"He's not eating."

"What's he saying?"

"That his stomach is upset."

"Is that possible?"

"He's not spending time on the toilet. Hard to say."

"Is he taking liquids?"

"They took him a glass of water, which he refused. Insisted on bottled water only. When he got one, he inspected the cap to make sure the seal had not been broken."

Teddy shoved the current report away and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. The first plan had been to sedate Backman in the hospital, with either an IV or a regular injection, knock him out cold, keep him drugged for two days, then slowly bring him back with some delightful blends of their most up-to-date narcotics. After a few days in a haze, they would start the sodium pentothal treatment, the truth serum, which, when used with their veteran interrogators, always produced whatever they were after.

The first plan was easy and foolproof. The second one would take months and success was far from guaranteed.

"He's got big secrets, doesn't he?" Teddy said.

"No doubt."

"But we knew that, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did."

Two of Joel Backman's three children had already abandoned him when the scandal broke. Neal, the oldest, had written his father at least twice a month, though in the early days of the sentence the letters had been quite difficult to write.

Neal had been a twenty-five-year-old rookie associate at the Backman firm when his father went to prison. Though he knew little about JAM and Neptune, he was nonetheless harassed by the FBI and eventually indicted by federal prosecutors.

Joel's abrupt decision to plead guilty was aided mightily by what happened to Jacy Hubbard, but it was also pushed along by the mistreatment of his son by the authorities. All charges against Neal were dropped in the deal. When his father left for twenty years, Neal was immediately terminated by Carl Pratt and escorted from the firm's offices by armed security. The Backman name was a curse, and employment was impossible around Washington. A pal from law school had an uncle who was a retired judge, and after calls here and there Neal landed in the small town of Culpeper, Virginia, working in a five-man firm and thankful for the opportunity.

He craved the anonymity. He thought about changing his name. He refused to discuss his father. He did title work, wrote wills and deeds, and settled nicely into the routine of small-town living. He eventually met and married a local girl and they quickly produced a daughter, Joel's second grandchild, and the only one he had a photo of.

Neal read about his fathers release in the Post. He discussed it at length with his wife, and briefly with the partners of his firm. The story might be causing earthquakes in D.C., but the tremors had not reached Culpeper. No one seemed to know or care. He wasn't the broker's son; he was simply Neal Backman, one of many lawyers in a small Southern town.

A judge pulled him aside after a hearing and said, "Where are they hiding your old man?"

To which Neal replied respectfully, "Not one of my favorite subjects, Your Honor." And that was the end of the conversation.

On the surface, nothing changed in Culpeper. Neal went about his business as if the pardon had been granted to a man he didn't know. He waited on a phone call; somewhere down the road his father would eventually check in.

After repeated demands, the supervising nurse passed the hat and collected almost three bucks in change. This was delivered to the patient they still called Major Herzog, an increasingly cranky sort whose condition was no doubt worsening because of hunger. Major Herzog took the money and proceeded directly to the vending machines he'd found on the second floor, and there he bought three small bags of Fritos corn chips and two Dr Peppers. All were consumed within minutes, and an hour later he was on the toilet with raging diarrhea.

But at least he wasn't quite as hungry, nor was he drugged and saying things he shouldn't say.

Though technically a free man, fully pardoned and all that, he was still confined to a facility owned by the US. government, and still living in a room not much larger than his cell at Rudley. The food there had been dreadful, but at least he could eat it without fear of being sedated. Now he was living on corn chips and sodas. The nurses were only slightly friendlier than the guards who tormented him. The doctors just wanted to dope him, following orders from above, he was certain. Somewhere close by was a little torture chamber where they were waiting to pounce on him after the drugs had worked their miracles.

He longed for the outside, for fresh air and sunshine, for plenty of food, for a little human contact with someone not wearing a uniform. And after two very long days he got it.

A stone-faced young man named Stennett appeared in his room on the third day and began pleasantly by saying, "Okay, Backman, here's the deal. My name's Stennett."

He tossed a file on the blankets, on Joel's legs, next to some old magazines that were being read for the third time. Joel opened the file. "Marco Lazzeri?"

"That's you, pal, a full-blown Italian now. That's your birth certificate and national ID card. Memorize all the info as soon as possible."

"Memorize it? I can't even read it."

"Then learn. We're leaving in about three hours. You'll be taken to a nearby city where you'll meet your new best friend who'll hold your hand for a few days."

