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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 café 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, regardlessof 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.

6
    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 service 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 deflectquestions 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