The Broker by John Grisham

and the only one he had a photo of.
    Neal read about his father’s 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 wasno 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 U.S. 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’syour 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,