Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  A month went by. Carla heard nothing from him, not even a letter. Her depression had returned. Then, early one Saturday, the florists' trucks began arriving. Yellow long-stemmed roses, a dozen at a time, each with a single red rose in the center. Then came lilacs, her favorite, in every imaginable shade. By late morning, her apartment over the boat-house had no room for more.

  Aldo appeared at noon, bearing a picnic basket. A chartered sailboat was waiting, he told her. It was time that she saw the coast of Italy by moonlight.

  He told her, as they sailed, what he had decided. The past could not be changed, nor would he wish it. This past had made her the woman whom he had grown to love.

  He had many questions, he said. So many that he scarcely knew where to begin.

  There's a lot I can't tell you, Aldo. Not now or ever.”

  “Of course. Spies must have their secrets.”

  ”I wasn't a spy, exactly, but... close enough.”

  “And yet, how can I resist asking?”

  “Ask whatever you please. But if I tell you that I can't answer, you have to be able to accept that.”

  “This is fair. Same rule for me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All I will ask is that there be no lies. You may say, 'Aldo, I will not speak of this or that because I have made a promise,’ and I will not ask again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But if you say, ‘Aldo, I will not speak of this because you will think the less of me,’ that is not so good. That much, you should trust me.”

  Carla said nothing.

  “There is also the matter of your associates.”

  “What about them?”

  “At the end of these past weeks, I thought, 'Aldo, you must get her away from them. They are cruel and hard. They will destroy her.’ But then I think, ‘No, Aldo, you have no right.’”

  She nodded, agreeing with this last. “You don't know them, Aldo. They're good people.”

  He grunted doubtfully.

  “You'd like them. Most of them.”

  He appeared to consider this. “Perhaps ...” he said. “Perhaps you have a good idea. I should meet your friends. I must learn to be at ease with them. And they with me.”

  Glad I thought of it, she said in her mind.

  But no warning bell sounded.

  Or if it had, she had not been listening for it.

  14

  Bannerman tried Roger Clew's Georgetown number on the chance of catching him alone. He broke the connection when a machine answered.

  On Sunday mornings, weather and global events permitting, Roger usually played tennis. For several years now, his boss, Barton Fuller, had hosted an informal round-robin and brunch at Briarwood, his Virginia home. Roger was a regular. So was Irwin Kaplan.

  Bannerman had Fuller's number, but he was reluctant to use it. The call would only invite speculation as to why a simple inquiry regarding Carla Benedict's current boyfriend was worth interrupting their game.

  He tapped out the memory code for Roger's direct number at the State Department. A female staffer, young, Texas accent, answered on the fifth ring.

  “Mr. Clew's office. Maureen Tobin speaking.”

  “Hi. I don't suppose he's in.”

  “No, sir. Not until Monday afternoon.” She did not insist that he identify himself. The line he'd called on was enough. “I'll take a message if you'd like.”

  He gave his name. The line went silent for a moment.

  “I'm . . . sure that he'll want to talk to you, Mr. Bannerman. Are you in Westport?”

  “It's not urgent, Maureen. It can wait until Monday.”

  “But he'll be calling in, sir. Any minute, I expect.”

  More accurately, thought Bannerman, Roger's beeper would be sounding in about thirty seconds.

  “If he does, fine. But please don't interrupt his Sunday on my account. This is strictly a personal matter.”

  “Does he have your number, Mr. Bannerman?”

  “He does. I'm at home. Are you as pretty as you sound, Maureen?”

  The voice hesitated. It took on a chill. ”I suppose ... if you like freckles.”

  Bannerman assured her that he did. He thanked her and said good-bye, aware that Susan was looking at him, one eye in a squint.

  “That was sexist, Bannerman,” she said.

  He grunted an acknowledgement.

  “And disillusioning. She now thinks that Mama's Boy is a twerp.”

  He nodded absently. A small price, he thought, if it distracts young Maureen from rushing to her duty officer and getting the place in an uproar. Other than at the wedding, he had not spoken to Roger in a year. He had not called him in two.

