Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  The door opened abruptly, almost silently. No jangle of keys. The door closed again. No light came on.

  The Sicilian waited, listening, his knife held across his chest. He heard a faint rustle of fabric. She was definitely inside. He realized now that the removal of her shoes was not an aberration. Somehow, she had sensed his presence. Another woman might have run. Not Carla. She is inside, probably crouched low, her own knife in her hand. She, too, is waiting, listening.

  A hundred heartbeats, two hundred, and she still had not moved. At the entrance to the kitchen, the Sicilian angled his head slightly. He could now see half of her living room but not the half where she stood. He decided to risk it. His night vision was not yet at its fullest, but it had to be better than that of a woman who had just been driving. He leaned further, his knife high, ready to parry a sudden thrust.

  He saw her.

  She was standing, not crouching. Her back was to him. And she was looking, bent at the waist, through a window to the right of her front door. She was staring out into the night.

  The Sicilian understood. Whatever she had sensed, whatever made her take off those shoes, it was out there, not here. She thinks so, at least.

  She is moving now. Sideways. Again to the door. The Sicilian readied himself. His moment would come when she reaches that door, possibly to get a better look outside, more likely to bolt it. Either way, the noise of the latch would give him his chance.

  She was working the lock, fumbling with it. The Sicilian hesitated. Too much fumbling, it seemed to him. Too much for someone who lives here. But that must be because she holds a weapon, this makes it awkward to grip the lock. Good time to move.

  But a better time, he realized, is coming now. Door is unlocked. Being opened. Left hand still on the latch, right hand not visible so it must be extended forward. She cannot turn in his direction. The door would be in the way.

  Move, he said.

  Three steps, kick the door, slam it into her. Follow it, use your body, crush her against the doorframe, and then thrust. Up through the kidneys. Avoid the ribs.

  Even as he thought this, envisioned it, he was moving. The door was half open. No need to kick it. He pushed it instead, pinning her. A squeal of surprise. He had time to look down, pick his spot. He drove the knife deep. Her back arched. She went rigid.

  Suddenly, a gunshot. Very close. He saw the muzzle flash and, instantly, he knew the source. Her right hand held a pistol, not a knife. His brain said that was good. Carla had a gun, cocked and ready, and he took her. with a knife.

  Her head was back, her mouth was open. She tried to scream, but she could only gasp. He twisted the knife to make sure. She went rigid again. Now to finish her. The Sicilian tugged the knife free. With his left hand, his body still pinning her, he reached for her hair. Grip it, pull her head back, cut her throat. Cut through to her spine.

  His brain spoke to him again. It shouted at him. It said something is wrong here. What is all this hair? This bun in the back. Carla Benedict's hair is short and straight. But by the time he heard this, he had begun his cut. The body was kicking. Dancing. The pinned right hand squeezed off another shot. More noises. Something heavy, pounding on wood. And before he could focus, suddenly there was a face. Wide eyes, tortured eyes, staring into his. Enormous shoulders, wide as the doorway.

  Drop the woman, his brain shouted. Free the knife. Kill this one. The Sicilian tried. But suddenly, the arm which held the knife went numb. Fingers, strong as teeth, were gripping it.

  He let go of the woman. The big man caught her as she fell. The Sicilian tried to fight. With the thumb of his left hand, he tried for the big man's eyes. The man only lowered his head and punched at his chest with the hand that still held his knife arm. The punches knocked him backward, off balance. Now the arm whipped him this way and that as if he were a boy, all the while the man is still holding the woman, lowering her to the floor, calling to her, saying her name.

  The name he said was Lydia.

  The Sicilian's brain cried “No.

  “Not Lydia.

  “Carla.”

  Even the woman was shaking her head as if in denial. Violently. Side to side. One hand clutching at this man's shirt, tearing it. She was trying to speak. Pleading with him. The words sounded Russian. “Yuri,” he thought she called him.

  Russians?

  What are Russians doing here?

