Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  “You didn’t know. I should have told you up front.”

  She realized that he’d tried to just minutes before. She said, “I am so very sorry.”

  “Would you like to take a break? You’re sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?”

  “What I’d like is to find Savran Bobik,” she said.

  “You won’t have to. Kessler did. He did the same thing to Bobik. Let’s take five while I make a few phone calls.”

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Bourne’s Briarwood phone had been busy as well. There were more cancellations, one after another, by those who’d been invited to his brunch. Only one, another oil man, was honest enough to say why he thought that he’d best stay at home.

  Yes, what happened to Clew was part of it, he’d said. But it’s mostly that business with the freighter.

  “What freighter?” Bourne had asked him, as if he didn’t know. The point being that this oilman should not have known either.

  “Mr. Bourne, I got an e-mail. A very long e-mail. I’m looking at it right now. It’s an exchange between Clew and some Liberian general. I don’t know what you’ve been doing at VaalChem and I’d rather keep it that way.”

  From Clew? How could that be? Bourne had the only record of that correspondence. He had Clew’s disk, but of course he couldn’t say so. Could Clew have distributed it before he downloaded it? Not likely. Not to this man. Why send it to an oilman?

  He asked, carefully, “What is it that you think they’ve been doing?” After all, the only reference to VaalChem on that disk was the mention of the name on that container. In itself, that meant nothing. It was easily explainable.

  The oilman replied, “Look, I don’t want to know. I’ve never heard of Marburg, but I think you have a problem. This general names you as the owner of VaalChem. He says he’s tried to get through to that Brit, Cecil Winfield, but everyone there is ducking him. He’s threatening to send troops. Clew told him he’d handle it, but that doesn’t seem likely. Is Clew even still alive? I haven’t heard.”

  Bourne was stunned. Sending troops? Tubbs looking for Winfield? There was nothing about that on the disk that he had. Could Clew have had a further exchange that he’d failed to download with the rest of it?

  Bourne asked, “This long e-mail. Can you forward it to me?”

  The oilman said, “You mean you didn’t get it? Looks like everyone else did.” He said, “Wait, I’m looking.” There was a short pause. He came back and said, “No, you’re not on the list.”

  “The list? This was broadcast? To whom and how many?”

  He said, “I just told you. Looks like everyone you know. At least everyone who I’ve ever seen at your brunches.”

  “And you say that Clew sent it?”

  “Here’s his name. And it’s from State.” He paused, then said, “Hold on a for a second. Let me take another look when this was sent.”

  Bourne heard a clicking as of keys being tapped. It took only a few seconds; it seemed so much longer. The oilman came on again.

  “This is interesting,” said the oilman. “It could not have been Clew. This e-mail was sent at almost midnight last night. Clew got hit when? Around seven? And the last one from this general also came after that. If Clew didn’t send these, who did?”

  “I want to see them.”

  “Mr. Bourne, I would say that someone’s out to embarrass you. Either that, or someone is covering his ass. But my ass is clean. None of this touches me. As I said, I think I’ll keep it that way.”

  “I said I want to see them. Are you going to send them?”

  “Let me check with my lawyer,” said the oilman.

  Bourne placed a call the Secretary of State. He was told by an aide, “He’s in conference, sir.”

  “Have you told him who’s calling? That it’s Artemus Bourne?”

  The aide only repeated, “He’s in conference, sir. I’m sure he’ll get back to you presently.”

  “You will please interrupt him. Go tell him I’m waiting.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry. He’ll call you when he can.”

  Bourne heard a certain coolness in the voice of the aide, not his usual snap-to-it deference. There was no “Can I help you? Is there anything I can do?” There was more of a “You’re poison. Get lost.”

  Steady, Artemus, he said to himself. Howard Leland knows better than to try to brush you off. Perhaps another war has broken out somewhere. Perhaps a UFO has touched down on the Mall. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Bourne tried several more calls. Everyone he called was “out.” He finally got through to a congressman who was willing to forward that e-mail. Actually, he wasn’t really willing at all. He lied through his teeth. He denied having seen it. He said to Bourne, “I know nothing about it, but I’ll have one of my interns take a look.”