  The phone rang five minutes later. He affected a yawn as he said hello.

  “Paul? It's Roger.”

  The voice betrayed a measure of surprise and it was slightly muffled as if a hand was held over the mouthpiece. Bannerman heard birds in the background. He expressed dismay that the young staffer had seen fit to call, repeating that the matter could have waited.

  “No problem. We just finished a set.”

  “Where are you? At Briarwood?”

  “Yes. Bart Fuller says hello.”

  “My apologies to Mr. Fuller as well. As long as I've got you, Roger, did you meet Aldo Corsini at the wedding?”

  “Corsini . . .” Clew pretended to be searching his memory. “Oh, Carla's friend. I didn't meet him, actually. Elena told me who he was.”

  “Did you run a check on him?”

  Another silence. “Why would I do that?”

  “Roger…”

  The voice relaxed a notch. “Okay. Yes. Didn't you?”

  “Just through my own files. He's not in them. I wouldn't have bothered except that he's just asked Carla to marry him.”

  Silence. Then, “What did she say?”

  “She's . . . sorting it out.”

  “And this guy knows what Carla is?”

  “Was, Roger, but yes. Is there anything I should know about him?”

  “He might be straight. A wheeler-dealer, maybe, but nothing that waves a red flag.”

  “Can I look at his dossier?”

  “He doesn't really have one. No criminal record. No file of any kind. Most of his life he's been a salesman for one import-export firm or another when he wasn't making spaghetti westerns. Seems to have made a decent living but never really grabbed the brass ring. A few years ago, he set himself up as a venture capitalist, but he doesn't seem to fund anything himself. He's more of a broker. He puts people together for a fee.”

  “How would you know all that if there's no file?”

  “Well, there's his tax return. The income he reports falls well below his apparent lifestyle, but this is Italy, right? That's not to say he's rich, however. He's in debt as often as not. The Italian police have heard of him but that's as far as it goes. His name pops up at Interpol but only as a “known associate” of Italians for whom they do have active files. Most are businessmen, exporters, some of them fairly shady. If Corsini's taking money under the table from them, my guess is he does their laundry.”

  “Launders their money? How? By setting up dummy companies?”

  “They're not dummies. They're real businesses. He set up several in Eastern Europe, even before the wall came down. Over the past couple of years, however, Corsini seems to be concentrating on the Russian Republic.”

  Bannerman frowned at the mention of Russia. “What sort of businesses?”

  “Food products, mostly. Last year, for example, he brokered a joint venture between Italy's Bellisima Food Company and a Russian cooperative. They've already opened a string of pizza parlors in Moscow. Bellisima is controlled by the Sicilian Mafia, by the way.”

  Bannerman made a face. Moscow. And now the Mafia.

  “What good is Russia,” he asked, “for laundering cash if nothing but rubles comes out the other end.”

  “No one's in Russia for rubles. It's a barter economy. Pepsi, for example, got d
istribution rights to Stolichnaya vodka in return for building a few bottling plants.”

  “What would the Mafia get?”

  ”A wild guess? Morphine base.”

  Bannerman sighed inwardly.

  “Up to now, these particular Sicilians have been getting it from the Palestinians in return for assault rifles. But Irwin says that source is drying up. He's here. You want to talk to him?”

  “Not now. Russian assault rifles?”

  “Mostly the old AK-47s, but they're available, cheap, on the open arms market. Don't look for a connection between pizza and guns.”

  “Drugs, then. You think Corsini is a trafficker.”

  ”I didn't say that.”

  With effort, Bannerman masked his irritation. “Well, which is it?” he asked. “You say he's straight and in the next breath you say he launders cash. You say he helped set up a Moscow pizza chain and then you mention, with a thud, that the Mafia's involved.”

  “Paul . . . the guy's a middleman. He makes introductions. If those introductions result in criminal activity, that doesn't necessarily make him dirty.”

