The Broker by John Grisham Page A

and seemed poised for more.
    “I found out today that Teddy Maynard went to the White House late on the nineteenth. Only someone like Teddy could squeeze it out of Morgan. Backman walked away, probably with an escort, and vanished.”
    “Witness protection?”
    “Something like that. The CIA has hidden people before. They have to. There’s nothing official on the books, but they have the resources.”
    “So why hide Backman?”
    “Revenge. Remember Aldrich Ames, the biggest mole in CIA history?”
    “Sure.”
    “Now locked away securely in a federal pen. Don’t you know the CIA would love to have a crack at him? They can’t do it because it’s against the law—they cannot target a U.S. citizen, either here or abroad.”
    “Backman wasn’t a CIA mole. Hell, he hated Teddy Maynard, and the feeling was very mutual.”
    “Maynard won’t kill him. He’ll just set things up so someone else will have the pleasure.”
    Pratt was getting to his feet. “You want another one of those?” he asked, pointing at the beer.
    “Later, maybe.” Sandberg picked up his pint for the second time and took a drink.
    When Pratt returned with a double vodka, he satdown and said, “So you think Backman’s days are numbered?”
    “You asked my theory. Let me hear yours.”
    A reasonable pull on the vodka, then, “Same result, but from a slightly different angle.” Pratt stuck his finger in the drink, stirred it, then licked his finger, thinking for a few seconds. “Off the record, okay?”
    “Of course.” They had talked so much over the years that everything was off the record.
    “There was an eight-day period between Hubbard’s death and Backman’s plea. It was a very scary time. Both Kim Bolling and I were under FBI protection, around the clock, around the block, everywhere. Quite odd, really. The FBI was doing its best to send us to prison forever and at the same time felt compelled to protect us.” A sip, as he glanced around to see if any of the college students were eavesdropping. They were not. “There were some threats, some serious movements by the same people who killed Jacy Hubbard. The FBI debriefed us later, months after Backman was gone and things settled down. We felt a bit safer, but Bolling and I paid armed security for two years afterward. I still glance in the rearview mirror. Poor Kim has lost his mind.”
    “Who made the threats?”
    “The same people who’d love to find Joel Backman.”
    “Who?”
    “Backman and Hubbard had made a deal to sell their little product to the Saudis for a trainload of money. Very pricey, but far less than the cost of building a brand-new satellite system. The deal fell through. Hubbard gets himself killed. Backman hurries off to jail, and the Saudis are not happy at all. Neither are the Israelis, because theywanted to make a deal too. Plus, they were furious that Hubbard and Backman would deal with the Saudis.” He paused and took a drink, as if he needed the fortitude to finish the story. “Then you have the folks who built the system in the first place.”
    “The Russians?”
    “Probably not. Jacy Hubbard loved Asian girls. He was last seen leaving a bar with a gorgeous young leggy thing, long black hair, round face, from somewhere on the other side of the world. Red China uses thousands of people here to gather information. All their U.S. students, businessmen, diplomats, this place is crawling with Chinese who are snooping around. Plus, their intelligence service has some very effective agents. For a matter like this, they wouldn’t hesitate to go after Hubbard and Backman.”
    “You’re sure it’s Red China?”
    “No one’s sure, okay? Maybe Backman knows, but he never told anyone. Keep in mind, the CIA didn’t even know about the system. They got caught with their pants down, and ol’ Teddy’s still trying to catch up.”
    “Fun and games for Teddy, huh?”
    “Absolutely. He fed Morgan a line about national security. Morgan, no surprise, falls