"A few days?"

"Maybe a month, depends on how well you make the transition."

Joel laid down the file and stared at Stennett. "Who do you work for?"

"If I told you, then I'd have to kill you."

"Very funny. The CIA?"

"The USA, that's all I can say, and that's all you need to know."

Joel looked at the metal-framed window, complete with a lock, and said, "I didn't notice a passport in the file."

"Yes, well, that's because you're not going anywhere, Marco. You're about to live a very quiet life. Your neighbors will think you were born in Milan but raised in Canada, thus the bad Italian you're about to learn. If you get the urge to travel, then things could get very dangerous for you."

"Dangerous?"

"Come on, Marco. Don't play games with me. There are some really nasty people in this world who'd love to find you. Do what we tell you, and they won't."

"I don't know a word of Italian."

"Sure you do-pizza, spaghetti, caffe latte, bravo, opera, mamma mia. You'll catch on. The quicker you learn and the better you learn, the safer you'll be. You'll have a tutor."

"I don't have a dime."

"That's what they say. None that they could find, anyway." He pulled some bills out of his pocket and laid them on the file. "While you were tucked away, Italy abandoned the lira and adopted the euro. There's a hundred of them. One euro is about a dollar. Ill be back in an hour with some clothes. In the file is a small dictionary, two hundred of your first words in Italian. I suggest you get busy."

An hour later Stennett was back with a shirt, slacks, jacket, shoes, and socks, all of the Italian variety. "Buon giorno," he said.

"Hello to you," Backman said.

"What's the word for car?"

"Macchina."

"Good, Marco. It's time to get in the macchina."

Another silent gentleman was behind the wheel of the compact, nondescript Fiat. Joel folded himself into the backseat with a canvas bag that held his net worth. Stennett sat in the front. The air was cold and damp and a thin layer of snow barely covered the ground. When they passed through the gates of the Aviano Air Base, Joel Backman had the first twinge of freedom, though the slight wave of excitement was heavily layered with apprehension.

He watched the road signs carefully; not a word from the front seat. They were on Route 251, a two-lane highway, headed south, he thought. The traffic soon grew heavy as they approached the city of Pordenone.

"What's the population of Pordenone?" Joel asked, breaking the thick silence.

"Fifty thousand," Stennett said.

"This is northern Italy, right?"

"Northeast."

"How far away are the Alps?"

Stennett nodded in the general direction of his right and said, 'About forty miles that way. On a clear day, you can see them."

"Can we stop for a coffee somewhere?" Joel asked.

"No, we, uh, are not authorized to stop."

So far the driver appeared to be completely deaf.

They skirted around the northern edge of Pordenone and were soon on A28, a four-lane where everyone but the truckers appeared to be very late for work. Small cars whizzed by them while they puttered along at a mere one hundred kilometers per hour. Stennett unfolded an Italian newspaper, La Repubblica, and blocked half the windshield with it.

Joel was very content to ride in silence and gaze at the countryside flying by. The rolling plain appeared to be very fertile, though it was late January and the fields were empty. Occasionally, above a terraced hillside, an ancient villa could be seen.

He'd actually rented one once. A dozen or so years earlier, wife number two had threatened to walk out if he didn't take her somewhere for a long vacation. Joel was working eighty hours a week with time to spare for even more work. He preferred to live at the office, and judging by the way things were going at home, life would've certainly been more peaceful there. A divorce, however, would've cost too much money, so Joel announced to everyone that he and his dear wife would spend a month in Tuscany. He acted as though it had all been his idea-"a monthlong wine and culinary adventure through the heart of Chianti!"

They found a fourteenth-century monastery near the medieval village of San Gimignano, complete with housekeepers and cooks, even a chauffeur. But on the fourth day of the adventure, Joel received the alarming news that the Senate Appropriations Committee was considering deleting a provision that would wipe out $2 billion for one of his defense-contractor clients. He flew home on a chartered jet and went to work whipping the Senate back into shape. Wife number two stayed behind, where, as he would later learn, she began sleeping with the young chauffeur. For the next week he called daily and promised to return to the villa to finish their vacation, but after the second week she stopped taking his calls.

The appropriations bill was put back together in fine fashion.

A month later she filed for divorce, a raucous contest that would eventually cost him over three million bucks.