  “Um ... are you this man's lawyer, by any chance, Roger?”

  “Lawyers are a good example. Lawyers put these kinds of deals together all the time. Are they all dirty?”

  Bannerman didn't bother to answer. “Whatever he is,” Bannerman asked, “are you satisfied that he's in business for himself?”

  “As opposed to what? An intelligence agent?”

  “No harm in wondering.”

  “Paul . . . does Lesko's honeymoon have anything to do with this line of questioning?”

  He avoided a lie. “You're right. I suppose I'm reaching.”

  Clew grunted in agreement. “If he's an agent, he's not ours. If you think he's a Russian agent, why don't you ask Leo Belkin?”

  “Never mind. There's no need.” Again, not quite a lie.

  “For that matter, why would the Soviets need to put an agent on you? Half of your new friends these days are KGB.”

  A petulant remark. Bannerman ignored it.

  “Your report on Corsini. . . could you fax it to me?”

  “For old times' sake?”

  “If that pleases you. For a reasonable quid pro quo if it doesn't. And I'm recording this, by the way.”

  “Be my guest. As for the report, you'll have it this afternoon but it won't tell you much. The danger is that you'll make too big a deal out of Corsini's Mafia connection. There probably isn't a businessman in Italy without one, or for that matter, a venture capitalist anywhere in Europe who's not looking for ways to carve out a piece of Russia.”

  ”I suppose. Thanks, Roger.”

  “Not so long next time, okay? How's Susan?”

  “She's right here. Waving hello.”

  An odd silence.

  “Next time you're up this way, drop in. I'll grill some steaks.”

  Another pause. “Was that an invitation? Or are you being polite?”

  Clew had raised his voice a bit. From the sound, he had also turned his head, probably toward Barton Fuller.

  “An invitation, Roger. I suppose we're overdue.”

  15

  No warning had sounded, Carla told herself, because there was no reason why one should. He wanted to meet her friends, was all. It was natural. And it was not as if he'd made an issue of it.

  ”I meet them ... I don't meet them,” he said to her when she hesitated. “It is entirely up to you.”

  “No big deal,” she told him. “Sure. Why not?”

  He'd already met several anyway, plus Leo and Yuri. Boozed with them. Told jokes with them.

  The wedding, at this point, was only three weeks away. Her invitation read Carla Benedict and Guest. Aldo could meet Paul Bannerman. He'd probably be disappointed. Socially, Paul's a sweet, friendly guy. Very polite. Even a little shy.

  As for the rest of the Westport crowd, some are more housebroken than others, but she could pick and choose. And he could meet Lesko and Elena. If Elena liked him, just knowing her was all the business contact he'd ever need.

  Another thought was to have Yuri and Maria over for dinner in the meantime. No. Bad idea. They wouldn't be able to say much in front of Maria. And Aldo would learn, too soon, that she couldn't cook worth a shit.

  But she could ask Lesko and Elena to join them at the Kronenhalle for lunch. If Lesko didn't scare him off, nothing would.

  Lesko didn't. Aldo even invited them to come down to Genoa, sail on his boat. Lesko's response was polite but un

  enthusiastic. His only experience with boats, he told them, had been the Hudson River Circle Line when his daughter was small and a Sheepshead Bay party boat one July with a bunch of sweaty and besotted cops who hooked their own ears and fingers more than they did bluefish.

  During the last few days before the wedding, a score of old friends began drifting into town. Most of them looked her up. She held a sort of open house for them. Each morning, on arising, she and Aldo would find at least two who had crashed in her small living room.

  She was pleased to see that Aldo made a genuine effort. He would talk to them for hours on end, especially the women. He would take them fishing on the small runabout that the landlord kept in the boathouse. It took him no time at all to conclude that most were very much like anyone else except for the stories they told. Comfort grew into enthusiasm. He reveled in the stories.

