Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  “That one,” said the sergeant, “looks like KGB himself.”

  Levin stared at the photograph. He tried to read the face.

  No, he decided. Not KGB. The eyes were too alive. The other features were vaguely Slavic, he supposed, but there was something foreign about him.

  He wondered what the photographs meant. The fact that there were three of them. And whether Sasha Kerensky ever actually had them in the first place.

  He had to assume that the three were probably in Moscow at this moment. If not, he asked, what would be the point of trying to link them with this murder? Kerensky, quite possibly, had been asked to keep an eye on them. Probably by his protectors in the KGB. Which means that the KGB probably knows who and where they are.

  “You know what we should do?” asked the sergeant.

  “What?”

  “Drag him around to the other side of GUM. One hundred meters and he's out of our district.”

  It was an appealing suggestion. The problem was that the police cars had already attracted a crowd outside the alley and they know there is a body in there. Someone would talk out of turn. Also, even if they did drag him to the other side, the police from that district would probably drag him right back when they see who it is.

  ”I have a better idea,” said Levin. “You go back to the car. Patch a call to Number Two, Lubyanka.”

  “And tell them what? The Jew says all is forgiven?”

  “Tell them to come pick up their garbage.”

  32

  “Is Yuri again,” he said when Susan's voice answered.

  “He's here. Wait.”

  Yuri listened to the clicking sounds that meant a scrambling device was being activated. Someday, he thought, he would like to see Mama's Boy's system. Designed by Molly Farrell. All done with harmonics. Better than CIA. CIA needs same machine on both ends.

  “Yuri?” Bannerman's voice. “We were just leaving for the airport. Where are you?”

  “On road approaching Zurich. Not long to Carla's house. Carla is safe in my flat, asleep from pills I gave her. I estimate she will not wake for six hours.”

  “You'll be back before then?”

  “If no difficulties, yes.”

  “Keep her there, even if you have to tie her up. Have you spoken to Leo?”

  ”I have left two messages but they have gone to dinner.”

  “Which means he can't reach you until you get back to Bern. I can't wait for that, Yuri. I've got to know what I'm walking into.”

  ”I know. Is purpose of call. I have translation of Corsini tapes.”

  “Translated? By whom?”

  “By KGB officer. A woman. She is reliable, I think. She helped me to find Corsini in restricted files. She is with me now.”

  A brief silence, suggestive of annoyance. Then, “Start with the files. Who is he?”

  Yuri hesitated. “Please understand. Best for me if you speak first.”

  Bannerman understood. Accessing restricted files could mean a court-martial, Leo or no Leo. The young Russian was hoping that all he had to do was confirm.

  “Corsini is an agent-in-place,” said Bannerman as if it were more than a guess. “He's working for the SCD and I think that Roger Clew knows it.”

  “Thank you. Since when does he know?”

  “Only since after the wedding.”

  Yuri grunted. Clew had done a background check, probably out of curiosity. Yuri wished now that he had thought to

  do the same.

  “Clew does not know that he's dead?”

  “No. Confirm or deny, please, Yuri.”

  “He was an agent. File gives no details but yes, he was run by SCD. He is part of a network. All totally illegal.”

  “Is the SCD, or a faction within it, trying to control drug distribution in your country?”

  “Not just drugs. All smuggling, all organized crime.”

  “Why would that interest Roger?”

  Yuri hesitated. “You understand that Soviet Union . . . former Soviet Union . . . has no money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything is for sale. Weapons and guidance systems are for sale. Two hundred kilos of enriched uranium are missing. Many tons of nerve gas are missing.”

  A long silence. “Does Leo Belkin know where they've gone?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have an opinion?”

  “Is like . . . when a war is just ending. Some things are hidden for later. Some things are hidden so that others cannot use them.”

  “Does this include money?”

  “Money, much gold, gemstones from Ural mines . . . everything.”

  “Including, I suppose, morphine base.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn't that Leo's immediate interest? The drug trade?”