  The Sicilian heard another sound. An electronic pulse. Four notes that meant receive message. The four notes were repeated again and again. He imagined them saying, “What's going on there? We hear all this noise.” The Sicilian had no time for this. With his free hand he groped for the communicator. He could use it as a weapon. With one leg he kicked at the big man's face. The man called Yuri winced. He rocked a little. Otherwise he ignored the blow.

  The Sicilian found the communicator: He held it as he would hold a brick, ready to smash it, butt end, against the big man's elbow. Make him let go of the knife arm before it lost all feeling. He hammered at the elbow once, then two times more. It had no effect.

  Suddenly, the communicator was blinking at him.

  abort, said the display in code.

  Then, more urgently, abort—acknowledge—abort— acknowledge— abort ... It repeated these words over and over, bathing the room in strobes of soft red light.

  To a place far back in the Sicilian's mind, this was almost funny. Fine time to tell me, it said. He tried kicking again at the figure lit by the glow. But it was hard to get leverage. And again, the big man barely seemed to take notice.

  Ignoring him, he was talking to this one he called Lydia. Speaking Russian, but gently, as if to a lover. Comforting her. He had torn away part of his shirt and he was holding the cloth against her throat. The Sicilian twisted under the arm. He kicked, more forcefully this time.

  “Hold this,” the big man seemed to say to her. “Press it tight.” He let it go and turned.

  The Sicilian waited, his communicator in hand, timing a blow at the big man's temple. He swung. The big man blocked it easily.

  Strangely, the Sicilian felt no fear. This man was strong the way an ox is strong but he seemed no more dangerous. He seemed to be saying, This one is a distraction. Give me a few seconds. I will find a rope to tie him with.

  He felt the big one's hand at the back of his neck, pulling him into a sitting position, bending his head forward, embracing him. It was being done carefully. The Sicilian understood. It was to be a choke hold. He was to be put to sleep. Keep calm, he told himself. Wait for the pressure, struggle a little, and then go limp. Try to fool him. It's your only chance.

  The Sicilian struggled. He went limp. But the pressure did not ease. Now he felt a hand slipping under his jaw, cupping it. More pressure, this time a twist. He realized, to his horror, what was happening. This young ox meant to break his neck.

  But why so slowly? his brain screamed. Why still so much care?

  He felt a grinding of the vertebrae just under his collar. He felt rockets shooting down his spine, down his legs, trying to burst out through his toes. He felt hot needles in his neck, working upward, reaching his eyes. The night exploded into flashes of light.

  37

  Valentin had taken the scenic route again.

  “Plenty of time for restaurant,” he said. ”I show you Moscow at night, yes. I show you Americaland.”

  “What's Americaland?” Lesko asked him.

  “Is like amusement park for Russians. Brief detour. Five minutes.”

  Lesko glanced at Belkin, who offered no objection. This was the same Leo Belkin, however, who had hustled them out of their room not ten minutes after Lesko tipped the bellboy.

  ”I am sorry to rush you,” he said then. “Valentin is waiting with the car, I think. Best we don't miss our reservation.”

  Elena gave him a hooded look. With that one expression, thought Lesko, she said about four different things.

  Oh, for heaven 's sake, Leo.

  Will you relax?

/>   No, Leo, we have not been talking about you. I have barely had time to use the bathroom.

  And, Yes, Leo, I am being careful what I say in this room regardless of what seems to have happened in the lobby.

  Lesko pretended not to notice. Nor did he bother correcting Belkin as to Valentin's present whereabouts. Valentin was not cooling his heels downstairs, because Lesko had been watching him from the window.

  He hadn't spotted him at first, but some other interesting things were happening down below. A man, dressed strictly blue-collar, clearly not a guest, walked out of the main entrance, head down, hands in his pockets, and crossed the street to the department store where he took a position in the lighted doorway. Lesko got a pretty fair look at him. Built like a flabby wrestler, bullet head, hair cropped short, wore a blue quilted jacket that was too small for him. He was tempted to ask Elena if this was one of the characters she saw watching the hotel before, but she was busy brushing her teeth.

