The Broker Read Free Page B

I promise not to kill anyone.”
    The warden snapped at the nearest guard, who quickly found a key and freed Backman. The guard then scrambled out of the room, slamming the door behind him, much to the displeasure of the warden, a very nervous man.
    He pointed and said, “This is Special Agent Adair of the FBI. This is Mr. Knabe from the Justice Department. And this is Mr. Sizemore, also from Washington.”
    None of the three moved in the direction of Mr. Backman, who was still standing and looking quite perplexed. He nodded at them, in a halfhearted effort to be polite. His efforts were not returned.
    “Please sit,” the warden said, and Backman finally took a chair. “Thank you. As you know, Mr. Backman, a new president is about to be sworn in. President Morgan is on the way out. Right now he is in the Oval Office wrestling with the decision of whether to grant you a full pardon.”
    Backman was suddenly seized with a violent cough, one brought on in part by the near arctic temperature in his cell and in part by the shock of the word “pardon.”
    Mr. Knabe from Justice handed him a bottle of water, which he gulped and splashed down his chin and finally managed to stifle the cough. “A pardon?” he mumbled.
    “A full pardon, with some strings attached.”
    “But why?”
    “I don’t know why, Mr. Backman, nor is it my business to understand what’s happening. I’m just the messenger.”
    Mr. Sizemore, introduced simply as “from Washington,” but without the baggage of title or affiliation, said, “It’s a deal, Mr. Backman. In return for a full pardon, you must agree to leave the country, never return, and live with a new identity in a place where no one can find you.”
    No problem there, thought Backman. He didn’t want to be found.
    “But why?” he mumbled again. The bottle of water in his left hand could actually be seen shaking.
    As Mr. Sizemore from Washington watched it shake, he studied Joel Backman, from his closely cropped gray hair to his battered dime-store running shoes, with his black prison-issue socks, and couldn’t help but recallthe image of the man in his prior life. A magazine cover came to mind. A fancy photo of Joel Backman in a black Italian suit, impeccably tailored and detailed and groomed and looking at the camera with as much smugness as humanly possible. The hair was longer and darker, the handsome face was fleshy and wrinkle free, the waistline was thick and spoke of many power lunches and four-hour dinners. He loved wine and women and sports cars. He had a jet, a yacht, a place in Vail, all of which he’d been quite eager to talk about. The bold caption above his head read: THE BROKER—IS THIS THE SECOND MOST POWERFUL MAN IN WASHINGTON?
    The magazine was in Mr. Sizemore’s briefcase, along with a thick file on Joel Backman. He’d scoured it on the flight from Washington to Tulsa.
    According to the magazine article, the broker’s income at the time was reported to be in excess of $10 million a year, though he’d been coy with the reporter. The law firm he founded had two hundred lawyers, small by Washington standards, but without a doubt the most powerful in political circles. It was a lobbying machine, not a place where real lawyers practiced their craft. More like a bordello for rich companies and foreign governments.
    Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Mr. Sizemore thought to himself as he watched the bottle shake.
    “I don’t understand,” Backman managed to whisper.
    “And we don’t have time to explain,” Mr. Sizemore said. “It’s a quick deal, Mr. Backman. Unfortunately, you don’t have time to contemplate things. A snap decision is required. Yes or no. You want to stay here, or youwant to live with another name on the other side of the world?”
    “Where?”
    “We don’t know where, but we’ll figure it out.”
    “Will I be safe?”
    “Only you can answer that question, Mr. Backman.”
    As Mr. Backman pondered his own question, he shook even