  “Began with drugs, yes. But same distribution network would be used for most other forms of contraband. Control that network and you control all the rest.”

  “Which this faction is trying to do now?”

  “We think so. Yes.”

  “Yuri . . . why is this necessarily sinister? I mean, might this simply be good police work?”

  A part of Yuri wanted to laugh. “No one is in charge, Mr. Bannerman. At this level, all is chaos. Chaos always brings opportunists. Is important to remember that many thousands of trained KGB officers are now unemployed. Also that not all of the bad ones have been purged.”

  Bannerman grunted. Another thoughtful silence.

  “Back to this drug network, Yuri. Leo, I take it, plans to use the Zurich program against it.”

  “Not just General Belkin, but yes.”

  “And it's all programmed and ready?”

  “Is not ready. Needs names.”

  An exasperated sigh. “Which he hopes to get how? By thumbing his nose at Moscow Center and hoping that they'll do something stupid?”

  “Not so simplistic. But yes. He means to draw them out.”

  “Using himself as bait. Along with Lesko and Elena.”

  “Elena is not being used. For most part, she agrees with what he is doing.”

  “She's known all along?”

  “Since before the wedding, yes.”

  “Yuri . . ” Bannerman paused, searching for words. “Doesn't this sound just a little bit crazy to you?”

  “World is crazy.”

  “We're talking about Leo. If there is an outlaw KGB, it's none of Leo's business. Why is he taking this on?”

  “Not his business? Is his country.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Country is dying, Mr. Bannerman.”

  Yuri felt a sudden wave of sadness. As much as he respected this man, he saw no use in trying to explain General Belkin to him. Bannerman would not understand. For Bannerman there is no country. He defends only his portion of it, only his friends. For all else, his soul has turned to ice.

  The question, the one that had eluded Yuri, began forming again. But once more the pieces fell away. Bannerman. It had to do with Bannerman. With cutting off a head.

  “Yuri?”

  “Still here.”

  “Back to Corsini. Was he a professional?”

  “Some training. Not much, I think. Admiration of your people was genuine.”

  “They sent an amateur against Carla Benedict?”

  “They sent a romantic. He knows to be attentive, to flatter, and he is probably proficient in bedroom. In this case, I think, these skills were the first requirement.”

  ”I suppose,” Bannerman said distantly. “What's on the tape?”

  Yuri opened Lydia's notebook. His intention was to give only the essence of Corsini's remarks, withholding certain particulars. The identity of this Borovik was not for Bannerman to know. Or those names that he had memorized and then written down. Those were a KGB matter. Absolutely requires permission from General Belkin.

  He began summarizing. Bannerman listened closely.

  At the part where Corsini realized that there was no urgency to make this
trip, Bannerman expressed regret that Corsini had not lived to report it. But all it probably meant was that Belkin wasn't quite ready. And perhaps all the more vulnerable.

  “Yuri?”

  “Yes.”

  “While I think of it, don't assume that Corsini worked alone, especially if he's not a trained agent. I can't believe that whoever sent him would not have assigned someone else to observe and report. That person might be wondering where he is before long.”

  “My thought as well,” Yuri told him. “Is why I brought extra pair of eyes.”

  “And you'd better assume that Roger has Corsini under surveillance by now.”

  “While he is with Carla as well? Would he take such a risk?”

  “Perhaps not. But keep it in mind.”

  “Thank you. I continue? Notes now get interesting.”

  “Please.”

  Bannerman listened with growing wonder to the workings of Aldo Corsini's mind. His detachment from reality. Aldo's conviction that he could have been the best of them. If Bannerman were to beat his doctor neighbor at one-on-one, he would not conclude that he was ready for the Boston Celtics.

  Regarding the two women he seems to be claiming that he killed, Bannerman had no idea what to make of that. Corsini told Carla that his wife had died in a fire. Maybe he'd killed her and then set it. Maybe she'd spit in his face.