  And of course the intern sent it. The expendable intern. She would probably be fired within the week for “poor judgment and exceeding her authority.”

  See how the rats run, thought Bourne darkly.

  He had waited at his basement computer for the light of its mailbox to wink on. It did, and he opened the entire correspondence. Sure enough, at the top, there was Clew’s name as “Sender.” It was followed by a screen-full of computerese gibberish.

  He wished that Chester were here. Chester knows what all that means. But Chester was still several hours away, driving carefully so as not to get stopped and so as not to bruise his valuable cargo.

  Next came the list. Sure enough, it was everyone. Bourne hit a key to scroll down to the content. It consisted entirely of those frantic exchanges between Clew and the Liberian, Tubbs. But this included Tubbs’ last one, the one that Clew could not have seen. It was the first one that named him specifically. It named Shamsky who apparently no longer spoke English. And it named Winfield whom it said was “indisposed.” A towering understatement, thought Bourne.

  And then came the threats. Perhaps military action. Perhaps even a visit from the storied Major Scar although Scar was almost equally indisposed. Most disturbing of all was the Red Cross involvement. If the Red Cross had been tipped about weapons-grade Marburg, they’d have promptly notified World Health in Geneva and the CDC in Atlanta. Small wonder that his friends are suddenly unavailable or speaking only through their attorneys. Never fear, though, you scaredy-cats, you shirkers, you quitters. VaalChem will survive this. Its good work will continue. And I will exact retribution on all those who have declined to partake of Eggs Florentine with me.

  The last entry was the unlikely message from Clew that had asked General Tubbs to resend all the others. It clearly wasn’t from Clew, but who wrote it? It was someone at State, but not the secretary surely because there was his name on the recipient list. Quigley? Not Quigley. He was on the list as well. And Squiggley Quigley was the first to run for cover.

  An impossible thought struck him. Could Kessler have done this? Ridiculous. He knew that. But for God’s sake, who else? He certainly had the motive, but he could not have had the means. How could Kessler get into State Department computers? Could he hack them? Could anyone? Highly doubtful.

  Except…what of Bannerman? They say that he can hack anything, that his tentacles reach everywhere. There’s been talk that Bannerman might even have access to the NSA’s Echelon system. And some FBI system. Magic Lantern, or whatever. Could Bannerman have done this at Kessler’s behest?

  You say no. You say impossible. You say I’m grasping at straws.

  Well, someone did, damn it. But how to find out?

  His two moles up in Westport wouldn’t be of much use. They wouldn’t know where to begin. And just as well. They are there to reconnoiter, to observe, and to be ready in case Bannerman and his crew become a bother.

  They ‘d already reported. They’ve done some good work. They’ve located Bannerman in some cozy little enclave that he shares with a number of his cutthroats. They found a hotel that had set aside blocks of rooms, apparently for those who’ll be attending that “c
onference.” Our two moles have been unable to discern its agenda, but its purpose, we’ll assume, is less than innocent. Several more will stay at homes within Bannerman’s enclave. Cleaning crews have been busy preparing them.

  Conference, thought Bourne. Howard Leland is “in conference.” Is it possible, he wondered, that the two are the same? No, of course, not, you idiot. They’re at least three days apart. But do you see how you’re letting this mess with your head? Have a care, Artemus. Deal with one thing at a time. Our moles have identified some significant vulnerabilities. Bannerman’s wife, among them. She’s given birth just this morning. We assume that she won’t have round-the-clock gunmen patrolling the halls of the maternity ward. And there’s Bannerman’s daughter. She’s not guarded at all. Takes the school bus every morning unescorted. While at home, her sole companion is a local babysitter. “Just some skinny little redhead who lives down the street. We could take her really easy,” said his mole.