And she was his favorite of the three. They were all gone now, all scattered forever. The first, the mother of two of his children, had remarried twice since Joel, and her current husband had gotten rich selling liquid fertilizer in third world countries. She had actually written him in prison, a cruel little note in which she praised the judicial system for finally dealing with one of its biggest crooks.

He couldn't blame her. She packed up after catching him with a secretary, the bimbo that became wife number two.

Wife number three had jumped ship soon after his indictment.

What a sloppy life. Fifty-two years, and what's to show for a career of bilking clients, chasing secretaries around the office, putting the squeeze on slimy little politicians, working seven days a week, ignoring three surprisingly stable children, crafting the public image, building the boundless ego, pursuing money money money? What are the rewards for the reckless pursuit of the great American dream?

Six years in prison. And now a fake name because the old one is so dangerous. And about a hundred dollars in his pocket.

Marco? How could he look himself in the mirror every morning and say, "Buon giorno, Marco"?

Sure beat the hell out of "Good morning, Mr. Felon."

Stennett didn't as much read the newspaper as he wrestled with it. Under his perusal, it jerked and popped and wrinkled, and at times the driver glanced over in frustration.

A sign said Venice was sixty kilometers to the south, and Joel decided to break the monotony. ''I'd like to live in Venice, if that's all right with the White House."

The driver flinched and Stennett's newspaper dropped six inches. The air in the small car was tense for a moment until Stennett managed a grunt and a shrug. "Sorry," he said.

"I really need to pee," Joel said. "Can you get authorization to stop for a potty break?"

They stopped north of the town of Conegliano, at a modern roadside servizio. Stennett bought a round of corporate espressos. Joel took his to the front window where he watched the traffic speed by while he listened to a young couple snipe at each other in Italian. He heard none of the two hundred words he'd tried to memorize. It seemed an impossible task.

Stennett appeared by his side and watched the traffic. "Have you spent much time in Italy?" he asked.

"A month once, in Tuscany."

"Really? A whole month? Must've been nice."

"Four days actually, but my wife stayed for a month. She met some friends. How about you? Is this one of your hangouts?"

"I move around." His face was as vague as his answer. He sipped from the tiny cup and said, "Conegliano, known for its Prosecco."

"The Italian answer to champagne," Joel said.

"Yes. You're a drinking man?"

"Haven't touched a drop in six years."

"They didn't serve it in prison?"

"Nope."

"And now?"

"I'll ease back into it. It was a bad habit once."

"We'd better go."

"How much longer?"

"Not far."

Stennett headed for the door, but Joel stopped him. "Hey, look, I'm really hungry. Could I get a sandwich for the road?"

Stennett looked at rack of ready-made panini. "Sure."

"How about two?"

"No problem."

A27 led south to Treviso, and when it became apparent they would not bypass the city, Joel began to assume the ride was about to end. The driver slowed, made two exits, and they were soon bouncing through the narrow streets of the city.

"What's the population of Treviso?" Joel asked.

"Eighty-five thousand," Stennett answered.

"What do you know about the city?"

"It's a prosperous little city that hasn't changed much in five hundred years. It was once a staunch ally of Venice back when these towns all fought with each other. We bombed the hell out of it in World War Two. A nice place, not too many tourists."

A good place to hide, Joel thought. "Is this my stop?"

"Could be."

A tall clock tower beckoned all the traffic into the center of the city where it inched along around the Piazza dei Signori. Scooters and mopeds zipped between cars, their drivers seemingly fearless. Joel soaked in the quaint little shops-the tabaccheria with racks of newspapers blocking the door, the farmacia with its neon green cross, the butcher with all manner of hams hanging in the window, and of course the tiny sidewalk cafes where all tables were taken with people who appeared content to sit and read and gossip and sip espresso for hours. It was almost 11:00 a.m. What could those people possibly do for a living if they broke for coffee an hour before lunch?

It would be his challenge to find out, he decided.

The nameless driver wheeled into a temporary parking place. Stennett pecked numbers on a cell phone, waited, then spoke quickly in Italian. When he was finished, he pointed through the windshield and said, "You see that cafe over there, under the red-and-white awning? Caffe Donati?"

Joel strained from the backseat and said, "Yeah, I got it."

"Walk in the front door, past the bar on your right, on to the back where there are eight tables. Have a seat, order a coffee, and wait."

"Wait for what?"

"A man will approach you after about ten minutes. You will do what he says."

