"What does he talk about?"

"Not the past, not old friends and old enemies. Nothing that would interest us. He's closed that off, for now anyway. Idle conversation tends to be about his new home, the culture and language."

"His mood?"

"He just walked out of prison fourteen years early and he's having long meals and good wine. He's quite happy. Doesn't appear to be homesick, but of course he doesn't really have a home. Never talks about his family."

"His health?"

"Seems fine. The cough is gone. Appears to be sleeping. No complaints."

"How much does he drink?"

"He's careful. Enjoys wine at lunch and dinner and a beer in a nearby bar, but nothing excessive.'' "Lets try and crank up the boo2e, okay? See if hell talk more."

"That's our plan."

"How secure is he?"

"Everything's bugged-phones, room, language lessons, lunches, dinners. Even his shoes have mikes. Both pairs. His overcoat has a Peak 30 sewn into the lining. We can track him virtually anywhere."

"So you can't lose him?"

"He's a lawyer, not a spy. As of now, he seems very content to enjoy his freedom and do what he's told."

"He's not stupid, though. Remember that, Julia. Backman knows there are some very nasty people who would love to find him."

"True, but right now he's like a toddler clinging to his mother."

"So he feels safe?"

"Under the circumstances, yes."

"Then let's give him a scare."

"Now?"

"Yes." Teddy rubbed his eyes and took a sip of tea. "What about his son?"

"Level-three surveillance, not much happening in Culpeper, Virginia. If Backman tries to contact anyone, it will be Neal Backman. But we'll know it in Italy before we know it in Culpeper."

"His son is the only person he trusts," Teddy said, stating what Julia had said many times.

"Very true."

After a long pause he said, "Anything else, Julia?"

"He's writing a letter to his mother in Oakland."

Teddy gave a quick smile. "How nice. Do we have it?"

"Yes, our agent took a picture of it yesterday, we just got it. Backman hides it in between the pages of a local tourism magazine in his hotel room."

"How long is it?"

"Two good paragraphs. Evidently a work in progress."

"Read it to me," Teddy said as he leaned his head back against his wheelchair and closed his eyes.

Julia shuffled papers and pushed up her reading glasses. "No date, handwritten, which is a chore because Backman's penmanship is lousy. 'Dear Mother: I'm not sure when or if you will ever receive this letter. I'm not sure if I will ever mail it, which could affect whether or not you get it. At any rate, I'm out of prison and doing better. In my last letter I said things were going well in the flat country of Oklahoma. I had no idea at that time that I would be pardoned by the President. It happened so quickly that I still find it hard to believe.' Second paragraph. Tm living on the other side of the world, I can't say where because this would upset some people. I would prefer to be in the United States, but that is not possible. I had no say in the matter. It's not a great life but it's certainly better than the one I had a week ago. I was dying in prison, in spite of what I said in my letters. Didn't want to worry you. Here, I'm free, and that's the most important thing in the world. I can walk down the street, eat in a cafe, come and go as I please, do pretty much whatever I want. Freedom, Mother, something I dreamed of for years and thought was impossible.' "

She laid it down and said, "That's as far as he's gotten."

Teddy opened his eyes and said, "You think he's stupid enough to mail a letter to his mother?"

"No. But he's been writing her once a week for a long time. It's a habit, and it's probably therapeutic. He has to talk to somebody."

"Are we still watching her mail?"

"Yes, what little she receives."

"Very well. Scare the hell out of him, then report back."

"Yes sir." Julia gathered her papers and left the office. Teddy picked up a summary and adjusted his reading glasses. Hoby went to a small kitchen nearby.

Backmans mother's phone had been tapped in the nursing home in Oakland, and so far it had revealed nothing. The day the pardon was announced two very old friends had called with lots of questions and some subdued congratulations, but Mrs. Backman had been so bewildered she was eventually sedated and napped for hours. None of her grandchildren-the three produced by Joel and his various wives-had called her in the past six months.

Lydia Backman had survived two strokes and was confined to a wheelchair. When her son was at his pinnacle she lived in relative luxury in a spacious condo with a full-time nurse. His conviction had forced her to give up the good life and live in a nursing home with a hundred others.

Surely Backman would not try to contact her.

After a few days of dreaming about the money, Critz began spending it, at least mentally. With all that cash, he wouldn't be forced to work for the sleazy defense contractor, nor would he be forced to hustle audiences on the lecture circuit. (He wasn't convinced the audiences were out there to begin with, in spite of what his lecture agent had promised him.) Critz was thinking about retirement! Somewhere far away from Washington and all the enemies he'd made there, somewhere on a beach with a sailboat nearby. Or maybe he'd move to Switzerland and stay close to his new fortune buried in his new bank, all wonderfully tax free and growing by the day.

He made a phone call and got the flat in London for a few more days. He encouraged Mrs. Critz to shop more aggressively. She, too, was tired of Washington and deserved an easier life.

Partly because of his greedy enthusiasm, and partly because of his natural ineptitude, and also because of his lack of sophistication in intelligence matters, Critz blundered badly from the start. For such an old hand at the Washington game, his mistakes were inexcusable.

First, he used the phone in his borrowed flat, thus making it easy for someone to nail down his exact location. He called Jeb Priddy, the CIA liaison who had been stationed in the White House during the last four years. Priddy was still at his post but expected to be called back to Langley soon. The new President was settling in, things were chaotic, and so on, according to Priddy, who seemed slightly irritated by the call. He and Critz had never been close, and Priddy knew immediately that the guy was fishing. Critz eventually said he was trying to find an old pal, a senior CIA analyst he'd once played a lot of golf with. Name was Daly, Addison Daly, and he'd left Washington for a stint in Asia. Did Priddy perhaps know where he was now?

Addison Daly was tucked away at Langley and Priddy knew him well. "I know the name," Priddy said. "Maybe I can find him. Where can I reach you?"

Critz gave him the number at the flat. Priddy called Addison Daly and passed along his suspicions. Daly turned on his recorder and called London on a secure line. Critz answered the phone and went overboard with his delight at hearing from an old friend. He rambled on about how wonderful life was after the White House, after all those years playing the political game, how nice it was being a private citizen. He was anxious to renew old friendships and get serious about his golf game.

Daly played along well. He offered that he, too, was contemplating retirement-almost thirty years in the service-and that he caught himself looking forward to an easier life.

Hows Teddy these days? Critz wanted to know. And how's the new president? What's the mood in Washington with the new administration?

Nothing changes much, Daly mused, just another bunch of fools. By the way, how's former president Morgan?

Critz didn't know, hadn't talked to him, in fact might not talk to him for many weeks. As the conversation was winding down, Critz said with a clumsy laugh, "Don't guess anybody's seen Joel Backman?"