The Broker by John Grisham Page B

for it. Backman walks. Teddy sneaks him out of the country, then watches to see who shows up with a gun. It’s a no-lose game for Teddy.”
    “It’s brilliant.”
    “It’s beyond brilliant, Dan. Think about it. When Joel Backman meets his maker, no one will ever know about it. No one knows where he is now. No one will know who he is when his body is found.”
    “If it’s found.”
    “Exactly.”
    “And Backman knows this?”
    Pratt drained the second drink and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. He was frowning. “Backman’s not stupid by any measure. But a lot of what we know came to light after he went away. He survived six years in prison, he probably figures he can survive anything.”
______
    CRITZ ducked into a pub not far from the Connaught Hotel in London. A light rain grew steadier and he needed a place to stay dry. Mrs. Critz was back at the small apartment that was on loan from their new employer, so Critz had the luxury of sitting in a crowded pub where no one knew him and knocking back a couple of pints. A week in London now with a week to go before he pushed himself back across the Atlantic, back to D.C. where he would take a miserable job lobbying for a company that made, among other hardware, defective missiles that the Pentagon hated but nonetheless would be forced to buy because the company had all the right lobbyists.
    He found an empty booth, one partially visible through a fog of tobacco smoke, and wedged himself into it and settled in behind his pint. How nice it was to drink alone without the worry of being spotted by someone who would rush over and say, “Hey, Critz, what were you idiots thinking with that Berman veto?” Yakety-yakety-yak.
    He absorbed the cheery British voices of neighbors coming and going. He didn’t even mind the smoke. He was alone and unknown and he quietly reveled in his privacy.
    His anonymity was not complete, however. Frombehind him a small man wearing a battered sailor’s cap appeared and fell into the booth across the table, startling Critz.
    “Mind if I join you, Mr. Critz?” the sailor said with a smile that revealed large yellow teeth. Critz would remember the dingy teeth.
    “Have a seat,” Critz said warily. “You got a name?”
    “Ben.” He wasn’t British, and English was not his native tongue. Ben was about thirty, with dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a long pointed nose that made him rather Greek-looking.
    “No last name, huh?” Critz took a sip from his glass and said, “How, exactly, do you know my name?”
    “I know everything about you.”
    “Didn’t realize I was that famous.”
    “I wouldn’t call it fame, Mr. Critz. I’ll be brief. I work for some people who desperately want to find Joel Backman. They’ll pay serious money, cash. Cash in a box, or cash in a Swiss bank, doesn’t matter. It can be done quickly, within hours. You tell us where he is, you get a million bucks, no one will ever know.”
    “How did you find me?”
    “It was simple, Mr. Critz. We’re, let’s say, professionals.”
    “Spies?”
    “It’s not important. We are who we are, and we’re going to find Mr. Backman. The question is, do you want the million bucks?”
    “I don’t know where he is.”
    “But you can find out.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Do you want to do business?”
    “Not for a million bucks.”
    “Then how much?”
    “I’ll have to think about it.”
    “Then think quickly.”
    “And if I can’t get the information?”
    “Then we’ll never see you again. This meeting never took place. It’s very simple.”
    Critz took a long pull on his pint and contemplated things. “Okay, let’s say I’m able to get this information—I’m not too optimistic—but what if I get lucky? Then what?”
    “Take a Lufthansa flight from Dulles to Amsterdam, first class. Check into the Amstel Hotel. We’ll find you, just like we found you here.”
    Critz paused and committed the details to memory. “When?” he asked.
    “As soon as possible, Mr. Critz.