Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  “What can you tell them that you can't tell me?”

  “Sweetheart . . .” Bannerman answered from the bedroom. “When that phone rings, you'll know more than I do. As for Anton, I might want some of our own people in Europe. We need to decide who to send.”

  “Besides me, you mean.”

  No answer. Just the scrape of coat hangers.

  “You're going to send whoever knows Zurich best because that's where the body is and whoever knows Moscow best because that's where my father is. How am I doing so far?”

  “Nobody's going to Moscow. There's no need.”

  “Which means you don't think he's in trouble.”

  Bannerman emerged from the bedroom shaking his head. ”I don't think so. Someone might be keeping an eye on him, but they'd be doing that anyway.”

  She watched as he took the tape from his machine and dropped it into his pocket. He had answered her distractedly as if to say that her father was the least of his concerns.

  “Okay, then Carla's my friend and I want to be useful. Whoever else you're sending, they'd be wasted doing the things I can do.”

  “Susan . . .”

  “Like staying with Carla, setting up a communications center, driving a chase car . . .”

  She stopped herself. Bannerman had formed a time-out signal with his hands.

  “Susan we're not mounting Desert Storm here,” he told her. “The most I'm going to do is a little spin control.”

  “Are you going to Zurich?”

  “Maybe nobody is. It depends on what we hear from Yuri. In the meantime, it couldn't hurt to book some flights.”

  “The minute you land, won't Roger know?”

  She saw in his expression that he'd considered this. Some of his people might slip in unnoticed, but not Mama's Boy himself. Not unless he smuggled himself into Switzerland and that would take time. He had either accepted that or decided to stay home.

  “After that talk you had”—she gestured toward the tape in his pocket—“what could be more natural than you and me popping off to Zurich for a nice get-acquainted chat with Aldo Corsini?”

  Bannerman started to say no. But in his eyes, a flicker of interest.

  “Picture us,” she said, “you and me, cheerfully strolling toward Passport Control, me carrying a big gift-wrapped box as if we're bringing Carla a present. What would Roger—or anyone else—make of that?”

  Bannerman chewed his lip thoughtfully.

  “Maybe I'm even seen taking Carla shopping. Buying her a yachting outfit, some foul-weather gear. What would that look like?”

  ”A trousseau,” he said, nodding.

  “How about it? Do I pack for both of us?”

  Bannerman had to agree that it might be smart to bring her. He had already made a point of letting Roger know that she could hear their conversation. That was to further disarm him ... persuade him that there can't be much going on here if Susan is in on it. The cheerful scenes she's just described might also disarm whoever else might be concerned about Aldo's disappearance. And that might buy him some time.

  Time, as before, was the problem. It would be four hours, at least, before they could reasonably catch a flight and then seven hours en route. Too much time. Too much could happen. A whole night will have passed in Zurich. Yuri busy through most of it. The others out of reach in Moscow.

  Moscow.

  He had not lied when he said no one is going there. Not immediately, at least. But by morning he could have people in Helsinki, with good paper waiting for them, looking for a tour group to join. Two women would attract the least attention. Maybe Molly and Janet.

  “Pack as if we're going for a week,” he told her. “That gift is a nice touch, by the way.”

  She nodded an acknowledgement, trying not to smile. “Any special needs?”

  He shook his head. “Pack normally. Assume that the bags will be examined. Bring evening wear as if we expect to attend parties.”

  Special needs.

  He knew that she didn't mean weapons. But the last thing he wanted in his bag was Susan's idea of a cat-burglar outfit with blackened tennis shoes and a ski mask.

  17

  Red Square wasn't ugly.

  Behind him, Lesko heard Valentin explaining that in old Russian the word for red was the same as the word for beautiful.

  It wasn't beautiful either.

  To be fair, thought Lesko, parts of it were gorgeous. St. Basil's belonged in a fairy tale. And those white bell towers inside the Kremlin walls were like giant candles, especially now. The onion-shaped domes flickered red and gold in the light of the late afternoon sun. And the buildings that formed the perimeter of the square were handsome enough, taken individually.