  As for the sudden decision to marry Carla, Bannerman did not share Yuri's view that Carla would necessarily have checked him out first. She might not have wanted to know. enjoy it while you can. Nothing lasts anyway. If a dark sideshould turn up later she was more than capable of dealing with it. No one has a side as dark as Carla's.

  The most curious revelation was Aldo's intention to live in Westport, become totally accepted, and become rich and famous by doing so. Even assuming acceptance, which would be polite at best, how does he get rich? He asked this question of Yuri.

  A low grunt. The equivalent of a shrug.

  “Lydia suggests assassination. Most likely of Mama's Boy.”

  “Why me? I'm not part of this.” No alarm in his voice. Only annoyance.

  “Old grievance, perhaps. I do not know.”

  “Okay, then who would pay him?”

  “Perhaps no one. Is possible that this is fantasy.”

  “Yuri . . ” Bannerman's voice had an edge. “Who does Aldo think would pay him?”

  The Russian hesitated. Bannerman heard the drumming of fingers against the roadside kiosk.

  ”I will tell you,” Yuri answered finally, “that there is a man. He is KGB. Moscow Center. He seems to be Aldo Corsini's control.”

  “But you won't tell me his name.”

  “Internal matter. Only with permission.”

  “Fair enough. Does Leo know it?”

  ”I learn it myself only tonight. Computer in Bern speaks of him. Corsini speaks of him. I must emphasize, however, that this is only one name. Not name at top. Would be far from top. This man is strictly goon.”

  “Well, have you checked my file?”

  “Recently, no.”

  “It wouldn't have been recent. Have I crossed this man in the past?”

  ”I would have remembered. I don't. . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  That question. It was trying to form again. There were pictures this time. The computer screen in Bern. Borovik's file. And there was that phrase. The cutting off of heads.

  Heads.

  Mutilation.

  ”I must ask a question.” Yuri took a breath. “You have been to Leningrad?”

  “Once.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Eight or nine years ago. Why?”

  “Was a man killed on that occasion? KGB?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you tell me...in what manner?”

  The line fell silent for a moment. Then muffled words. Sound of Susan's voice. It was Yuri's impression that she was being asked to occupy herself elsewhere. A sliding door opened and closed. Bannerman's voice again.

  “What's this about, Yuri?”

  “Indulge me, please. What happened in Leningrad?”

  Bannerman hesitated, then appeared to conclude that there was no harm in telling.

  “There was a prisoner exchange. Your people had kidnapped one of ours. We kidnapped one of yours in return.”

  “KGB?”

  ”A colonel. I don't remember his name, but there were two of them. Brothers. Both colonels.”

  “You kidnapped two?”

  “Just the one. We picked him up in East Germany and brought him to Helsinki for the swap. His brother negotiated for your side. Billy McHugh, John Waldo, and I made the exchange from a boat just off the Finnish coast. Our man was belted to a stretcher. He'd been beaten but he was lucid. He said there were no weapons on their boat and they hadn't wired him in any way, but he'd heard helicopters warming up on the other shore. We lifted him aboard, shoved our hostage into the water, and got out of there while the Russians were fishing him out. But I should have . . .”

  Bannerman's voice trailed off. Yuri realized that he was replaying that day in his mind, clearly chastising himself for some remembered failure.

  “To make a long story short,'' said Bannerman, ''the brother had rigged a timing device inside the aluminum frame of the stretcher.”

  “Explosives?”

  “No. Well. . . just a pop. It was . . .”

  Bannerman cleared his throat.

  “Alcohol and methyl difluoride,” said Bannerman. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Is sarin. Nerve gas.”

  “The charge mixed the two chemicals. The gas killed our man and the crew of an ambulance we had waiting. The rest of us were following behind. We saw the ambulance drift onto the shoulder, hit a ditch, and roll over. I had no idea what happened. I ran to pull them out but Billy knocked me down. Two girls on a motorcycle came from the other direction. They saw what they thought was an accident and rode their bike to the door before Billy could stop them. They died as well.”

