Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  Something new appeared in his eyes. A different kind of rage. Humiliation. He was crippled, cut, his pants were falling off, and it was a woman who had so emasculated him.

  What happened next she thought, could not have happened. Not the way she saw and heard it in her mind. She remembered stepping between his legs, pinning them with one foot on the crotch of his fallen trousers. She remembered that he reached for the foot, as she hoped he would, so that she could leap upon his chest, straddling his outstretched arms. Her instincts told her that she would have him then. With her left hand she would seize the hair, jerking his head to one side, exposing his throat. She would press the green shard against it near the hinge of his jaw. It would not matter if he freed a hand. He would have to yield or be cut. It would give her time to think.

  Carla did this.

  She begged him, as she remembered it, not to make her kill him. And he did seem to yield. To relax. The eyes, which had bored into hers, now softened. He refilled his lungs. The eyes lowered to her chest, lingering there. His upper lip curled.

  “No tits,” he murmured.

  Carla blinked. She could not have heard correctly. But he said it again.

  “Like a boy. No tits.”

  Perhaps he said it, if he actually did, to break her concentration. Perhaps to show her that he was not afraid. Perhaps to hurt her. She didn't know.

  She sat back slightly, easing the pressure against his throat. She looked down at her breasts but she was feeling him, waiting for his muscles to tense, waiting for him to buck. He did nothing. Only those eyes.

  Carla cut him. She cut deep.

  A knee slammed into her spine. He arched his back and heaved. He threw her. She scrambled out of reach, circling him, counting in her head. Five seconds. Ten.

  He did not try to rise. He stared, horrified, at the three-foot arcs of blood that were pulsing from his neck. He snatched at his necktie, bunching it, trying to pack it against the wound. But the necktie was silk and it absorbed almost nothing. Blood flowed through his fingers and down his wrist.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Carla closed in on him. With her bare foot she kicked at him, trying to make him move so that the blood would pump faster. He rolled onto his back, using his good leg to push himself away from her. He was near her front door. He used the knob to raise himself. There was a mirror on the wall. He looked into it, lifting the necktie compress so that he could see the cut. It spurted as before.

  “Why? Oh, Carla, why?” he moaned these words.

  She backed away. Thirty seconds.

  “Carla?” He turned to face her. “What have you done to me?”

  He was Aldo again. A part of her wanted to save him. But it was too late. Forty seconds. She felt tears on her cheeks.

  She watched as his blood-starved brain lost one function, then another. It no longer controlled his legs. They became dead weights. The damaged knee went into spasm. His balance gone, he flailed his arms like a drowning man and tumbled backward against the wall. It supported him, but briefly. The legs collapsed. He crumpled to the floor, mouth slack, a puppet without strings. She watched as the light drained from his eyes.

  “Yuri?” She was still squeezing herself. “Am I crazy?”

  He had listened to her account in silence.

  The details, most of them, were new to him. The events that he had described to Paul Bannerman went only as far as this man's first blow and her response to it. The rest was left for him to deduce from the dead man's appearance and the way the blood was distributed. One thing that confused him. Aldo's eyes had been closed. His face had been washed. His hair was put neatly in place. Carla, in her account, made no mention of these ablutions.

  “You are hurt. Not crazy.”

  He reached for her, drawing her close.

  “Yuri?”

  “Yes, Carla?”

  “The things I told you. The things he said?”

  “Yes?”

  “I'm not sure he even said them.”

  He touched his lips to her forehead. “Try to rest, Carla.”

  Yuri was not sure that it mattered, but he, too, had wondered. That Aldo would insult her to no purpose made no sense. Even with too much champagne. But he was inclined to believe that the remark about her breasts—an exaggeration certainly—had indeed been made. To make her blink. The man had simply waited too long to try for his advantage.

  As for the other business—“Carla, what have you done to me?”—nothing that a dying man might say or do surprised him. They say that Brezhnez, in his final delirium, called out to the God of Abraham and that the lecher Beria, while being strangled, tried to grope for his spectacles, which had fallen to the floor.