  But there won’t be any snatching. Having Stride will be enough. What he’ll need from his moles will be simplicity itself. “They are well-equipped, believe me,” he had said to Chester Lilly. Another understatement. It gave new meaning to the term. For he’d equipped them with a weapon mass destruction. Well…mini-mass destruction was a more apt description. Not enough for a city. More than adequate for a town. A future ghost town if this Bannerman isn’t careful.

  He’d equipped his two moles with one of his “puppies.” One of his little glass ampules, Marburg/smallpox. They’re the ampules whose contents do that cute little dance every time he opens his safe. Toss one on any lawn, have a mower run over it, and none of them will be a bother much longer.

  Bourne cleared his screen of the Clew and Tubbs missives. A temptation had come over him. He asked himself, “Do I dare?”

  He asked, “Should I wait until Chester gets back? Shall I wait until Stride is in her new quarters and safely strapped onto her bolted-down cot? What if Chester gets stopped for something stupid, like speeding?”

  On the other hand, the fat is already in the fire. What the hell. Let’s tell Kessler we’ve got her.

  He hit another key. It opened his address book. It held hundreds of names from all over the world. They were listed by country. Angola was first. The names were grouped by their field of interest. Diamond dealers, arms dealers, business executives and, of course, Luanda’s leading politicians. He clicked on the name of one of the ministers. Jose Matala. Minister of the Interior. The title was a joke. The interior was Savimbi’s, now Duganga’s, Alameo’s. Not that it mattered in this case, however. Matala worked both sides of the street and above all for Artemus Bourne. It was Matala who had helped to bring VaalChem to Angola after the South Africans shut it down.

  Bourne looked at his watch. Early evening in Luanda. Matala should still be more or less sober, but let’s hope that he’s carrying his cell phone. Bourne used his thumb to tap out a 13-digit number. The call went through. Matala answered, spoke his name. Bourne could hear many voices in the background. He said, “This is Artemus Bourne.”

  “Oh,” exclaimed Matala. “I am most eager that you called. Wait one minute while I find a private place.”

  The crowd noise clicked off. Matala’s voice came back on. He said, “I am hosting a party in our president’s honor. He has awarded himself two new medals. But much of the talk is of you and of VaalChem. Big trouble from Liberia, big trouble with Red Cross. I have been trying to get through to Sir Cecil about this, but no one will say where he is.”

  “He’s on ice for the moment,” Bourne answered him dryly. “And as for any trouble, I will deal with it shortly. Are you able to locate Alameo?”

  “I know where he is. Very near. He is in Cuanza. I know because Duganga gave safe passage to some Jews who wanted to meet with Alameo. These Jews, I believe, are Mossad.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Bourne. “You say he’s in Cuanza. Isn’t that just up the road? Isn’t that rather bold of Alameo?”

  “Not much danger. Things are quiet. No one’s shooting so much now. If you are thinking to capture him, this cannot be permitted. Safe passage is safe passage. Good for business. We must honor it.”

  “As it happens,” said Bourne, “I have no need to capture him. But I do need to speak to him. Can you patch this call through?”

  “Not by cell phone,” said the minister. “They never use cell phones. I can try him by radio and give him a message.”

  “I would much prefer to give it directly,” said Bourne. “No cell phones? Why not? They’re most useful.”

  “Duganga’s officers had them, but Alameo destroyed them. He said it’s

  too easy to tamper with cell phones. Too easy to plant a listening device or even an

  explosive device, so no cell phones.”

  Damn, thought Bourne. An unforeseen disappointment. Half the fun of this would have been hearing his reaction.

  “You can reach him by radio? You can speak to him directly?”

  “I can reach him with a message. He might not wish to speak.”

  “Oh, he’ll speak. Say the name, ‘Elizabeth Stride,’ and tell him that the message is from Artemus Bourne.”

  “Wait. I write it down. You say Elizabeth Stride?”

  Bourne spelled the name for him. “You may tell him that I have her. You may tell him that I have Stride’s young birthday girl as well. She’s sweet sixteen and if she’s never been kissed, she may be in for a crash course on the birds and the bees.”