  By the time Paul and Susan appeared, he was thrilled at the prospect of meeting them, although some encouragement was needed before he would approach Billy McHugh or John Waldo. At the ball following the wedding, he danced with Molly Farrell—who was always warm and friendly— and with Janet Herzog, from whom he actually coaxed a smile.

  “Marry me,” he had said this morning.

  “Wh-what?”

  ”I love you. In this, I am helpless. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

  She stared at him. The man was positively glowing. It must be the champagne.

  “Look . . . Aldo . . . maybe we'd better . . .”

  He touched his fingers to her lips.

  “All your life,” he said earnestly, “you have taken chances for money. Now it is time to take a chance for happiness.”

  “Hold it. I mean . . . have you thought this out? Where would we live?”

  “Where would we ... This is important to you?”

  “I don't know. I guess I'm just trying to picture it.”

  “Very well,” he told her. “For the first year, we live half on my boat and half here in Zurich. You don't like boats? I buy a house.”

  “No, the boat is ...”

  He brightened. ”A better idea. Half on my boat and half in Westport. It is good that you be with your friends again. After one year of this, we decide again.”

  It was totally unexpected. Carla had no idea what to say, what to think. The last time anyone proposed marriage to her she was a sophomore at UCLA. She had gotten an abortion instead.

  She would think about it, she decided. Maybe talk to Elena when she got back from Russia. Talk to Anton Zivic.

  But not Paul. Not just yet. He'd want Aldo checked out up, down, and sideways. He'd be right, but he might also ruin this. Aldo had made her feel in a way she hadn't felt in years and she was going to fuck his brains out for it. She dragged him from the garden party.

  “Yuri?”

  “Yes, Carla.”

  “Who was he?”

  “We will find out.”

  Those eyes.

  Looking into hers. Seeing that they were glazed and hurt. Blood dripping from her mouth.

  He backed away, one hand holding his trousers up. His eyes now seemed to turn inward. She saw a certain wistfulness in them. Self-reproach, perhaps. It was the look of a man who knew that, perhaps because of the champagne, he had made an unredeemable error. The eyes flickered again. The self-reproach was gone. In its place, the look of a man who realized that all that was left was to cut his losses.

  Slowly, in
no hurry at all, he secured the top button of his trousers and picked up his necktie from the floor. He wrapped the ends around his fists. He stepped toward her, then hesitated, his expression suddenly wary. He was recalling, perhaps, all those sories. Calamity Carla. But, he seemed to decide, this thing on the floor is not dangerous. Naked except for panty hose, stunned, no weapon within reach. Not even her shoes. She had kicked them off. Not even her feet because one leg was pinned beneath her and the other was splayed to the side. Still, better safe than sorry. He would break the leg. It would make the rest easier. He moved in, half turning, to deliver the kick. He did not see the champagne bottle, which had fallen with her. Not until he saw it again, a greenish blur, whipping in an arc against his upraised knee.

  A scream. Shock of pain. The blur came again, this time against the hand that gripped the damaged knee. He tried to spin away. A mistake. The next blow slammed against his kidney. He went rigid, gasping, then crashed to the floor.

  Those eyes. Wild now.

  He scrambled into an awkward crouch. He was snarling at her, taunting her, trying now to lure her in, ready to seize the bottle if she came at him again.

  Carla looked past him, toward the studio kitchen, where the knives were. She knew that he would lunge if she tried for them. She had only the bottle, still whole. She darted sideways, snatching a brass lamp from an end table. She tore it loose and, in measured blows, rapped it against the bottle until the bottle fractured. The thick bottom thumped to the carpet. She tapped one side. More glass fell away, leaving her with the neck and a jagged four-inch shard.

  Carla told herself, looking back, that she had not meant to kill him. To an extent, it was true. A part of her brain still tried to believe that this was all a mistake. This man loved her.

  He saw the shard. He threw himself to his right, grasping for a chair with which to defend himself. Carla slashed at the reaching hand. He rolled again, the hand spraying blood. He tried to kick at her. The single button of his trousers popped loose. They slid to his thighs.