Since Gamma Net was supposedly the creation of the US. military, JAM was worth even more. The truth was that neither the Pentagon nor the CIA knew about Neptune.
The Pentagon then leaked its own fiction-a fabricated breach of security by a mole working for ex-senator Jacy Hubbard and his powerful new boss, the broker himself. The scandal erupted. The FBI raided the offices of Backman, Pratt amp; Boiling in the middle of the night, found the Pentagon documents that everyone presumed to be authentic, and within forty-eight hours a highly motivated team of federal prosecutors had issued indictments against every partner in the firm.
The killings soon followed, with no clues as to who was behind them. The Pentagon brilliantly neutralized Hubbard and Backman without tipping its hand as to whether it actually owned and created the satellite system. Gamma Net or Neptune, or whatever, was effectively shielded under the impenetrable web of "military secrets."
Backman the lawyer wanted a trial, especially if the Pentagon documents were questionable, but Backman the defendant wanted to avoid a fate similar to Hubbard's.
If Luigi's mad dash out of Treviso was designed to frighten him, then the plan suddenly began working. For the first time since his pardon, Joel missed the safety of his little cell in maximum security.
The city of Padua was ahead, its lights and traffic growing by the mile. "What's the population of Padua?" Marco asked, his first words in half an hour.
"Two hundred thousand. Why do Americans always want to know the population of every village and city?"
"Didn't realize it was a problem."
"Are you hungry?"
The dull throbbing in his stomach was from fear, not hunger, but he said "Sure" anyway. They ate a pizza at a neighborhood bar just beyond the outer ring of Padua, and were quickly back in the car and headed south.
They slept that night in a tiny country inn-eight closet-sized rooms-that had been in the same family since Roman times. There was no sign advertising the place; it was one of Luigi's stopovers. The nearest road was narrow, neglected, and virtually free of any vehicle built after 1970. Bologna was not far away.
Luigi was next door, through a thick stone wall that went back for centuries. When Joel Backman/Marco Lazzeri crawled under the blankets and finally got warm, he couldn't see a flicker of light anywhere. Total blackness. And total quiet. It was so quiet he couldn't close his eyes for a long time.
After the fifth report that Critz had called with questions about Joel Backman, Teddy Maynard threw a rare tantrum. The fool was in London, working the phones furiously, for some reason trying to find someone, anyone, who might lead him to information about Backman.
"Someone's offered Critz money," Teddy barked at Wigline, an assistant deputy director.
"But there's no way Critz can find out where Backman is," Wigline said.
"He shouldn't be trying. He'll only complicate matters. He must be neutralized."
Wigline glanced at Hoby, who had suddenly stopped his note— taking. "What are you saying, Teddy?"
"Neutralize him."
"He's a US. citizen."
"I know that! He's also compromising an operation. There is precedent. We've done it before." He didn't bother to tell them what the precedent was, but they assumed that since Teddy often created his own precedents, then it would do no good to argue the matter.
Hoby nodded as if to say: Yes, we've done it before.
Wigline clenched his jaw and said, "I assume you want it done now."
"As soon as possible," Teddy said. "Show me a plan in two hours."
They watched Critz as he left his borrowed apartment and began his long, late-afternoon walk, one that usually ended with a few pints. After half an hour at a languid pace he neared Leicester Square and entered the Dog and Duck, the same pub as the day before.
He was on his second pint at the far end of the main bar, first floor, before the stool next to him cleared and an agent named Green— law wedged in and yelled for a beer.
"Mind if I smoke?" Greenlaw asked Critz, who shrugged and said, "This ain't America." 'A Yank, huh?" Greenlaw said.
"Yep."
"Live here?"
"No, just visiting." Critz was concentrating on the bottles on the wall beyond the bar, avoiding eye contact, wanting no part of the conversation. He had quickly come to adore the solitude of a crowded pub. He loved to sit and drink and listen to the rapid banter of the Brits and know that not a soul had a clue as to who he was. He was, though, still wondering about the little guy named Ben. If they were watching him, they were doing a great job of staying in the shadows.
Greenlaw gulped his beer in an effort to catch up with Critz. It was crucial to order the next two at the same time. He puffed a cigarette, then added his smoke to the cloud above them. "I've been here for a year,1' he said.
Critz nodded without looking. Get lost.
"I don't mind driving on the wrong side, or the lousy weather, but what really bugs me here are the sports. You ever watch a cricket match? Lasts for four days."
Critz managed to grunt and offer a lame "Such a stupid sport."
"It's either soccer or cricket, and these people go nuts over both. I just survived the winter here without the NFL. It was pure misery."
Critz was a loyal Redskins season-ticket holder and few things in life excited him as much as his beloved team. Greenlaw was a casual fan but had spent the day memorizing statistics in a CIA safe house north of London. If football didn't work, then politics would be next.
If that didn't work, there was a fine-looking lady waiting outside, though Critz did not have a reputation as a philanderer.
Critz was suddenly homesick. Sitting in a pub, far from home, far from the frenzy of the Super Bowl-two days away and virtually ignored by the British press-he could hear the crowd and feel the excitement. If the Redskins had survived the playoffs, he would not be drinking pints in London. He would be at the Super Bowl, fifty-yard— line seats, furnished by one of the many corporations he could lean on.
He looked at Greenlaw and said, "Patriots or Packers?"
"My team didn't make it, but I always pull for the NFC."
"Me too. Who's your team?"
And that was perhaps the most fatal question Robert Critz would ever ask. When Greenlaw answered, "Redskins," Critz actually smiled and wanted to talk. They spent a few minutes establishing pedigree-how long each had been a Redskins fan, the great games they'd seen, the great players, the Super Bowl championships. Greenlaw ordered another round and both seemed ready to replay old games for hours. Critz had talked to so few Yanks in London, and this guy was certainly an easy one to get on with.
Greenlaw excused himself and went to find the restroom. It was upstairs, the size of a broom closet, a one-holer like so many Johns in London. He latched the door for a few seconds of privacy and quickly whipped out a cell phone to report his progress. The plan was in place. The team was just down the street, waiting. Three men and the fine— looking lady.
Halfway through his fourth pint, and with a polite disagreement under way over Sonny Jurgensen's touchdown-to-interception ratio, Critz finally needed to pee. He asked directions and disappeared. Greenlaw deftly dropped into Critz's glass one small white tablet of Rohypnol-a strong, tasteless, odorless sedative. When Mr. Redskins returned he was refreshed and ready to drink. They talked about John Riggins and Joe Gibbs and thoroughly enjoyed themselves as poor Critz's chin began to drop.
"Wow," he said, his tongue already thick. "I'd better be going. Old lady is waiting."
"Yeah, me too," Greenlaw said, raising his glass. "Drink up."
They drained their pints and stood to leave; Critz in front, Greenlaw waiting to catch him. They made it through the crowd packed around the front door and onto the sidewalk where a cold wind revived Critz, but only for a second. He forgot about his new pal, and in less than twenty steps was wobbling on rubbery legs and grasping for a lamp pole. Greenlaw grabbed him as he was falling, and for the benefit of a young couple passing by said loudly, "Dammit, Fred, you're drunk again."