He asked a clerk to show him the Ankyo 850 PC Pocket Smart— phone, the greatest technological marvel to hit the market in the past ninety days. The clerk removed it from a display case and, with great enthusiasm, switched languages and described it as "Full QWERTY keyboard, tri-band operation on five continents, eighty megabyte built-in memory, high-speed data connectivity with EGPRS, wireless LAN access, Bluetooth wireless technology, IPv4 and IPv6 dual stack support, infrared, Pop-Port interface, Symbian operating system version 7.0S, Series 80 platform."

"Automatic switching between bands?"

"Yes."

"Covered by European networks?'

"Of course."

The smartphone was slightly larger than the typical business phone, but it was comfortable in the hand. It had a smooth metallic surface with a rough plastic back cover that prevented sliding when in use.

"It's larger," the clerk was saying. "But it's packed with goodies— e-mail, multimedia messaging, camera, video player, complete word processing, Internet browsing-and complete wireless access almost anywhere in the world. Where are you going with it?"

"Italy."

"It's ready to go. You'll just need to open an account with a service provider."

Opening an account meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leaving a trail, something Neal was determined not to do. "What about a prepaid SIM card?" he asked.

"We got 'em. For Italy it's called a TIM-Telecom Italia Mobile. It's the largest provider in Italy, covers about ninety-five percent of the country."

Til take it."

Neal slid down the lower part of the cover to reveal a full keypad. The clerk explained, "It's best to hold it with both hands and type with the thumbs. You can't fit all ten fingers on the keypad." He took it from Neal and demonstrated the preferred method of thumb-typing.

"Got it," Neal said. Til take it."

The price was $925 plus tax, plus another $89 for the TIM card. Neal paid in cash as he simultaneously declined the extended warranty, rebate registration, owners program, anything that would create paperwork and leave a trail. The clerk asked for his name and address and Neal declined. At one point he said, with great irritation, "Is it possible to simply pay for this and leave?"

"Well, sure, I guess," the clerk said.

"Then let's do it. I'm in a hurry."

He left and drove half a mile to a large office supply store. He quickly found a Hewlett-Packard Tablet PC with integrated wireless capability. Another $440 got invested in his father's security, though Neal would keep the laptop and hide it in his office. Using a map he'd downloaded, he found the PackagePost in another strip mall nearby. Inside, at a shipping desk, he hurriedly wrote two pages of instructions for his father, then folded them into an envelope containing a letter and more instructions he'd prepared earlier that morning. When he was certain no one was watching, he wedged twenty $100 bills in the small black carrying case that came with the Ankyo marvel. Then he placed the letter and the instructions, the smartphone, and the case inside a mailing carton from the store. He sealed it tightly, and on the outside he wrote with a black marker please hold for marco lazzeri. The carton was then placed inside another, slightly larger one that was addressed to Rudolph Viscovitch at Via Zamboni 22, Bologna. The return address was PackagePost, 8851 Braddock Road, Alexandria, Virginia 22302. Because he had no choice, he left his name, address, and phone number on the registry, in case the package got returned. The clerk weighed the package and asked about insurance. Neal declined, and prevented more paperwork. The clerk added the international stamps, and finally said, "Total is eighteen dollars and twenty cents."

Neal paid him and was assured again that it would be mailed that afternoon.

In the semidarkness of his small apartment, Marco went through his early-morning routine with his usual efficiency. Except for prison, when he had little choice and no motivation to hit the ground running, he'd never been one to linger after waking. There was too much to do, too much to see. He'd often arrived at his office before 6:00 a.m. breathing fire and looking for the day's first brawl, and often after only three or four hours of sleep.

Those habits were returning now. He wasn't attacking each day, wasn't looking for a fight, but there were other challenges.

He showered in less than three minutes, another old habit that was aided mightily on Via Fondazza by a severe shortage of warm water. Over the lavatory he shaved and worked carefully around the quite handsome growth he was cultivating on his face. The mustache was almost complete; the chin was solid gray. He looked nothing like Joel Backman, nor did he sound like him. He was training himself to speak much slower and in a softer voice. And of course he was doing so in another language.

His quick morning routine included a little espionage. Beside his bed was a chest of drawers where he kept his things. Four drawers, all the same size, with the last one six inches above the floor. He took a very thin strand of white thread he'd unraveled from a bed sheet; the same thread he used every day. He licked both ends, leaving as much saliva as possible, then stuck one end under the bottom of the last drawer. The other end was stuck to the side brace of the chest, so that when the drawer was opened the invisible thread was pulled out of position.

Someone, Luigi he presumed, entered his room every day while he was studying with either Ermanno or Francesca and went through the drawers.

His desk was in the small living room, under the only window. On it he kept an assortment of papers, notepads, books; Ermanno's guide to Bologna, a few copies of the Herald Tribune, a sad collection of free shopping guides he'd gathered from Gypsies who passed them out on the streets, his well-used Italian-English dictionary, and the growing pile of study aids Ermanno was burdening him with. The desk was only moderately well organized, a condition that irritated him. His old lawyer's desk, one that wouldn't fit in his current living room, had been famous for its meticulous order. A secretary fussed over it late every afternoon.

But amid the rubble was an invisible scheme. The desk's surface was some type of hardwood that had been nicked and marked over the decades. One defect was a small stain of some sort-Marco had decided it was probably ink. It was about the size of a small button and was located almost in the dead center of the desk. Every morning, as he was leaving, he placed the corner of a sheet of scratch paper directly in the center of the ink stain. Not even the most diligent of spies would have noticed.

And they didn't. Whoever sneaked in for the daily sweep had never, not once, been careful enough to place the papers and books back in their precise location.

Every day, seven days a week, even on the weekends when he was not studying, Luigi and his gang entered and did their dirty work. Marco was considering a plan whereby he would wake up one Sunday morning with a massive headache, telephone Luigi, still the only person he talked to on the cell phone, and ask him to fetch some aspirin or whatever they used in Italy. He would go through the ruse of nursing himself, staying in bed, keeping the apartment dark, until late in the afternoon when he would call Luigi again and announce he felt much better and needed something to eat. They would walk around the corner, have a quick bite, then Marco would suddenly feel like returning to his apartment. They would be gone, for less than an hour.

Would someone else handle the sweep?

The plan was taking shape. Marco wanted to know who else was watching him. How large was the net? If their concern was simply to keep him alive, then why would they sift through his apartment every day? What were they afraid of?