  Suddenly there was no need to ask. Suddenly here comes that blond guy from the lobby. The one the German was yelling at. The one who's apparently KGB. He's got a coat on now, and he crosses the street to the slob in the quilted jacket. He grabs this guy's collar and practically drags him out of the lighted doorway. He pushes him into a darker corner and, arms waving, is clearly reaming him out. Lesko couldn't tell what about, but he had a hunch or two.

  Part of it, obviously, had to do with basic surveillance techniques. As in, “Hey, mudak. You don't stand under a light bulb, you putz, making customers walk around you.” But his loudest hunch said that this bozo probably had something to do with the missing laptop which caused all that uproar and ended up blowing the blond guy's cover. Anyway, the slob is trying to get a word in edgewise. The blond looks like he wants to hit him. Instead, he points at a spot on the ground telling Bullet Head not to move from it.

  The blond guy stalks off, walking fast, straight, and obviously pissed in the direction of Lubyanka Square. The slob flips a finger at his back, but he stays where he's told.

  Now, suddenly, there was Valentin. He comes out another door at the far end. He's picked up a shopping bag someplace; it helps him mix with the flow of shoppers. He starts to follow the blond, but, for some reason, he decides against it.

  Lesko pressed his cheek against the window. The blond guy, he sees, is cutting right across the square, ignoring the pedestrian walkways. A cop wags a striped baton at him but then hesitates and changes his mind. The cop's behavior suggests recognition. Or else the cop sees the look on his face, that he's making a beeline for KGB headquarters, and decides that life's too short for the aggravation. This was when Leo knocked on the door and said that Valentin is downstairs waiting. Valentin showed up ten minutes later. Apologized. Said he went to get gas.

  So, okay, thought Lesko.

  So we drive around for a while, listening to our stomachs growl. Valentin conducts the tour, Belkin pretends not to be watching for a tail, Elena gives him another of those Be patient, Lesko squeezes and also a squeeze of the bulge in his pocket that says I know you bought something for me. When do I see what it is? Meanwhile, we all pretend that Raymond Lesko is deaf, dumb, and stupid.

  Valentin's route to Americaland, whatever that was, took them past the far end of GUM. The Chaika paused for the light. Just up from the intersection, Lesko saw that a crowd had gathered around two police cars. People craning their necks, peering into an alley. He hoped that the cops weren't doing a sweep of the sidewalk entrepreneurs or, if they were, that his friend Mikhail had been savvy enough to see them coming.

  “What do you think's happening?” he asked Belkin.

  A shrug. Nothing out of the ordinary, it said.

  “It's not a sweep, is it? Rounding up those black-market kids?”

  His interest, and the concern in his voice, brought a flicker of surprise to Belkin's brow, but he did not question it.

  “More likely an auto accident,” he answered. “See?” He gestured toward an ambulance that was now approaching.

  Lesko nodded. “Then what's with that cop over there?”

  Belkin followed his line of sight. He saw, at the edge of the crowd, a policeman who was looking back at them, spreading his arms as if in welcome. It was an exaggerated gesture. It did not appear to be friendly. The cop, who obviously knew KGB plates when he saw them, was now tossing a thumb in the direction of the alley. He seemed to be saying, Come on. It's all yours.

  “Just an accident,” Belkin repeated. The light changed. The car moved forward. Lesko saw the cop's hand drop to his crotch for a parting salute.

  Probably nothing, he thought. Local cops versus feds. Oil and water. Probably the same all over the world. That, however, did not explain why the local cop was inviting the KGB to settle a fender bender or, for that matter, what kind of an accident happens in an alley.

  Still, Lesko could believe it. In this town, he noticed, everyone drives around with their parking lights. It's the law, Valentin explained. Probably passed, he said, so that spy satellites would have a harder time at night. More likely because some party boss's wife had complained that brights made her eyes water.