  Also, he reflected, Aldo was an actor.

  And agents in deep cover are very much like those actors who live their roles even when they are not on stage. Under stress, or in shock, such an agent might well revert to the part he had been playing. Or perhaps he, not Carla, was the one who was unbalanced.

  He tried to tell her this but she was no longer listening. Her melancholy had deepened. He considered being firm with her, reminding her that she was Carla Benedict and that self-pity did not become her. But in his head he heard Maria's voice telling him to say nothing of the kind. His thoughts turned back to Aldo Corsini.

  The man had certainly been trained but by whom? Yuri had considered several possibilities and was forced to reject all but one. Aldo could not have been working for the Italians, or the Americans, or for any Western intelligence service, because if any of these wished to know why Lesko and Elena were in Russia they would simply have asked Mama's Boy.

  And yet, that Aldo was svoi—one of us—was equally hard to believe. The KGB would have asked General Belkin. And, most convincingly, Aldo Corsini had spoken of becoming rich. These days, the KGB had enough trouble just meeting its payroll.

  The computer in Bern might have the answer. But if those files showed Aldo to be an agent, what then? Can a KGB officer reveal this to Mama's Boy? Can Major Yuri Rykov now assist in concealing the evidence of his death?

  Yuri saw no choice. He had given his word. Unless General Belkin gives an order to the contrary, he must keep it. But even then, he would have to ask Bannerman to release him from his promise.

  Oh, Carla, he sighed within himself. You are a great deal of trouble.

  16

  Susan wished, uselessly, that she could have been a fly on the practice wall at Briarwood. At this moment, Roger would be briefing the secretary of state, Barton Fuller.

  Mr. Fuller, assuming that he knew nothing about Aldo Corsini, would tend to take Bannerman's call at face value. So would Irwin Kaplan. Some guy wants to marry Carla. Bannerman wants to know more about him. Period.

  But Roger, being Roger, would be reading between the lines, searching for some advantage. Paul, therefore, had given him one. The invitation to come to Westport. Two years had passed since Roger was told never to return. The hope was that he would weigh the potential benefits of a reconciliation against anything he might gain by trying to milk an apparent connection between Aldo's apparently shadowy business dealings and her father's wedding trip.

  She sat cross-legged on the den floor, a pencil in her mouth, a notepad in her hand, as Bannerman played the tape of their conversation a second time. He listened, deep in thought, his fingers steepled against his lips.

  Now it was Paul who was trying to read between the lines. Listening for nuances. She hated that he had to.

  If anyone wants to know why he built a wall around Westport, she thought, all they'd have to do is see him now. In Westport, he looks out for his friends and they look out for him. Nobody looks for angles. She almost wished he hadn't made that call.

  The tape ended.

  Paul began pacing. Still that thousand-yard stare. He'd glanced at her just once, at her loose-fitting shirt, and quickly looked away.

  “Maybe Roger's being straight this time,” she told him.

  He cocked his head but didn'
t turn.

  ”I mean, what if what you see is all there is? Of course, if you'd rather hear a conspiracy theory . . ”

  He shook his head. “We have Roger for that. Finish your thought.”

  He stood at the sliding-glass door to the deck, peering into the distance. She knew better than to approach him. He would turn away rather than have the sight of her distract him. It was flattering, she supposed, but annoying. She shouldn't have to throw on a chador every time he wanted her to help him think.

  “Roger says that Aldo is an entrepreneur, maybe a hustler, but not necessarily a crook. That description fits a lot of middle-aged Europeans. Carla could have met any one of them. It just happened to be Aldo.”

  He started to shake his head. He checked himself. “Okay. Let's assume that.”

  “He didn't... necessarily ... need a motive for being interested in Carla. She's an exciting woman. She has interesting friends.”

  “Including me?”

  “To brag that he knew you? Sure.”

  “What's his interest in your father and Elena?”

