the elbows. "He's about two inches shorter than you," she said. The sleeves needed another inch, and the jacket wouldVe been tight through the chest, but Marco was so thin these days that anything would swallow him.
"What's your real name?" she said as she tugged on the sleeves and adjusted the collar. ¦Joel."
"I think you should travel with a briefcase. It will look normal."
He couldn't argue. Her generosity was overwhelming, and he needed every damned bit of it. She left, then came back with a beautiful old briefcase, tan leather with a silver buckle.
"I don't know what to say," Marco mumbled.
"It's Giovanni's favorite, a gift from me twenty years ago. Italian leather."
"Of course."
"If you get caught somehow with the passport, what will you say?" she asked.
"I stole it. You're my tutor. I was in your home as a guest. I managed to find the drawer with your documents, and I stole your husband's passport."
"You're a good liar."
"At one time, I was one of the best. If I get caught, Francesca, I will protect you. I promise. I will tell lies that will baffle everyone."
"You won't get caught. But use the passport as little as possible."
"Don't worry. I'll destroy it as soon as I can."
"Do you need money?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I have a thousand euros here."
"No, Francesca, but thanks."
"You'd better hurry."
He followed her to the front door where they stopped and looked at each other. "Do you spend much time online?" he asked.
"A little each day."
"Check out Joel Backman, start with The Washington Post. There's a lot of stuff there, but don't believe everything you read. I'm not the monster they've created."
"You're not a monster at all, Joel."
"I don't know how to thank you."
She took his right hand and squeezed it with both of hers. "Will you ever return to Bologna?" she asked. It was more of an invitation than a question.
"I don't know. I really don't have any idea whats about to happen. But, maybe. Can I knock on your door if I make it back?"
"Please do. Be careful out there."
He stood in the shadows of Via Minzoni for a few minutes, not wanting to leave her, not ready to begin the long journey.
Then there was a cough from under the darkened porticoes across the street, and Giovanni Ferro was on the run.
AS THE HOURS PASSED WITH EXCRUCIATING SLOWNESS, LUIGI GRADUALLY moved from worry to panic. One of two things had happened: either the hit had already occurred, or Marco had gotten wind of something and was trying to flee. Luigi worried about the stolen bag. Was it too strong a move? Had it scared Marco to the point of disappearing?
The expensive smartphone had shaken everyone. Their boy had been doing much more than studying Italian, walking the streets, and sampling every cafe and bar in town. He'd been planning, and communicating.
The smartphone was in a lab in the basement of the American embassy in Milan, where, according to the latest from Whitaker, and they were talking every fifteen minutes, the technicians had been unable to crack its codes.
A few minutes after midnight, the two intruders next door evidently got tired of waiting. As they were making their exit, they spoke a few words loud enough to be recorded. It was English with a trace of an accent. Luigi had immediately called Whitaker and reported that they were probably Israeli. He was correct. The two agents were instructed by Efraim to leave the apartment and take up other positions.
When they left, Luigi decided to send Krater to the bus station and Zellman to the train station. With no passport, Marco could not buy a plane ticket. Luigi decided to ignore the airport. But, as he told Whitaker, if their boy can somehow buy a state-of-the-art cell phone PC that cost about a thousand bucks, maybe he could also find himself a passport.
By 3:00 a.m. Whitaker was yelling in Milano and Luigi, who couldn't yell for security reasons, could only curse, which he was doing in English and Italian and holding his own in both languages.
"You've lost him, dammit!" Whitaker screeched.
"Not yet!"
"He's already dead!"
Luigi hung up again, for the third time that morning.
The kidon pulled back around 3:30 a.m. They would all rest for a few hours, then plan the day ahead.
He sat with a wino on a bench in a small park, not far down Via dell' Indipendenza from the bus station. The wino had been nursing a jug of pink fluid for most of the night, and every five minutes or so he managed to lift his head and utter something at Marco, five feet away. Marco mumbled back, and whatever he said seemed to please the wino. Two of his colleagues were completely comatose and were huddled nearby like dead soldiers in a trench. Marco didn't feel exactly safe, but then he had more serious problems.