  The Chaika crossed what used to be Marx Prospekt and drove north on what used to be Gorky Street.

  “Very confusing,” said Valentin. “In Moscow, everyplace is former this, former that. If you use old name, people think you are still Communist. If you use new name, most people never heard of it.”

  Lesko thought he spotted a tail.

  He wasn't sure. Not that it mattered.

  His first sign that they were approaching Americaland came as they passed two movie theaters in a row that were showing fairly recent American films. The titles were in Cyrillic, but he recognized the posters. One of them had Clint Eastwood on it. Made him think of Carla's boyfriend for some reason.

  Belkin said that at any given time, fully half of all theaters in Moscow were showing American movies.

  “Wait until you turn on your television,” he said. “Can you guess the most popular program in Moscow?”

  “Leave It to Lenin?”

  “Not funny, Lesko. But not so far wrong. Most popular are Dallas, Flintstones, Jetsons, Highway to Heaven, and Love Boat in approximately that order.”

  “Also MTV,” Valentin said. “Every Friday night is MTV.”

  At this, Belkin grumbled. “Soon young Russian brains will be like young American brains. All turned to oatmeal.”

  Lesko thought he saw that tail again. A big car. Possibly a van. The right headlight was a little cockeyed.

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  38

  The Sicilian was floating. All was darkness again but for one bright light in the distance. It was coming nearer. This must be death, he realized.

  He had heard of people who had died but who had been revived. They told of seeing a bright light and they felt a great peace. They felt no more pain.

  The bright light, they said, would welcome them, embrace them. Their whole lives would flash before them in seconds. The light would make no judgments. It would only help them to understand their lives. Why they had turned this way instead of that.

  But this bright light came no closer. It stayed in one place. Now it began to soften, to diffuse. Around it he saw what looked like a ceiling. A ceiling and walls. Pictures hanging on these walls. He realized with a start that he was not dead after all. He was not even sleeping. But if this was so, why could he not move? Why did he feel nothing except a burning at the back of his neck?

  The truth came upon him slowly. He understood now, although he fought to deny it, why the big one had been so careful. He was not dead. Or his brain was not dead. Only the rest of him. He wanted to scream, but his lungs would not take the breath for it.

  A shadow rose.

  He could see the big man clearly now. This Yuri, standing over him. There was blood on his jacket. His shirt had been ripped at the pocket and there were tears in his eyes. He bent over, reaching for something at the
Sicilian's side. When he straightened, the communicator was in his hand. Coded words still flashing.

  “Shoo . . .” The Sicilian tried to speak. His throat was thick. “Shoo me,” he managed.

  The big man seemed not to trust his voice either. He swallowed hard. “This message,” he asked finally. “What is it? Who is sending it?”

  “Fin . . . Finish me. Doan lee me lye this.”

  The big one turned away. The Sicilian felt his footsteps through the back of his head. He heard sounds of scraping. The big man returned with two house plants in heavy ceramic pots, one in each hand. He positioned these against the Sicilian's temples, immobilizing his head. He left again, returning this time with bathroom towels. He stuffed these in as padding. Once more, the big one left him. The Sicilian's left eye followed as he knelt to pick up the woman who was not Carla Benedict. Blond hair. Body limp. He carried her into the bedroom. The Sicilian heard him talking to her. Tenderly as before. From the look of her, she could no longer answer.

  Next, he heard a sound he recognized. The trapdoor opening. Broken glass tumbling from it. The squeak of metal stairs under heavy feet. The Sicilian tried to arch his neck, break it completely, end his life now. But he could not move at all.

  Parts of his life did flash before him. In his mind, he saw himself when he was younger. Playing soccer. Running and leaping like a gazelle. Racing sailboats in the strongest wind.

  Now he was a piece of meat. A disembodied head.

  That woman.

  He had no idea who she was. Or what a Russian was doing here. Perhaps they, too, had come for Carla. That must be it.