Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  Kessler was an East German, a top Stasi agent, until the collapse of the system. The East German people hated the Stasi, but only the Internal Security Branch. They admired the Foreign Intelligence Service. They saw them as heroes, outwitters of the West, and they especially admired Martin Kessler. Good looking, dashing, an Olympics bronze medallist. He won it in the Biathlon, skiing and shooting, and had very nearly medaled in the downhill. Kessler treated the cold war as he treated all else, as a game, as a merry adventure. The East Germans published comic books, actual comic books, that related, in color, his outrageous heroics, some of which weren’t far from the truth.

  Paul Bannerman, come to think of it, had known Kessler very well. Kessler had been assigned to try to turn Bannerman. Get close to him, work on him, try to recruit him. Kessler knew that attempt would be a waste of effort. Bannerman would see through it in an instant. He knew that Bannerman wouldn’t work for a communist regime. Not its leadership, anyway. But below the leadership there were some good people whom Bannerman had worked with on occasion. An exchange of favors. That sort of thing. Kessler realized that such an exchange was the most he could possibly hope for.

  On a personal level, they enjoyed each other. Bannerman was an excellent skier himself, thought not in the same league as Kessler. Clew remembered those two going head to head at Harry Whistler’s lodge in Chamonix. Bannerman had a chance if they stuck to groomed trails, but not off-piste because he wasn’t suicidal. He’d watch Kessler whip through a thick stand of pines as if he expected them to part and make room. He’d watch Kessler ignore posted avalanche warnings. Kessler wasn’t showing off. He simply knew what he could do. But he was tempting fate in more ways than one. By going off-piste he was skiing through areas that weren’t patrolled by Harry Whistler’s armed guards. Harry’s place was always filled with tempting targets.

  Harry’s lodge was the size of a small hotel. A spectacular setting, classic Swiss chalet construction, but more like a bunker beneath all that woodwork and with sensors at every approach. Bannerman and his people had an open invitation to take R&R there whenever they wished, as did Harry Whistler’s own operatives. It was a place to relax and swap stories and gossip about people they knew in their trade. And between them, of course, they knew everyone.

  They’d feed Kessler enough stories to keep his superiors happy. His superiors were sure that he’d pulled off an infiltration that the Stasi had been attempting for years. Kessler, however, was no double agent. No guest of the lodge would ever be asked to pay for his keep with information. All they had to be was interesting company and Kessler never failed to be interesting. He paid for his keep by giving ski lessons and by playing the piano after dinner. He taught a number of the women to ski, including some singularly dangerous women, some of whom he charmed out of their ski pants, so to speak. But this was before he met Stride.

  Did Kessler ever bring Stride to Chamonix? Clew couldn’t recall hearing, but it seemed likely that he would have. He would have decided that she’d need some new friends after she and the Mossad had parted company.

  But what now, thought Clew? What to do about her?

  He’d told Bourne that he wouldn’t ask Bannerman about Stride. But he might if his own files showed nothing. Bourne must have some reason for believing she’s alive. He’s not a man prone to wishful thinking. So if she’s alive and if Bannerman knows where, he’ll ask Bannerman if he’s willing to pass on Bourne’s message. Three big ifs, thought Clew, but there’s no harm in asking.

  And if, though unlikely, this resulted in a meeting, he would want to have some time of his own with Stride to find out why she’s worth all this trouble.

  Bourne was greatly displeased by Chester Lilly’s performance. As Clew jogged off, he had reprimanded Chester. It was all he could do not to slap his face again. But if he’d slapped him, he realized, he might do so at his peril. Best to wait until Chester gained possession of himself.

  He reflected instead on the verbal sparring that he had just engaged in with Clew. There weren’t many light moments, Bourne’s two jokes notwithstanding. Empty-handed. Something missing. Clew wasn’t amused. The man needs to loosen up. But detached body parts seemed to come up often lately. And Clew, to be fair, was at some disadvantage, not having had the pleasure of seeing those three heads. That denied him a full grasp of the context. The best Clew could offer was unbridled sarcasm. But Bourne thought he gave as well as he got. One learns to embrace small satisfactions.