A few people loitered in front of the bus station. Around five - thirty activity increased when a large group of what appeared to be Gypsies came bustling out, all speaking loudly at once, obviously delighted to be off the bus after a long ride from somewhere. More departing passengers were arriving, and Marco decided it was time to leave the wino. He entered the station behind a young couple and their child and followed them to the ticket counter where he listened as they bought tickets to Parma. He did the same, then hurried to the restroom and again hid in a stall.
Krater was sitting in the stations all-night diner, drinking bad coffee behind a newspaper while he watched the passengers come and go. He watched Marco walk by. He noted his height, build, age. The walk was familiar, though much slower. The Marco Lazzeri he'd been following for weeks could walk as fast as most men could jog. This fellow's pace was much slower, but then there was nowhere to go. Why hurry? On the streets Lazzeri was always trying to lose them, and at times he was successful.
But the face was very different. The hair was much darker. The brown corduroy cap was gone, but then it was an accessory and easy to lose. The tortoiseshell eyeglasses caught Krater's attention. Glasses were wonderful diversions but so often they were overplayed. Marco's stylish arm ani frames had fit him perfectly, slightly altering his appearance without calling attention to his face. The round glasses on this guy begged for attention.
The facial hair was gone; a five-minute job, something anyone would do. The shirt was not one Krater had seen before, and he'd been in Marco's apartment with Luigi during sweeps when they looked at every item of clothing. The faded jeans were very generic, and Marco had purchased a similar pair. The blue sports coat with worn elbow patches, along with the handsome attache, kept Krater in his chair. The jacket had many miles on it, something Marco could not have acquired. The sleeves were a bit short, but that was not uncommon. The briefcase was made of fine leather. Marco might somehow find and spend some cash on a smartphone, but why waste it on such an expensive briefcase? His last bag, the navy blue Silvio he'd owned until about sixteen hours ago when Krater grabbed it during the melee at Caffe Atene, had cost sixty euros.
Krater watched him until he rounded a corner and was out of sight. A possibility, nothing more. He sipped his coffee and for a few minutes contemplated the gentleman he'd just seen.
Marco stood in the stall with his jeans bunched around his ankles, feeling quite silly but much more concerned with a good cover at this point. The door opened. The wall to the left of the door had four urinals; across were six lavatories, and next to them were the four stalls. The other three were empty. There was very little traffic at the moment. Marco listened carefully, waiting to hear the sounds of human relief-the zipper, the jangle of a belt buckle, the deep sigh men often make, the spray of urine.
Nothing. There was no noise from the lavatories, no one wash ing their hands. The doors to the other three stalls did not open. Maybe it was the custodian making his rounds, and doing so very quietly.
In front of the lavatories, Krater bent low and saw the jeans around the ankles in the last stall. Next to the jeans was the fine briefcase. The gentleman was taking care of his business and in no hurry about it.
The next bus left at 6:00 a.m. for Parma; after that there was a 6:20 departure for Florence. Krater hurried to the booth and bought tickets for both. The clerk looked at him oddly, but Krater couldn't have cared less. He went back to the restroom. The gentleman in the last stall was still there.
Krater stepped outside and called Luigi. He gave a description of the man, and explained that he appeared to be in no hurry to leave the men's room.
"The best place to hide," Luigi said.
"I've done it many times."
"Do you think it's Marco?"
"I don't know. If it is, it's a very good disguise."
Rattled by the smartphone, the $400 in American cash, and the disappearance, Luigi was not taking chances. "Follow him," he said.
At 5:55, Marco pulled up his jeans, flushed, grabbed his briefcase, and took off for the bus. Waiting on the platform was Krater, nonchalantly eating an apple with one hand and holding a newspaper with the other. When Marco headed for the bus to Parma, so did Krater.
A third of the seats were empty. Marco took one on the left side, halfway back, by a window. Krater was looking away when he passed by, then found a seat four rows behind him.