  “Any European businessman would love to know Elena Brugg. My father comes with the package.”

  “Why was he wearing a wire?”

  “Don't jump on this. But maybe it was a hobby.”

  A doubtful grunt.

  “It could fit,” she insisted. “Yuri said he was a spy groupie. Besides, he kept that recorder in his own car. Does a professional work that way? You tell me.”

  “Probably not,” he acknowledged. “Certainly not alone.”

  “Would a professional walk around at a lawn party, obviously pumping for information about the real reason behind the Russia visit?”

  “No. But then why would Aldo?”

  ”A honeymoon in Moscow? Paid for by a KGB general? To a groupie, that's better than Murder on the Orient Express.”

  “Why did he hit Carla?”

  Susan made a face. “Because he's a macho Italian? Because she spit in his face?”

  “Why did she kill him?”

  “Because she's Carla Benedict.”

  Bannerman nodded slowly.

  On the face of it, he thought, Susan's version made decent sense. Aldo, according to Yuri's account, had told Carla that a great deal of money was at stake. He'd been, after all, an invited guest at Elena Brugg's wedding and he'd been seen socializing with the Bruggs otherwise. He might have used that apparent intimacy as leverage in a deal with someone else. Not so unusual.

  But then, there's the darker view.

  “Try it another way,” he said. “Aldo helped to set up a drug deal between these Sicilians and some Russian entrepreneurs under the cover of that pizza chain. Assume that he did so knowingly. Aldo then contrives to meet Carla because Carla just happens to be close to all three architects of a successful antidrug effort in Zurich who now just happen to be traveling to Russia together.”

  Susan closed one eye but did not interrupt.

  “Those computer files you saw were more than a list of names, Susan. They were a killing strategy. You might as well know that.”

  She knew it. She said nothing.

  “Aldo, or whoever pays him,” said Bannerman, “knows that Leo Belkin didn't participate in the Zurich cleanup out of the goodness of his heart. He did it to gain experience with, and full access to, that computer program in order to put it to use, down the road, in his own country.”

  “And this someone wants to know where and when?”

  He nodded. “And whether the trip puts this particular deal in jeopardy. Carla is targeted as a possible way in because she's thought to be vulnerable to seduction. She's still mourning her sister, she's lonely, and, after a year, she still can't bring herself to come back to Westport and the only life she knows. Offer her a new one. Ask her to marry you.”

  Susan twisted her lip. “That's it? That's your conspiracy theory?”

  ”I know. It has a hole or two.”

  “Like the fact that Aldo knew Carla long before those three had any thought of a Russian honeymoon?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Aldo had been working his way in for several months. Leo's wedding gift took him by surprise. It forced his hand. Made him take chances.”

  “Okay.” Susan made a note. “But on whose orders? The Mafia?”

  A slow nod, or rather the start of one. Then a shrug and a shake of the head.

  He had trouble believing that the Mafia would have bothered. All that effort and intrigue just to protect one source of morphine base? Or even a new market for the finished product? There were too many others. Too many easier ways to do business.

  That left the Russians.

  But which Russians? No criminal organization can function in Russia without the help of corrupt officials. Criminals need protection. More basically, they need cars, apartments, and freedom of movement. Weapons and luxury goods can be had on the black market, but these other things need documentation and that means large-scale bribery. For that matter, he had trouble imagining that such an organization could be in business for very long without being infiltrated by the KGB.

  This last thought troubled him.

  It had been floating in the back of his mind since his talk with Yuri. Had the KGB sent Aldo?

  Within Soviet borders, control of drug traffic, all forms of smuggling, all organized criminal activity, is the responsibility of the ... what's left of the Second Chief Directorate. Technically, it's none of Leo Belkin's business. Until this moment, Bannerman realized, he had assumed that any plans Leo might have had for using the Zurich program must necessarily be a cooperative effort between the First and Second Chief Directorates.

  But what if his target is the SCD itself?