  Still, for some reason, the overall effect was like a cold rain in your face.

  He understood why. Partly.

  In all of Europe, he thought, you couldn't find a single major square that wouldn't be mobbed with people at this hour, even on a Sunday evening. Saint Mark's in Venice, for example. You'd see sidewalk cafes, all kinds of vendors selling postcards and tourist junk, street artists doing caricatures, lots of pigeons.

  Here, there were more guards than people. The guards, apparently soldiers, were strung out every hundred feet or so all around the square. Just watching. But watching what? In an area that must have been half a mile long and a quarter mile wide, he counted no more than twenty tourists wearing cameras and maybe ten pedestrians, cutting across, carrying shopping bags. Including one woman who, for some reason, Elena was now flagging down. Not a single pigeon. Here, a pigeon could starve to death. Or more likely, end up in a pot.

  Red Square was definitely not a place to hang out. You're supposed to come, be awed by it, take your pictures, then get lost. No loud talking, no running, no nothing. It struck him that a few tables with Cinzano or Heineken beer umbrellas would go a long way toward brightening this place up.

  These were his impressions, but he would keep them to himself. Belkin would only get all out of joint again.

  Belkin.

  What he said had made sense, Lesko supposed. Even the part about getting used to the idea of being watched every place he goes. But, shit. Call me naive for hoping that a honeymoon would be seen as an exception to the rule. Call me a dreamer for thinking that traveling with a KGB general, for Christ's sake, would be insurance against finding a microphone in your fucking mattress.

  Elena was calling him, waving her camera.

  She already had Belkin and Valentin lined up with St. Basil's in the background. The woman she'd stopped was going to take the picture with all of them in it. The woman, shy smile, nice face, said hello as he approached.

  “An American, yes? Where in America?”

  “Um . . . New York, originally.”

  “Oh.” Huge grin. “Is it wonderful? I would love to see New York. Big Apple, yes? Stand here, please.”

  She was a tall woman, slender, about forty. She wore a flowing purple coat, unbuttoned, a pink sweater underneath, green slacks over vinyl boots. Three pink carnations, tied with a bow, were pinned to her lapel.

  She snapped the St. Basil's picture, then suggested one with the Kremlin in the background. She chatted, trying out her English as they reorganized themselves. She took the second picture, plus one more for good measure, and returned the camera to Elena. Her eyes suddenly went wide. She was staring at Elena's hands for some reason. But then she seemed to catch herself.

  She straightened, now asking the others where they were from. Only Elena told the truth. Belkin said he was a musician from Leningrad. Valentin was a law student. Lesko understood. When he was a cop, he wouldn't have said so either in a situation like this. It broke the mood. The woman said her name was Katya. She taught math at a Moscow high school where she was also a volleyball coach.

  “Best time for visit,” she told Elena. “Not so many tourists yet. But many flowers.”

  Then, shyly but with grin intact, she removed her carnations and pinned them to Elena's coa
t. Elena began digging into her purse. Katya backed away, hands raised, refusing a gift in return. But she melted when she saw what Elena had been looking for. It was a bottle of nail polish. The color that she was wearing, Lesko realized, was a deep purple. It went nicely with the taller woman's coat. A minute ago, the woman had noticed the color on Elena's nails but then tried to pretend she hadn't for fear of letting on how desperately she wanted it. Lesko liked her for that.

  Elena forced the bottle into her hand. The taller woman blushed, but she was thrilled. Elena reached into her purse again and this time produced the paperback novel she had been reading on the plane.

  “For your English,” Elena said to her. “To practice.”

  Once again, Katya tried to refuse but she seemed unable to manage the words. Her eyes glazed over as she reached, very slowly, for the volume, brushing her fingertips across the embossed foil of the cover. She took it at last, then kissed it. Near to tears, she hugged Elena, and squeezed each of their arms. Still unable to speak, she hurried off clutching Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago to her breast.