The first stop was Modena, thirty minutes into the trip. As they entered the city, Marco decided to take stock of the faces behind him. He stood and made his way to the rear, to the restroom, and along the way gave a casual glance to each male.
When he locked himself in the restroom, he closed his eyes and said to himself, "Yes, I've seen that face before."
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, in Caflfe Atene, just a few minutes before the lights went out. The face had been in a long mirror that lined the wall with an old coatrack, above the tables. The face had been seated nearby, behind him, with another man.
It was a familiar face. Maybe he'd even seen it before somewhere in Bologna.
Marco returned to his seat as the bus slowed and approached the station. Think quickly, man, he kept telling himself, but keep your cool. Don't panic. They've followed you out of Bologna; you can't let them follow you out of the country.
As the bus stopped, the driver announced their arrival in Modena. A brief stop; a departure in fifteen minutes. Four passengers waddled down the aisle and got off. The others kept their seats; most were dozing anyway. Marco closed his eyes and allowed his head to drift to his left, against the window, fast asleep now. A minute passed and two peasants climbed aboard, wild-eyed and clutching heavy cloth bags.
When the driver returned and was situating himself behind the wheel, Marco suddenly eased from his seat, slid quickly along the aisle, and hopped off the bus just as the door was closing. He walked quickly into the station, then turned around and watched the bus back away. His pursuer was still on board.
Krater's first move was to sprint off the bus, perhaps arguing with the driver in the process, but then no driver will fight to keep someone on board. He caught himself, though, because Marco obviously knew he was being followed. His last-second exit only confirmed what Krater had suspected. It was Marco all right, running like a wounded animal.
Problem was, he was loose in Modena and Krater was not. The bus turned onto another street, then stopped for a traffic light. Krater rushed to the driver, holding his stomach, begging to get off before he vomited all over the place. The door flew open, Krater jumped off and ran back toward the station.
Marco wasted no time. When the bus was out of sight, he hurried to the front of the station where three taxis were lined up. He jumped into the backseat of the first one and said, "Can you take me to Milano?" His Italian was very good.
"Milano?"
"Si, Milano."
"E molto caro!" It's very expensive.
"Quanto?"
"Duecento euro." Two hundred euros.
"Andiamo."
After an hour of scouring the Modena bus station and the two streets next to it, Krater called Luigi with the news that was not all good, and not all bad. He'd lost his man, but the mad dash for freedom confirmed that it was indeed Marco.
Luigi's reaction was mixed. He was frustrated that Krater had been outfoxed by an amateur. He was impressed that Marco could effectively change his appearance and elude a small army of assassins. And he was angry at Whitaker and the fools in Washington who kept changing the plans and had now created an impending disaster for which he, Luigi, would no doubt get the blame.
He called Whitaker, yelled and cursed some more, then headed for the train station with Zellman and the two others. They'd meet up with Krater in Milano, where Whitaker was promising a full-court press with all the muscle he could pull in.
Leaving Bologna on the direct Eurostar, Luigi had a wonderful idea, one he could never mention. Why not just simply call the Israelis and the Chinese and tell them that Backman was last seen in Modena, headed west to Parma and probably Milano? They wanted him much more than Langley did. And they could certainly do a better job of finding him.
But orders were orders, even though they kept changing.
All roads led to Milano.
The cab stopped a block away from the Milano central train station. Marco paid the driver, thanked him more than once, wished him well back home in Modena, then walked past a dozen more taxis that were waiting for arriving passengers. Inside the mammoth station, he drifted with the crowd, up the escalators, into the controlled frenzy of the platform area where a dozen tracks brought the trains. He found the departure board and studied his options. A train left for Stuttgart four times a day, and its seventh stop was Zurich. He picked up a schedule, bought a cheap city guide with a map, then found a table at a cafe among a row of shops. Time could not be wasted, but he needed to figure out where he was. He had two espressos and a pastry while his eyes watched the crowd. He loved the mob, the throng of people coming and going. There was safety in those numbers.