  There was one brief exchange that still nagged at him a bit. It was when Bourne observed, with sarcasm of his own, that “Bannerman was a simple suburbanite now, doing violence only to crabgrass.” What was Clew’s rejoinder? He said, “And moles.” Was that a reference to the burrowing garden variety or might Clew have possibly meant it as a threat should Bourne decide to send some people up there?

  No, it wasn’t a threat. Clew would have said that straight out. One can delve too deeply into off-hand remarks. Even so, thought Bourne, it’s an interesting idea. Perhaps it’s time we put some people in Westport. Not to penetrate, of course. A

  closed society, that one. But one likes to know the lay of the land.

  Bourne’s limo had crossed the bridge into Virginia. He glanced over his shoulder. The chase car was following. He asked Chester, “Those two. What sort of backgrounds do they have?”

  Chester answered with a distracted “Huh?” His mind was occupied, no doubt, with revenge fantasies and would be for some time to come.

  “Your two men. Would they be competent to work undercover?”

  “Who? Toomey and Kuntz?”

  Well, he didn’t mean Abbot and Costello, thought Bourne. He asked, “How are they qualified? You’ve handpicked them, have you not?”

  “Yeah, but just for work like this. They’re muscle, that’s all. They qualify by pounding on people or running them down with their car.”

  “Not deep-thinkers, you’re saying.”

  Chester shrugged. “Maybe Toomey. A little. He used to be a cop. As for Kuntz, all he knows is busting heads and wrecking knees. He was one of those guys who did that Ultimate Fighting. You know. Bare knuckles? Two guys locked in a cage?”

  No, Bourne did not know. “There really is such a thing?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s where I found him. Undercover like where?”

  Bourne waved him off. “Never mind. Just a thought.” And a bad one at that. Those two would be entirely too thuggish for Westport. But Clew might have given him a better idea. A couple of joggers might be ideal. No one ever looks twice at a jogger.

  Bourne did not speak again until they’d reached Falls Church. He pressed

  the button that raised the soundproof glass panel separating them from the chauffeur. He said to Chester, “We need to talk. Let me know when you’ve gathered yourself.”

  Chester wet his lips. “That sneaky prick.”

  Bourne watched as Chester gently fingered his scalp, moving errant strands of hair back into place. He said, “Chester, I worry that you’re out of control. I find that I’m in need of reassurance.”

  Chester lowered his hands. “I’m okay.”

  Bourne said, “I’ll need to hear a bit more than that. Your behavior could have cost me very dearly.”

  Chester said, “He was being disrespectful.”

  “Even so…”

  “You said it yourself. He needs a lesson in manners. He’s shit compared to you. You’re a great man. A giant. That prick ducked you one time too many.”

  “Chester, we deal with ‘shit’ every day. When we’ve finished, it is easily scraped off our shoes. Until then, we try not to antagonize people, especially when we want something from them.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “In any case,” said Bourne, “it isn’t just your tiff with Clew. I meant this whole business in Angola.”

  “I told you. That was Bobik. I never thought he’d really do it. Was that Bobik’s whole shipment that you just gave to Clew?”

  “I’v
e a feeling that he won’t be complaining.”

  “And, hey, those girls Bobik has on that ship? I only heard about that maybe two weeks ago. Like you said, the guy’s a pig. I didn’t like that part myself.”

  “And you gave him a good talking to, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Well, no. I mean I might have.” Chester tried to sound convincing. “The thing is, though, I didn’t hear it from him. I heard it from this guy Bobik sends with his shipments. A Nigerian. Name’s Moshood. He’s this fat little fuck; his breath smells like a sewer. He was bragging that he might pork his way through all twenty during the trip up the coast.”

  Bourne grimaced in distaste. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you know there are places where I draw the line. First of all, I made sure they weren’t going to Mobote for him to try one of his recipes on. They’re not; they’re really going to pick peanuts. Second, I knocked the little prick on his ass when he made that crack about porking them.”

  “Are you saying you wish you’d prevented the shipment?”