  “All that?” Elena asked Belkin. “For just a book?”

  He shook his head. “Not just a book, dear Elena.” He gestured with his chin. “That woman has trouble finding food, she might never travel abroad, or have a car, or more than a few square meters of living space. She can live with all that. She cannot live without food for the mind.”

  “She couldn't have bought a copy?” Lesko asked.

  “For two weeks' pay, perhaps. If she could find it. Which she probably could not.”

  He turned away in the direction of the Kremlin. With a flick of his eyes, he invited Lesko to walk with him.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Of what you've seen so far, I mean.”

  ”I liked that lady.”

  “But not this? Our beautiful Red Square?”

  Lesko considered being tactful. “No offense, Leo. This place is a morgue. That lady was alive.”

  Far from being offended, the answer seemed to please him. “That lady was Russia, Lesko. Not all this. Not those men at the Savoy. Not even men like me. That good lady is the soul of Russia.”

  This last, the warmth behind it, and the hint that Leo felt distanced from the woman, surprised Lesko. He chose to say nothing. The two men walked on in silence. Elena and Valentin followed.

  As they passed the Spassky Gate, the main entrance to the Kremlin grounds, Lesko paused to look through the open passageway. An armed sentry waved him off with a snap of the fingers. Lesko was not annoyed, especially. Traffic cops make such gestures all the time, and Valentin had just been saying that this particular gate was kept clear for those on official business. But the sentry's manner seemed to ignite a slow burn in Leo Belkin.

  “Wait here,” he said. ”I will deal with this.”

  Belkin flashed his ID at the sentry, berated him for rudeness, demanded to see an officer, berated him as well, then escorted his party through the gate. Once inside, Lesko could see that there were dozens of tourists up ahead taking pictures of a giant cannon. But ropes had been strung to keep them away from this area. Belkin, somewhat distractedly, told them the names of the two churches they could see and then asked if anyone needed to use the facilities. No one did except Leo. He disappeared for five minutes inside a big yellow building that Valentin identified as the meeting place for the old Congress of People's Deputies. When Belkin came out, he announced that there was no need to stay because they would be touring the Kremlin the next afternoon.

  All in all, it seemed a pointless episode. An excuse to pull rank. Even Valentin seemed a bit embarrassed by it. He had trouble looking Lesko in the eye. But he did look at Elena. And Elena, thought Lesko, gave him a little nod in response.

  What's going on here? he wondered.

  They were outside the wall again, walking in the direction of Lenin's tomb. Lesko had seen it a thousand times on television. It seemed less impressive in person, dwarfed by the expanse of the Kremlin walls. Same wine color. Black trim, boxy lines. For a shrine, it looked more like a bunker.

  The mausoleum was closed for the day. Two guards on duty, spiffy uniforms. The guards looked about eighteen.

  Belkin said that they could come back when it's open but there wasn't much to see inside. Just Lenin's face and hands and no close inspection allowed. The guards keep visitors moving. Even generals.

  This, Lesko had heard, was because it wasn't really Lenin. Just a wax dummy. The real one turned into King Tut when someone forgot to turn the heat down once. It wasn't true, but that was the rumor. He could see, however, that Belkin was waiting for him to make some crack about it. Waiting to pounce if he did. Belkin was not in a holiday mood.

  ”I hear they're going to move the body, close this down,” he said instead.

  Belkin grunted. “They are, and then they aren't,” he answered. “My guess . . . they'll leave well enough alone as long as tourists want to come and see him.”

  Lesko nodded.

  “He never wanted this, you know.”

  “Wanted what? This tomb?”

  “He wanted to be buried in St. Petersburg next to his mother. This was all Stalin's idea. Stalin wanted to be enshrined in there with him. He was, for a time.”

  Elena snapped a picture.

  “Thirty thousand a day,” said Belkin.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Every day,” said Belkin, “thirty thousand people would line up for hours just for one passing glimpse of him. Now they line up at McDonald's instead.”

  This was said, thought Lesko, more than a little bit ruefully. He let it pass.