His first plan was to take a walk, about thirty minutes, to the center of the city. Somewhere along the way he would find an inexpensive clothing store and change everything-jacket, shirt, pants, shoes. They had spotted him in Bologna. He couldn't risk it again.
Surely, somewhere in the center of the city, near the Piazza del Duomo, there was an Internet cafe where he could rent a computer for fifteen minutes. He had little confidence in his ability to sit in front of a strange machine, turn the damn thing on, and not only survive the jungle of the Internet but get a message to Neal. It was 10:15 a.m. in Milan, 4:15 a.m. in Culpeper, Virginia. Neal would be checking in live at 7:50.
Somehow he'd make the e-mail work. He had no choice.
The second plan, the one that was looking better and better as he watched a thousand people casually hop on trains that would have them scattered throughout Europe in a matter of hours, was to run. Buy a ticket right now and get out of Milano and Italy as soon as possible. His new hair color and Giovanni his eyeglasses and old professor his jacket had not fooled them in Bologna. If they were that good, they would surely find him anywhere.
He compromised with a walk around the block. The fresh air always helped, and after four blocks his blood was pumping again. As in Bologna, the streets of Milano fanned out in all directions like a spiderweb. The traffic was heavy and at times hardly moved. He loved the traffic, and he especially loved the crowded sidewalks that gave him cover.
The shop was called Roberto's, a small haberdashery wedged between a jewelry store and a bakery. The two front windows were packed with clothing that would hold up for about a week, which fit Marco's time frame perfectly. A clerk from the Middle East spoke worse Italian than Marco, but he was fluent in pointing and grunting and he was determined to transform his customer. The blue jacket was replaced with a dark brown one. The new shirt was a white pullover with short sleeves. The slacks were low-grade wool, very dark navy. Alterations would take a week, so Marco asked the clerk for a pair of scissors. In the mildewy dressing room, he measured as best he could, then cut the pants off himself. When he walked out in his new ensemble, the clerk looked at the ragged edges where the cuffs should have been and almost cried.
The shoes Marco tried on would have crippled him before he made it back to the train station, so he stayed with his hiking boots for the moment. The best purchase was a tan straw hat that Marco bought because he'd seen one just before entering the store.
What did he care about fashion at this point?
The new getup cost him almost four hundred euros, money he hated to part with, but he had no choice. He tried to swap Giovanni's briefcase, which was certainly worth more than everything he was wearing, but the clerk was too depressed over the butchered slacks. He was barely able to offer a weak thanks and goodbye. Marco left with the blue jacket, faded jeans, and the old shirt folded up in a red shopping bag; again, something different to carry around.
He walked a few minutes and saw a shoe store. He bought a pair of what appeared to be slightly modified bowling shoes, without a doubt the ugliest items in what turned out to be a very nice store. They were black with some manner of burgundy striping, hopefully built for comfort and not attractiveness. He paid 150 euros for them, only because they were already broken in. It took two blocks before he could muster the courage to look down at them.
Luigi got himself followed out of Bologna. The kid on the scooter saw him leave the apartment next to Backmans, and it was the manner in which he left that caught his attention. He was jogging, and gaining speed with each step. No one runs under the porticoes on Via Fondazza. The scooter hung back until Luigi stopped and quickly crawled into a red Fiat. He drove a few blocks, then slowed long enough for another man to jump into the car. They took off at breakneck speed, but in city traffic the scooter had no trouble keeping up. When they wheeled into the train station and parked illegally, the kid on the scooter saw it all and radioed Efraim again.
Within fifteen minutes, two Mossad agents dressed as traffic policemen entered Luigi's apartment, setting off alarms-some silent, some barely audible. While three agents waited on the street, providing cover, the three inside kicked open the kitchen door and found the astounding collection of electronic surveillance equipment.