  Who else would try to penetrate the Brugg/Mama's Boy axis? Certainly not the drug traffickers. They would have neither the subtlety nor the patience. And obviously not the First Chief Directorate, because Leo was already there.

  “What are you thinking?” Susan asked.

  “I'm . . . not sure. Give me a minute.”

  What he wasn't sure of was how far he wanted to take this line of reasoning. An actionable conclusion was one thing. A paranoid swamp was another.

  The paranoid view was that the late Aldo Corsini took his orders from someone in the Second Chief Directorate who was actively involved in drug trafficking and that Roger Clew knows it.

  Why do we think Roger knows it? Because Roger was more than just curious about Carla's new friend. Just curious would be running the name through his own computers and, finding nothing, checking with Interpol for good measure. But Roger hadn't stopped there. He had gone back to Interpol a second time, asking for a supplementary run against “known associates.” According to Roger, he found nothing incriminating, but, if so, why did he keep digging? He knew that Aldo had no criminal record, even within Italy, which means that he must have checked with the carabinieri as well. His information about Aldo's lifestyle means that he contacted the Italian tax authorities.

  Why does Roger think ... or even know . . . that Aldo works for the SCD? Probably through the same logic we've used. He's also had more time to think about it.

  He would have wondered, for example, how Aldo managed to do business all over Eastern Europe for several years before the barriers came down. The answer was simple. He had a rabbi there. Someone corrupt. Someone big.

  But the time to make real money in Eastern Europe is now, because money is pouring in and state property is being picked up for a song. And yet, Aldo the dealmaker had shifted his focus to the Soviet Union, where the pickings are far more doubtful. The reason? His rabbi must have been transferred home.

  Okay. Who was this rabbi? Not some local party leader. Someone with real influence whose authority had once cut across all boundaries in the Eastern Bloc but who no longer had that authority. Not the military either, because the Soviet military is only now pulling out. That left the KGB. Internal Security when the Eastern Bloc was still internal. The Second Chief Directorate.

>   The rabbi, now back at Moscow Center, has set himself up in business again. Smuggling of one kind or another. Not necessarily limited to drugs, but drugs might be the currency. But why would Aldo go along? He doesn't seem to have gotten rich in their previous dealings.

  Bannerman chose to put that question aside. There could be a dozen reasons. Fear among them.

  The paranoid view, taken to its conclusion, is either that Leo Belkin has gotten wind of what this rabbi is doing or that the rabbi thinks he has.

  Put another way, Leo Belkin is either using Lesko and Elena as bait, to flush this person out, or this person thinks they're all on to him, which is why he tried to put a mole inside.

  Round and round she goes, thought Bannerman.

  All of this might be true. Or almost none of it. Roger would have reached the same conclusions. Why didn't he say so? Because Roger's style is to lay back and watch. Let it cook. Look for the advantage. What Roger wants most in the world right now is for Mama's Boy to be in his debt.

  More paranoia.

  “Bannerman?”

  Susan's voice. As if from a distance. He turned his head slightly.

  “Remember me? Susan Lesko.”

  “Sorry.” He tossed a hand. ”I was .. ”

  ”I know what you were doing. I want you to share it with me.”

  He was staring at the telephone. Willing it to ring. Hoping that Carla or Yuri might give substance to shadow. Failing that, he was tempted to call Moscow and get Lesko out of there. Tell him his father died. Lesko's father had been dead for nearly thirty years, but Lesko would get the message. The problem would be trying to explain, afterward, why he'd ruined Elena's wedding trip.

  Substance and shadow.

  Aldo's corpse was certainly substance.

  And he almost certainly didn't work alone. Someone would be wondering where he is. And his rabbi, his whatever, would be waiting for a report on Willem Brugg's garden party.

  ”I have to run out,” he said, undoing his robe. “If Carla calls, tell her to stay put. In the meantime….”

  “Out where, Bannerman? To see Anton Zivic?”

  “And Molly Farrell. Yes.”