  “Forgive me. This I do not understand.”

  “He will,” said Bourne, “and tell him this above all. I very much look forward to reaching an agreement that not only insures their continued good health, but that eases the pain they’re now enduring.”

  “You are…torturing this these two?”

  “On a vivisecting table.”

  Matala hesitated. “This is true? This is bad. Alameo will put me on such a table.”

  “Oh, I’m joking, Jose. But that would get a quick response. Simply say that they are not kept in comfort.”

  “Still bad.”

  “On the contrary, it’s splendid. It will bring immense benefits.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes, to you. You’ll be richer than your president.”

  “Please stay on the line,” said Matala. “I try now.”

  TWENTY NINE

  Bannerman had called Carla to say that he was running late. Carla said, “It’s okay, but don’t come here; we’ll come there.”

  “With Cassie?”

  “Might as well. If Elizabeth’s going to be around for a while, Cassie ought to know her on sight. On the subject of strangers, I need to spend a few hours there checking some of Molly’s surveillance tapes. Anton thinks someone might be poking around.”

  “Has Anton put together that package on Bourne?”

  “He has,” Carla answered. “I’ll bring you some copies. You told him to do all this in the clear. Don’t you think that was tipping your hand just a tad?”

  “It might cause a little scurrying. We’ll see.”

  “Except this guy owns whole countries and a good part of this one. This might not be one we can win.”

  “I know that. I won’t ask you…”

  “You won’t have to. I’m in.”

  He said, “Actually, I was hoping that you’d look after Cassie if I have to go out of town.”

  “She’ll be fine. I’ve been teaching her how to handle an Uzi. The kid needs a little work. She took out your TV. I guess I should have started her on knives.”

  “On second thought…” said Bannerman.

  “I’m kidding. Relax.”

  “Carla, just get her up here.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  His next call was to the hospital, the nurses’ station in Maternity. The floor nurse told him, “She’ll be sleeping for a while. We were going to let her sleep right through lunch.”

  “I’ll swing by. We’ll just look in. And my daughter�
�s very keen to see her brother.”

  “Little Martin?”

  “I…guess so,” said Bannerman. “But how did you know?”

  She said, “We heard you and Susan. Martin Bannerman sounds cool. Oh, and no one likes Raymond. All the kids will call him Ray-Ban.”

  Settles that, thought Bannerman. “Good point. We’ll go with Martin.”

  “While I’ve got you, Mr. Bannerman, she’s got too many flowers. Twelve bouquets in there now, another twenty or so coming. Would you mind if we spread them around the other wards? Of course, I’ll hold on to all the cards.”

  “Absolutely,” said Bannerman. “And thank you.”

  He hung up. The phone buzzed. It was Molly again. She said, “Our secretary of state isn’t easy to discourage. Howard Leland’s helicopter just touched down in Bridgeport. Tomorrow morning, he’s attending a prayer breakfast at Yale. He says he flew up early just to see you. He’s traveling light, two Secret Service agents, and he’s brought some kind of scientist with him.”

  “Secret Service?” asked Bannerman. “Since when do they guard Leland?”

  “I asked. He said he borrowed them. He said they’re more discreet. It’s also

  sending you a message that the White House is behind him. He says he won’t leave without meeting with you. He says it will be private, man to man.”

  Bannerman grunted. “About Bourne, I assume.”

  “On a matter that’s vital to our national security. Those were the words; it’s all he would say. He hit the word ‘vital’ pretty hard.”

  “Tell him I’ll see him, but ask him to sit tight. I’ll tell him when and where in thirty minutes.”

  That would give him enough time to finish up with Elizabeth and to look through the package that Anton had assembled. Not that he didn’t have more than enough after talking to Yitzhak Netanya.

  Elizabeth had returned. She asked, “Your daughter’s on her way?”

  “Carla Benedict’s bringing her, yes.”

  “Then tell me quickly about this guy’s head. It’s not a subject that a child should walk in on.”