When Luigi, Zellman, and a third agent stepped onto the Eurostar to Milano, the kid on the scooter had a ticket too. His name was Paul, the youngest member of the kidon and the most fluent speaker of Italian. Behind the bangs and baby face was a twenty-sbc-year-old veteran of half a dozen killings. When he radioed that he was on the train and it was moving, two more agents entered Luigi's apartment to help dissect the equipment. One alarm, though, could not be silenced. Its steady ring penetrated the walls just enough to attract attention from a few neighbors along the street.
After ten minutes, Efraim called a halt to the break-in. The agents scattered, then regrouped in one of their safe houses. They had not been able to determine who Luigi was or who he worked for, but it was obvious he'd been spying on Backman around the clock.
As the hours passed with no sign of Backman, they began to believe that he had fled. Could Luigi lead them to him?
In central Milano, at the Piazza del Duomo, Marco gawked at the mammoth Gothic cathedral that took only three hundred years to complete. He strolled along the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the magnificent glass-domed gallery that Milano is famous for. Lined with cafes and bookshops, the gallery is the center of the city's life, its most popular meeting place. With the temperature approaching sixty degrees, Marco had a sandwich and a cola outdoors where the pigeons swarmed every wayward crumb. He watched elderly Milanesi stroll through the gallery, women arm in arm, men stopping to chat as if time was irrelevant. To be so lucky, he thought.
Should he leave immediately, or should he lay low for a day or two? That was the new urgent question. In a crowded city of four million people, he could vanish for as long as he wanted. He'd get a map, learn the streets, spend hours hiding in his room and hours walking the alleys.
But the bloodhounds behind him would have time to regroup.
Shouldn't he leave now, while they were back there scrambling and scratching their heads?
Yes he should, he decided. He paid the waiter and glanced down at his bowling shoes. They were indeed comfortable but he couldn't wait to burn them. On a city bus he saw an ad for an Internet cafe on Via Verri. Ten minutes later he entered the place. A sign on the wall gave the rates-ten euros per hour, minimum of thirty minutes. He ordered an orange juice and paid for half an hour. The clerk nodded in the general direction of a table where a bunch of computers were waiting. Three of the eight were being used by people who obviously knew what they were doing. Marco was already lost.
But he faked it well. He sat down, grabbed a keyboard, stared at the monitor and wanted to pray, but plowed ahead as if he'd been hacking for years. It was surprisingly easy; he went to the KwyteMail site, typed his user name, t'Grinch456," then his pass phrase, "post hoc ergo propter hoc," waited ten seconds, and there was the message from
Neal:
Marco: Mike/ Van Thiessen is still with Rhineland Bank, now the vice president of client services. Anything else? Grinch.
At exactly 7:50 EST, Marco typed a message:
Grinch: Marco here-live and in person. Are you there?
He sipped his juice and stared at the screen. Come on, baby, make this thing work. Another sip. A lady across the table was talking to her monitor. Then the message:
I'm here, loud and clear. What's up?
Marco typed: They stole myAnkyo 850. There's a good chance the bad guys have it and they re picking it to pieces. Any chance they can discover you?
Neal: Only if they have the user name and pass phrase. Do they?
Marco: No, I destroyed them. There's no way they can get around a password?
Neal: Not with KwyteMail. It's totally secure and encrypted. If they have the PC and nothing more, then they're out of luck.
Marco: And we're completely safe now?
Neal: Yes, absolutely. But what are you using now?
Marco: I'm in an Internet cafe', renting a computer, like a real hacker.
Neal: Do you want another Ankyo smartphone?
Marco: No, not now, maybe later. Here's the deal. Go see Carl Pratt. I know you don't like him, but at this point I need him. Pratt was very close to former senator Ira Clay burn from North Carolina. Clay burn ruled the Senate Intelligence Committee for many years. I need Clayburn now. Go through Pratt.
Neal: Wheres Clayburn now?
Marco: / don't know-I just hope he's still alive. He came from the Outer Banks ofNC, some pretty remote place. He retired the year after I went to federal camp. Pratt can find him.