  “The slave part? Yeah, I wish. But I couldn’t have stopped it. Mostly I’m saying that’s the first I heard. I’m saying that a lot of things happen over there that I’m not necessarily in on.”

  “Then perhaps I need to find someone else who can keep a tighter rein on events.”

  Chester darkened. “Don’t say that. You don’t have to worry.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You shouldn’t say that either. I’ve always delivered, except maybe for Stride. What makes you think Clew will do better?”

  “He’ll try,” said Bourne. “He was not entirely forthright with me, but that was, of course, to be expected. He’ll do his best because I’ve now aroused his interest. If he does locate Stride, he’ll attach a few strings. I’ll deal with that when it happens.”

  “If he doesn’t, can I have him?”

  “No, Chester, you cannot. What I want you to do is fly down to Houston and have Terrence work his magic on your hair.”

  It’s like sending him to a therapist, thought Bourne. It also puts some distance between Chester and Clew until Terrence can make him feel whole.

  Bourne asked, “Have you spoken to VaalChem again?”

  Chester nodded. “A couple of times. They’re still pretty strung out, but they’re mostly back to work. They never even realized that Winfield was missing until I told them to break into his office. They got rid of the two bodies and cleaned the place up.”

  “Winfield’s and Kruger’s. Still no sign of Bobik’s?”

  Chester shook his head. “No one’s going to find Bobik. He was already dead by a couple of days. The rest of him is probably rat turds by now. They just brought along his head to freak Winfield. I’ve got Winfield’s staff taking inventory now to find out what else is missing. They said it might take a few days.”

  “That’s too long. I need to know what our vengeful friend may have taken and also what Bobik may have taken before that. You said they ran some tests in the rebel-controlled area?”

  “I only said there was talk. I never heard that they did.”

  “Oh, depend on it. They did. That’s why we have all three heads. I’ll need to know what they used and the effect that it had.”

  “Yeah, but how?” asked Chester. “This is Africa, remember. Like Bobik said, it’s where most of these bugs come from. Say you hear that Duganga’s troops are dropping like flies. How are you going to know that it isn’t, like, normal? How are you going to know that it’s yours?”

  “We’ll know which virus by its symptoms, of course. We’ll know it’s one of VaalChem’s by its DNA signature. But to run that test, we’ll need the blood of a victim.”

  “What, go in and get one? Who’s going to do that?”

  “Aid workers, Chester. Doctors Without Borders. They’ll either go in or the victims will come out. We don’t need a body; we only need the blood. VaalChem will offer to assist the Red Cross. That is how we’ll get a sample of the blood.”

  Bourne said this, then paused as a troubling thought struck him. He’d been thinking strictly in terms of Angola. He asked, “Might Bobik have been selling these viruses elsewhere?”

  “Who to?”

  “To anyone. To Mobote. He’d sell anything, you said.”

  “I’ll find out,” Chester answered, “That’s if anyone knows. Could be, the ones

  who’d know are in your freezer.”

  “What about this Nigerian?”

  “Moshood? Hard to say. You think there could be some in that shipment?”

  Bourne paused to considered that disturbing possibility. “Unlikely,” he said, “but not out of the question. It won’t matter, however, if Clew handles this properly. That shipment will never reach Mobote. All the same, have someone question Moshood the moment they can get their hands on him.”

  “Whatever he knows, we’ll get it out of him,” said Chester. “I got people who can grab him when that ship docks in Gambia.”

  Bourne wrinkled his nose. “He rapes children, you said?”

  “He won’t anymore when we’re done with him.”

  “Yes, see to that after Terrence has healed you. Go from his salon to our offices in Houston and meet with our personnel people. You will need to select a reliable successor to our unlucky friend, Sir Cecil Winfield. Who’s that Russian biologist that Winfield brought in? Nikolai something. Very highly regarded.”

  “He brought in lots of Russians. Half of them are named Nikolai.”

  And he’d had to outbid several countries, thought Bourne. Syria, Iraq and, of course, the Israelis. A dozen countries had been eager to recruit these researchers after Russia’s bioweaponry program went bust. And that’s to say nothing of South Africa’s program, the most gruesome, in its way, of them all.