"And if I don't?"

"Don't play games, Mr. Backman. We'll be watching."

"Who is this man?"

"Your new best friend. Follow him, and you'll probably survive. Try something stupid, and you won't last a month." Stennett said this with a certain smugness, as if he might enjoy being the one who rubbed out poor Marco.

"So its adios for us, huh?" Joel said, gathering his bag.

"Arrivederci, Marco, not adios. You have your paperwork?"


"Yes."

"Then arrivederci."

Joel slowly got out of the car and began walking away. He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder to make sure Stennett, his protector, was paying attention and still back there, shielding him from the unknown. But he did not turn around. Instead, he tried to look as normal as possible as he strolled down the street carrying a canvas bag, the only canvas bag he saw at that moment in the center of Treviso.

Stennett was watching, of course. And who else? Certainly his new best friend was over there somewhere, partially hiding behind a newspaper, giving signals to Stennett and the rest of the static. Joel stopped for a second in front of the tabaccheria and scanned the headlines of the Italian newspapers, though he understood not a single word. He stopped because he could stop, because he was a free man with the power and the right to stop wherever he wanted, and to start moving whenever he chose to.

He entered Caffe Donati and was greeted with a soft "Buon giorno" from the young man wiping off the bar.

"Buon giorno," Joel managed in reply, his first real words to a real Italian. To prevent further conversation, he kept walking, past the bar, past a circular stairway where a sign pointed to a cafe upstairs, past a large counter filled with beautiful pastries. The back room was dark and cramped and choking under a fog of cigarette smoke. He sat down at one of two empty tables and ignored the glances of the other patrons. He was terrified of the waiter, terrified of trying to order, terrified of being unmasked so early in his flight, and so he just sat with his head down and read his new identity papers.

"Buon giorno," the young lady said at his left shoulder.

"Buon giorno," Joel managed to reply. And before she could rattle off anything on the menu, he said, "Espresso." She smiled, said something thoroughly incomprehensible, to which he replied, "No."

It worked, she left, and for Joel it was a major victory. No one stared at him as if he was some ignorant foreigner. When she brought the espresso he said, "Grazie," very softly, and she actually smiled at him. He sipped it slowly, not knowing how long it would have to last, not wanting to finish it so he might be forced to order something else.

Italian whirled around him, the soft incessant chatter of friends gossiping at a rapid-fire pace. Did English sound this fast? Probably so. The idea of learning the language well enough to be able to understand what was being said around him seemed thoroughly impossible. He looked at his paltry little list of two hundred words, then for a few minutes tried desperately to hear a single one of them spoken.

The waitress happened by and asked a question. He gave his standard reply of "No," and again it worked.

So Joel Backman was having an espresso in a small bar on Via Verde, at the Piazza dei Signori, in the center of Treviso, in the Veneto, in northeast Italy, while back at Rudley Federal Correctional Facility his old pals were still locked down in protective isolation with lousy food and watery coffee and sadistic guards and silly rules and years to go before they could even dream of life on the outside.

Contrary to previous plans, Joel Backman would not die behind bars at Rudley. He would not wither away in mind and body and spirit. He had cheated his tormentors out of fourteen years, and now he sat unshackled in a quaint cafe an hour from Venice.

Why was he thinking of prison? Because you can't just walk away from six years of anything without the aftershocks. You carry some of the past with you, regardless of how unpleasant it was. The horror of prison made his sudden release so sweet. It would take time, and he promised himself to focus on the present. Don't even think about the future.

Listen to the sounds, the rapid chatter of friends, the laughter, the guy over there whispering into a cell phone, the pretty waitress calling into the kitchen. Take in the smells-the cigarette smoke, the rich coffee, the fresh pastries, the warmth of an ancient little room where locals had been meeting for centuries.

And he asked himself for the hundredth time, Why, exactly, was he here? Why had he been whisked away from prison, then out of the country? A pardon is one thing, but why a full-blown international getaway? Why not hand him his walking papers, let him say so long to dear ol' Rudley and live his life, same as all the other freshly pardoned criminals?

He had a hunch. He could venture a fairly accurate guess.

And it terrified him.

Luigi appeared from nowhere.