Neal: Sure, I'll do it as soon as I can sneak away. Marco: Please be careful. Watch your back. Neal: Are you okay?
Marco: I'm on the run. I left Bologna early this morning. I'll try to check in the same time tomorrow. Okay?
Neal: Keep your head down. Til be here tomorrow.
Marco signed off with a smug look. Mission accomplished. Nothing to it. Welcome to the age of high-tech wizardry and gadgetry. He made sure his exit was clean from KwyteMail, then finished his orange juice and left the cafe. He headed in the direction of the train station, stopping first at a leather shop where he managed an even swap of Giovanni's fine briefcase for a black one of patently inferior quality; then at a cheap jewelry store where he paid eighteen euros for a large round-faced watch with a bright red plastic band, something else to distract anyone looking for Marco Lazzeri, formerly of Bologna; then at a used-book shop where he spent two euros on a well-worn hardback containing the poetry of Czeslaw Milosz, all in Polish of course, anything to confuse the bloodhounds; and, finally, at a secondhand accessory store where he bought a pair of sunglasses and a wooden cane, which he began using immediately on the sidewalk.
The cane reminded him of Francesca. It also slowed him down, changed his gait. With time to spare he shuffled into Milano Centrale and bought a ticket for Stuttgart.
Whitaker got the urgent message from Langley that Luigi's safe house had been broken into, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. All the agents from Bologna were now in Milano, scrambling frantically. Two were at the train station, looking for the needle in the haystack. Two were at Malpensa airport, twenty-seven miles from downtown. Two were at Linate airport, which was much closer and handled primarily European flights. Luigi was at the central bus station, still arguing by cell phone that perhaps Marco wasn't even in Milano. Just because he took the bus from Bologna to Modena, and headed in the general direction of northwest, didn't necessarily mean he was going to Milano. But Luigi's credibility at the mo merit was somewhat diminished, at least in Whitaker's substantial opinion, so he was banished to the bus station where he watched ten thousand people come and go.
Krater got closest to the needle.
For sixty euros, Marco purchased a first-class ticket in hopes that he could avoid the exposure of traveling by coach. For the ride north, the first-class car was the last one, and Marco climbed aboard at five - thirty, forty-five minutes before departure. He settled into his seat, hid his face as much as possible behind the sunglasses and the tan straw hat, opened the book of Polish poetry, and gazed out at the platform where passengers walked by his train. Some were barely five feet away, all in a hurry.
Except one. The guy on the bus was back; the face from Caffe Atene; probably the sticky-fingered thug who'd grabbed his blue Silvio bag; the same bloodhound who'd been a step too slow off the bus in Modena about eleven hours ago. He was walking but not going anywhere. His eyes were squinted, his forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. For a professional, he was much too obvious, thought Giovanni Ferro, who, unfortunately, now knew much more than he wanted to know about ducking and hiding and covering tracks.
Krater had been told that Marco would probably head either south to Rome, where he had more options, or north to Switzerland, Germany, France-virtually the entire continent to choose from. For five hours Krater had been strolling along the twelve platforms, watching as the trains came and went, mixing with the crowds, not concerned at all with who was getting off but paying desperate attention to who was getting on. Every blue jacket of any shade or style got his attention, but he had yet to see one with the worn elbow patches.
It was in the cheap black briefcase wedged between Marcos feet, in seat number seventy of the first-class car to Stuttgart. Marco watched Krater amble along the platform, paying very close attention to the train whose final destination was Stuttgart. He was holding what appeared to be a ticket, and as he walked out of sight Marco could swear that he got on the train.
Marco fought the urge to get off. The door to his cabin opened, and Madame entered.
Once it was determined that Backman had disappeared, and was not finally dead at the hands of someone else, a frenetic five hours passed before Julia Javier found the information that should've been close by. It was found in a file that had been locked away in the director's office, and once guarded by Teddy Maynard himself. If Julia had ever seen the information, she could not remember. And, in the chaos, she was certainly not going to admit anything.