  “You’ll know the one I mean. His face is all pock-marked. It seems he got too close to his work at one point.”

  Chester nodded. “That’s Shamsky. Okay. Him I’ll try first. But he might not be so hot for the job after what happened to Winfield.”

  “Greed overcomes fear. Pay whatever you must. That done, make arrangements for a new unsullied shipment. I want those vaccines and I need the reports that should have accompanied this batch. I’ve no doubt that Winfield’s files were ransacked, but see what they can find all the same.”

  “Do all this by phone? I should fly to Luanda.”

  “Your last visit, Chester, was not without incident. I think I’d like you closer to home for a spell. Be back here by this time tomorrow.”

  “What are you going to do? Sit and wait for Clew to call you?”

  “Clew or whomever. I have other sources. If Clew disappoints me, I may take more drastic action. But first I must have those vaccines.”

  Chester asked, “You still won’t tell me why you want Stride?”

  “One thing at a time. Get this done.”

  “How about what all these vaccines are for? Any reason why I can’t know that?”

  “To keep certain people healthy, should there should be an epidemic.”

  Chester turned in his seat. “An epidemic of what?”

  “I haven’t decided as yet.”

  SIX

  Clew had stopped a block away from his Georgetown apartment to pick up two coffees, one buttered bagel and another with cream cheese and chives.

  The one with cream cheese was for Alex Rakowsky. Alex had been assigned as his driver and bodyguard and was also his personal assistant. Clew’s past bodyguards had never liked the idea of allowing him to go jogging unescorted. They had usually run along with him. Alex, though qualified, was older, had a paunch, and was content to let Clew sweat for both of them. He was also nearing retirement. Clew decided not to mention his encounter with Chester. Alex might feel duty bound to accompany him thereafter and Clew doubted that the man’s heart could take it.

  Alex was waiting outside the garage entrance. He seemed unusually anxious; he was pacing the sidewalk and he seemed greatly
relieved when Clew came into view. Clew understood why. He was almost thirty minutes behind schedule.

  Alex asked, “You okay, sir?”

  “I’m fine. Here’s your bagel. Come on up while I shower.”

  Alex stepped to the Lincoln that he’d parked at the curb. The engine was running. He reached in to shut it off. He said, “I was about to go looking for you.”

  “Sorry. Lost track of the time.”

  They walked down the garage ramp to the basement elevator. As the elevator rose, Clew turned to him and asked, “Who else knew where I’d be jogging this morning?”

  Alex asked him, “Why? Did something happen?”

  “Nothing much. But have you told anyone where I’d be?”

  Alex spread his hands. “How would that be news? You’ve been doing the same thing for a year, am I right? Same days of the week, same time, same route, which, by the way, I’ve asked you to change. I’ve asked you not to be so predictable.”

  Predictable. Exactly. Alex was right. That was how Bourne knew when and where he could be found. The doorman hadn’t seen him leave, but he knew his routine. Someone must have slipped him some cash. Clew had almost found himself wondering whether Alex could be among Bourne’s inside sources. But that didn’t seem likely. Paranoia creeping in. Rakowsky had no access to the files at State. Or at least he wouldn’t know how to decrypt them.

  Alex sat in the living room with his coffee and bagel while Clew went to shower and dress. Clew emerged from his bedroom knotting his tie. He told Alex to relax; he’d be just a few more minutes. Clew went into his den where he kept his home computer to see what, if anything, he had on Stride. As he’d thought, there was no specific file on Stride. He did a search of her name in several others.

  Her name popped up as part of Martin Kessler’s file. Only bits and pieces there. It only mentioned her is passing. The most fruitful source was the Israeli media. There were dozens of newspaper stories about her, all breathless accounts of the Black Angel’s forays against the terrorists who had killed Israeli children. She’d become by then a national heroine. But many of those stories were either inventions or someone else’s acts that were attributed to her. They had her doing things she couldn’t possibly have done unless there were at least three or four of her. But Clew found enough that seemed more or less reliable and a Bio began to take shape. Nothing recent, but a good deal of background.