LUIGI WAS IN HIS EARLY THIRTIES, WITH DARK SAD EYES AND DARK hair half covering his ears, and at least four days' worth of stubble on his face. He was bundled in some type of heavy barn jacket that, along with the unshaven face, gave him a handsome peasant look. He ordered an espresso and smiled a lot. Joel immediately noticed that his hands and nails were clean, his teeth were straight. The barn jacket and whiskers were part of the act. Luigi had probably gone to Harvard.

His perfect English was accented just enough to convince anyone that he was really an Italian. He said he was from Milan. His Italian father was a diplomat who took his American wife and their two children around the world in sendee to his country. Joel was assuming Luigi knew plenty about him, so he prodded to learn what he could about his new handler.

He didn't learn much. Marriage-none. College-Bologna. Studies in the United States-yes, somewhere in the Midwest. Job-government. Which government-couldn't say. He had an easy smile that he used to deflect questions he didn't want to answer. Joel was dealing with a professional, and he knew it.

"I take it you know a thing or two about me," Joel said.

The smile, the perfect teeth. The sad eyes almost closed when he smiled. The ladies were all over this guy. "I've seen the file."

"The file? The file on me wouldn't fit in this room."

"I've seen the file."

"Okay, how long did Jacy Hubbard serve in the US. Senate?"

"Too long, I'd say. Look, Marco, we're not going to relive the past. We have too much to do now."

"Can I have another name? I'm not crazy about Marco."

"It wasn't my choice."

"Well, who picked Marco?"

"I don't know. It wasn't me. You ask a lot of useless questions."

"I was a lawyer for twenty-five years. It's an old habit."

Luigi drained what was left of his espresso and placed some euros on the table. "Let's go for a walk," he said, standing. Joel lifted his canvas bag and followed his handler out of the cafe, onto the sidewalk, and down a side street with less traffic. They had walked only a few steps when Luigi stopped in front of the Albergo Campeol. "This is your first stop," he said.

"What is it?" Joel asked. It was a four-story stucco building wedged between two others. Colorful flags hung above the portico.

"A nice little hotel. Albergo' means hotel. You can also use the word 'hotel' if you want, but in the smaller cities they like to say albergo."

"So it's an easy language." Joel was looking up and down the cramped street-evidently his new neighborhood.

"Easier than English."

"We'll see. How many do you speak?"

"Five or six."

They entered and walked through the small foyer. Luigi nodded knowingly at the clerk behind the front desk. Joel managed a passable "Buon giorno" but kept walking, hoping to avoid a more involved reply. They climbed three flights of stairs and walked to the end of a narrow hallway. Luigi had the key to room 30, a simple but nicely appointed suite with windows on three sides and a view of a canal below.

"This is the nicest one," Luigi said. "Nothing fancy, but adequate."

"You should've seen my last room." Joel tossed his bag on the bed and began opening curtains.

Luigi opened the door to the very small closet. "Look here. You have four shirts, four slacks, two jackets, two pairs of shoes, all in your size. Plus a heavy wool overcoat-it gets quite cold here in Treviso." Joel stared at his new wardrobe. The clothes were hanging perfectly, all pressed and ready to wear. The colors were subdued, tasteful, and every shirt could be worn with every jacket and pair of slacks. He finally shrugged and said, "Thanks."

"In the drawer over there you'll find a belt, socks, underwear, everything you'll need. In the bathroom you'll find all the necessary toiletries."

"What can I say?"

"And here on the desk are two sets of glasses." Luigi picked up a pair of glasses and held them to the light. The small rectangular lenses were secured by thin black metal, very European frames. "arm ani,'' Luigi said, with a trace of pride.

"Reading glasses?"

"Yes, and no. I suggest you wear them every moment you're outside this room. Part of the disguise, Marco. Part of the new you."

"You should've met the old one."

"No thanks. Appearance is very important to Italians, especially those of us from here in the north. Your attire, your glasses, your haircut, everything must be put together properly or you will get noticed."

Joel was suddenly self-conscious, but, then, what the hell. He'd been wearing prison garb for longer than he cared to remember. Back in the glory days he routinely dropped 83,000 for a finely tailored suit.

Luigi was still lecturing. "No shorts, no black socks and white sneakers, no polyester slacks, no golf shirts, and please don't start getting fat."

"How do you say 'Kiss my ass' in Italian?"

"We'll get to that later. Habits and customs are important. They're easy to learn and quite enjoyable. For example, never order cappuccino after ten-thirty in the morning. But an espresso can be ordered at any hour of the day. Did you know that?"

"I did not."