  Yuri cleared his throat. “But this is Finland, yes? Still not Leningrad.”

  “Leningrad was about eight months later. We went back in for that colonel. His name was Borovik, now that I think of it. Colonel Gennadi Borovik.”

  “You executed him?”

  “Yes. Are you ready to tell me why you're asking?”

  “Possible relevance. How did he die?”

  Voice became flat. ”I cut his head off, Yuri.”

  The Russian swallowed. Lydia's translation was better than she knew. He moistened his lips. “Ah ... Details might be useful,” he said.

  “What do you want to know?” Bannerman's voice showed annoyance again. “Did I take my time? Did I use a butter knife?”

  Yuri thought he knew the answer to this. Profîle on Mama's Boy was clear. If he goes to kill, he kills. No cruelty, no waste of time. Yuri flattered himself that he was like Bannerman in this regard. Killing was not a game.

  But it was also true that Mama's Boy leaves no doubt. Always leaves signature.

  ”I. . . am curious what you did with his head.”

  A long silence, perhaps to determine that Susan could not hear. Then, ”I left it on the hood of his car. I left his car parked outside number 4 Liteiny Prospekt.”

  Yuri closed his eyes.

  Liteiny 4. KGB headquarters for Leningrad.

  He remembered hearing a story, officially denied, of a terrorist attack on that building. It had happened before his time. But he recalled no mention of a head used as hood ornament. Only of firebombs.

  “Firebombs,” he said aloud. “That was you, by chance?”

  “Yuri . . . have you read my file or haven't you?”

  “File has nothing about this. Very curious.”

  He heard Susan's voice in the background. Anton is outside, she is saying. They must leave now or they will miss their flight. Bannerman says that he'll be right behind her.

  “Not so curious,” he told Yu
ri. “The intent was to humiliate. They dealt with that by deciding it never happened.”

  “Humiliation was purpose of firebombing as well?”

  “No. That was a few days later. John Waldo stayed in Leningrad for a while.”

  The young Russian raised an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”

  “Staying or bombing, Yuri?”

  “Staying was to cover Mama's Boy's retreat. Bombing was to create a diversion?”

  “It was more of an impulse. He thought the building was ugly.”

  33

  The Sicilian found no car inside the boathouse. It had no room for one in any case.

  He had entered from the open end, which faced the lake. He waited for several minutes, listening. He heard no sound except the stop-and-go scurrying of rats who had caught his scent. He wondered, idly, how they managed to smell him, so strong was the stink of mildew and of spilled gasoline.

  In what little light there was he could make out the shape of a small motorboat. It was hanging from a davit over the launching well. To one side, he saw the wooden cradle for it. He also saw the white hull of a Sunfïsh leaning against one wall. Its sail had been carelessly wrapped around the mast and boom and all three left lying on the damp concrete floor.

  These sights and smells annoyed the Sicilian. He had spent much of his life around boats. They deserved better care than this. He fought off an urge to hang the Sunfísh mast on the wall before the rats make a nest of the sail. Pull the outboard in and lower it onto its cradle before a wind comes up and bangs it against the hoist.

  Perhaps, he thought, Carla Benedict knows no better. Probably the only things she takes good care of are her knives. But Aldo should have taught her. Not that he was such great shakes at maintenance himself.

  He decided to risk using his penlight.

  The beam picked up a winding iron staircase which stood in the far corner. Above it was a trapdoor, very large, intended for passing nautical equipment back and forth when the apartment upstairs was still a sail loft.

  Two rats began squealing. Fighting. The noise seemed deafening.

  The Sicilian froze, listening for sounds from above. He heard nothing. No feet striking the floor. No evidence that there was anyone there to hear. Carefully, silently, he climbed the spiral steps. He had no intention of entering the apartment, least of all being caught inside by Carla should she return home suddenly. It simply struck him as a good thing to know whether the trapdoor was bolted from above. Knowing Carla Benedict's reputation, it surely was.