The information had come, reluctantly, from the FBI years earlier when Backman was being investigated. His financial dealings were under great scrutiny because the rumors were wild that he'd bilked a client and buried a fortune. So where was the money? In search of it, the FBI had been piecing together his travel history when he abruptly pled guilty and was sent away. The guilty plea didn't close the Backman file, but it certainly removed the pressure. With time, the travel research was completed, and eventually sent over to Langley.
In the month before Backman was indicted, arrested, and released on a very restricted bail arrangement, he had made two quick trips to Europe. For the first one, he'd flown Air France business class with his favorite secretary to Paris, where they frolicked for a few days and saw the sights. She later told investigators that Backman had spent one long day dashing off to Berlin for some quick business, but made it back in time for dinner at Alain Ducasse. She did not accompany him.
There were no records of Backman traveling by a commercial airliner to Berlin, or anywhere else within Europe, during that week. A passport would've been required, and the FBI was positive he had not used his. A passport would not have been required for a train ride. Geneva, Bern, Lausanne, and Zurich are all within four hours of Paris by train.
The second trip was a seventy-two-hour sprint from Dulles, first class on Lufthansa to Frankfurt, again for business, though no business contacts had been discovered there. Backman had paid for two nights in a luxury hotel in Frankfurt, and there was no evidence that he had slept elsewhere. Like Paris, the banking centers of Switzerland are within a few hours' train ride from Frankfurt.
When Julia Javier finally found the file and read the report, she immediately called Whitaker and said, "He's headed for Switzerland."
Madame had enough luggage for an affluent family of five. A harried porter helped her haul the heavy suitcases on board and into the first-class car, which she consumed with herself, her belongings, and her perfume. The cabin had six seats, at least four of which she laid claim to. She sat in one across from Marco and wiggled her ample rear as if to make it expand. She glanced at him, cowering against the window, and gushed over a sultry "Bonsoir." French, he thought, and since it didn't seem right to respond in Italian, he relied on old faithful. "Hello."
"Ah, American."
With languages, identities, names, cultures, backgrounds, lies, lies, and more lies all swirling around, he managed to say with no conviction whatsoever, "No, Canadian."
"Ah, yes," she said, still arranging bags and settling in. Evidently American would've been more welcome than Canadian. Madame was a robust woman of sixty, with a tight red dress, thick calves, and stout black pumps that had traveled a million miles. Her heavily decorated eyes were puffy, and the reason was soon evident. Long before the train moved, she pulled out a large flask, unscrewed its top which became a cup, and knocked back a shot of something strong. She swallowed hard, then smiled at Marco and said, "Would you like a drink?"
"No thanks."
"It's a very good brandy."
"No thanks."
"Very well." She poured another one, drained it, then put away the flask.
A long train ride just got longer.
"Where are you going?" she asked in very good English.
"Stuttgart. And you?"
"Stuttgart, then on to Strasbourg. Can't stay too long in Stuttgart, you know." Her nose wrinkled as if the entire city was swimming in raw sewage.
"I love Stuttgart," Marco said, just to watch it unwrinkle.
"Oh, well.1' Her shoes caught her attention. She kicked them off with little regard as to where they might land. Marco braced for a jolt of foot odor but then realized it had little chance of competing with the cheap perfume.
In self-defense, he pretended to nod off. She ignored him for a few minutes, then said loudly, "You speak Polish?" She was looking at his book of poetry.
He jerked his head as if he'd just been awakened. "No, not exactly. I'm trying to learn it, though. My family is Polish." He held his breath as he finished, half expecting her to unleash a torrent of proper Polish and bury him with it.
"I see," she said, not really approving.
At exactly 6:15, an unseen conductor blew a whistle and the train started to move. Fortunately, there were no other passengers assigned to Madame's car. Several had walked down the aisle and stopped, glanced in, seen the congestion, then moved on to another cabin where there was more room.
Marco watched the platform intensely as they began moving. The man from the bus was nowhere to be seen.