  They walked along the Kremlin wall. Belkin called their attention to a long row of plaques behind which various writers and composers, and a couple of cosmonauts, were buried in the wall itself. Further on, behind the mausoleum, they came to the graves of all the other Communist leaders since Lenin. Stalin's was the simplest. Just a black marble slab lined with low flowering plants. The area smelled faintly of urine. Since guards were stationed not ten feet away, day and night, Lesko assumed that one of them must have offered an opinion of his former boss.

  Even Leo showed no particular reverence as he read the names from the Cyrillic inscriptions. Kosygin, Chernenko, Brezhnev. He warmed up considerably when he showed them Andropov's grave. Smartest of them all, he said. Came up through the KGB. Hated corruption. Sacked hundreds of thieves and incompetents. A real family man, by the way. Didn't just talk about it, either. Things might have turned out differently if he'd lived.

  This last, and especially the part about family, Belkin said wistfully. And with something approaching anger. To Lesko, it seemed personal.

  “You knew him?” he asked.

  Belkin nodded. “He did me a favor once.”

  “What kind? You mind my asking?”

  “It was ... of a personal nature.”

  Lesko wasn't going to pry. He continued walking.

  Belkin's mood swings aside, it was beginning to sink in on Lesko that he was actually here. The Kremlin. Red Square. There was a balcony on the roof of Lenin's tomb from which the Communist leadership would watch the May Day Parade. All his life, he'd seen pictures of them standing there. A few generals. The rest wearing topcoats and fedoras. They all looked like truck drivers. Lots of saluting and waving. Rockets and tanks going by. Giant banners saying “We Do Not Falter In Our March Toward World Communism” and “Produce More Than You Are Asked For The Motherland.”

  Klutzy shit like that.

  Waldo says that the crowd you saw—all those people smiling and cheering—were there by invitation only. Like from central casting. They were all party members, all reliable. An ordinary Russian couldn't get within half a mile of Red Square on May Day.

  Now, no more parades. Most of the generals and fedoras are dead or pensioned off. Some of them getting pissed on. In a way, thought Lesko, it really did seem sad. So much wasted energy. People spending their whole lives trying to believe in something, needing to
believe in it because God knows it was all they had. He had to wonder what would have happened if the Communists had lost. Back then, judging by the buildings he could see, Moscow must have been as interesting as any big city in Europe until Stalin came along and decided everything had to look like a brown wedding cake or a post office.

  Valentin was at his side, pointing. The long blue building with the white trim, he said, was the GUM department store. It was still open, shoppers streaming in and out. It seemed twice the size of Macy's on Thirty-fourth Street. The brick building at the far end was the State History Museum. No one going in. Maybe it was closed. Or maybe no one goes there because it breaks their hearts.

  But at least no one screwed around with this area too much. They left St. Basil's alone. Lesko would have thought it would be the first thing the truck drivers torched.

  Valentin saw him staring at the cathedral. He offered some history—said it wasn't really a cathedral, but basically a collection of chapels. Ivan the Terrible had it built about four hundred years ago. Was said to have been so pleased that he had the architect blinded so that he could never build anything more beautiful.

  Belkin didn't like that story. The same one, he said, is told about the Taj Mahal. No matter how often it's refuted as the probable invention of some tourist guide looking for new patter, the legend persists. The only blinding that's happened is to the very considerable accomplishments of that particular czar.

  Not worth getting worked up over, thought Lesko, but he had to agree. At least about the legend. If old Ivan ever wanted to build anything else, he couldn't expect bidders to line up around the block if they knew he'd poked the last guy's eyes out.

  Valentin, showing signs of discomfort again, had launched into another story about St. Basil's. Something about those ten chapels being used to stable horses for a while. Lesko had missed the beginning, but since this was said with displeasure, he assumed that Valentin was taking another shot at Stalin and muttered something to that effect.

  “Not Stalin,” said Belkin, testily. “Napoleon.”

  Lesko raised an eyebrow.