Madame worked the brandy until she began snoring. She was awakened by the conductor who punched their tickets. A porter came through with a pushcart loaded with drinks. Marco bought a beer and offered one to his cabinmate. His offer was greeted with another mammoth wrinkle of the nose, as if she'd rather drink urine.
Their first stop was Como/San Giovanni, a two-minute break during which no one got on. Five minutes later they stopped at Chiasso. It was almost dark now, and Marco was pondering a quick exit. He studied the itinerary; there were four more stops before Zurich, one in Italy and three in Switzerland. Which country would work best?
He couldn't risk being followed now. If they were on the train, then they had stuck to him from Bologna, through Modena and Milano, through various disguises. They were professionals, and he was no match for them. Sipping his beer, Marco felt like a miserable amateur.
Madame was staring at the butchered hems of his slacks. Then he caught her glancing down at the modified bowling shoes, and for that he didn't blame her at all. Then the bright red watchband caught her attention. Her face conveyed the obvious-she did not approve of his low sense of fashion. Typical American, or Canadian, or whatever he was.
He caught a glimpse of lights shimmering off Lake Lugano. They were snaking through the lake region, gaining altitude. Switzerland was not far away.
An occasional drifter moved down the darkened aisle outside their cabin. They would look in, through the glass door, then move along toward the rear, where there was a restroom. Madame had plopped her large feet in the seat opposite her, not too far from Marco. An hour into the trip, and she had managed to spread her boxes and magazines and clothing throughout the entire cabin. Marco was afraid to leave his seat.
Fatigue finally set in, and Marco fell asleep. He was awakened by the racket at the Bellinzona station, the first stop in Switzerland. A passenger entered the first-class car and couldn't find the right seat. He opened the door to Madame's cabin, looked around, didn't like what he saw, then went off to yell at the conductor. They found him a spot elsewhere. Madame hardly looked up from her fashion magazines.
The next stretch was an hour and forty minutes, and when Madame went back to her flask Marco said, "I'll try some of that." She smiled for the first time in hours. Though she certainly didn't mind drinking alone, it was always more pleasant with a friend. A couple of shots, though, and Marco was nodding off again.
The train jerked as it slowed for the stop at ArthGoldau. Marco's head jerked too, and his hat fell off. Madame was watching him closely. When he opened his eyes for good, she said, "A strange man has been looking at you."
"Where?'' "Where? Here, of course, on this train. He's been by at least three times. He stops at the door, looks closely at you, then sneaks away."
Maybe it's my shoes, thought Marco. Or my slacks. Watchband? He rubbed his eyes and tried to act as though it happened all the time.
"What does he look like?"
"Blond hair, about thirty-five, cute, brown jacket. Do you know him?"
"No, I have no idea." The man on the bus at Modena had neither blond hair nor a brown jacket, but those minor points were irrelevant now. Marco was frightened enough to switch plans.
Zug was twenty-five minutes away, the last stop before Zurich. He could not run the risk of leading them to Zurich. Ten minutes out, he announced he needed to use the restroom. Between his seat and the door was Madame's obstacle course. As he began stepping through it, he placed his briefcase and cane in his seat.
He walked past four cabins, each with at least three passengers, none of whom looked suspicious. He went to the restroom, locked the door, and waited until the train began to slow. Then it stopped. Zug was a two-minute layover, and the train so far had been ridiculously on time. He waited one minute, then walked quickly back to his cabin, opened the door, said nothing to Madame, grabbed his briefcase and his cane, which he was perfectly prepared to use as a weapon, and raced to the rear of the train where he jumped onto the platform.
It was a small station, elevated with a street below. Marco flew down the steps to the sidewalk where a lone taxi sat with a driver unconscious behind the wheel. "Hotel, please," he said, startling the driver, who instinctively grabbed the ignition key. He asked something in German and Marco tried Italian. "I need a small hotel. I don't have a reservation."
"No problem," the driver said. As they pulled away, Marco looked up and saw the train moving. He looked behind him, and saw no one giving chase.