Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  Lechmann was convinced of it now. It's better to be crazy.

  First Waldo shoots those two guards. Both of them. In the buttocks. He was as good as his word.

  Why did he do this?

  In part, he says, because one was impolite and the other is too rough with old ladies. Also because the first showed excessive interest in their car. Even Waldo, however, does not regard these as capital offenses.

  “Relax,” he said.

  “Just a pop in the ass. Think of it as a spanking.”

  Also, if those two guards see this car go in one direction and a minute later they are shot from another direction, Waldo reasons that a suspicious police car will no longer be foremost in their minds.

  Even so, he says, it wouldn't hurt to get out of Moscow for a while. Let's go to Zhukovka. This brings the next lunacy.

  All the way to Zhukovka, twenty miles from Moscow, he asked Waldo to please tell him the following. If we are stopped, how do we explain what a Moscow police car is doing in Zhukovka? How do we explain two Moscow detectives, one of whom speaks Russian with a Salzburg accent and the other hardly speaks it at all, are doing so far out of their jurisdiction?

  “You're right,” he said at last. “They stop us, we got a problem.”

  “So, what now? I turn around?”

  “What we do...we stop them first.”

  And this is precisely what ensued. They drive into Zhukovka, all over Zhukovka, stopping every patrolling guard they see. We are Moscow Police, Sex Crimes Unit, hunting a rapist who dresses in a guard uniform. Show me your papers. No sudden moves. My partner is covering you. Ah ... you are legitimate. Go about your duties but keep your eyes open. The bastard is somewhere in this area. My height, pockmarked, walks with a limp.

  Lechmann should have known. Ask a Russian for papers, he shows you his papers. A conditioned reflex. When he drove past these same guards again they would salute to show that they were on their toes or they would spread their hands to signify that they'd seen nothing. None of them seemed to wonder why the second Moscow policeman, the one who didn't speak, was no longer in the car. What's to wonder? He is doubtless beating the bushes for that rapist. Or on a stakeout waiting to pounce on anyone who limps.

  Definitely, it pays to be crazy.

  Dacha means “cottage.” Some cottage, thought Waldo. The house was three stories high, made of stucco and carved wood painted white, Empire style. It was built, Waldo assumed, by some nineteenth-century nobleman who appeared to have some taste. It had a porte cochere entrance on one side and two sets of French doors facing front where there were remnants of a formal garden. A separate garage was set well back; it was once a stable. No one seemed to use it. The cars—Waldo saw three—were gathered at odd angles around the porte cochere. One was the Zil.

  The property was surrounded by a seven-foot wall whose gate had been left open. An open gate meant no dogs. There were coach lamps atop the gate posts but they weren't lit. Nor were there any exterior lights around the main entrance. This struck Waldo as too good to be true until he saw the reason for it. A second Zil appeared. One man and a driver.

  The driver tapped his horn as he slowed to a stop. The young one from the restaurant, broken nose, stepped out of the house and into the moonlight. He nodded, more like a bow, very respectful, to the newcomer who was climbing out of the Zil. This was a new face, not one of the suits or the Arabs from the restaurant.

  Waldo memorized the plate number. The driver was holding the door for his passenger. He closed it behind him, watched him go into the house, then leaned back against the Zil and fumbled for a cigarette and matches.

  Waldo waited until he struck the match, blinding himself, then moved from his place behind the open gate to the set of French doors nearest him. The room inside was unlit except for what spilled from other rooms. He was reluctant to try the doors for fear of an alarm system, but he was able, at least, to get some idea of the layout. Main entrance to his right, a big center hall, probably a grand staircase. This was a formal dining room, furnished with antiques. Next to it, on Waldo's left, a sitting room or parlor. On the far side, he got a glimpse of what looked like the library, four or five men all shaking hands, before Broken Nose stepped to the door and closed it.

  Waldo moved on, proceeding in a clockwise direction around the perimeter of the house. The kitchen, he assumed, would be in the basement. He was looking for the outside entrance. He knew that it would also double as a servants' entrance and that there would be a narrow staircase leading up as well as down. He found it. It was locked. But there was an old coal chute just beyond. No longer used. The house had long been converted to oil. The delivery pipe was right next to the chute.

  He forced the lid of the coal chute. Dry wood. Rusted nails. It broke apart easily. He felt no wires but the inside was caked with years of dust, spiderwebs, old hornet nests. What the hell, he thought. I'm here.

  He took off his coat, turned it inside out, did the same with his trousers, and put them back on. This was so the dirt would be less obvious later. But his weapon, he decided, would have to stay up here. Too bulky to be held against his chest. Besides, he'd need both arms and all their lateral strength to slow his descent. He climbed into the chute.

  “Well? Where is he?” asked the man who had just arrived.

  “Down below,” Kulik answered. “The kitchen. We left him handcuffed to a pipe.”

  “And you intend to kill him?”

  “Yes. If you and the others agree.”

  “Agree? Of course we agree. We told you six months ago that the man has shit for brains. You needed a mess like this before you could see it.”

  “What I needed,” Kulik answered evenly, “was a suitable replacement, patiently groomed, carefully evaluated. Now we have one. He could take over tomorrow. That is my intention unless you disapprove. I plan to have a talk with him, first thing.”

  “That's this Podowsk?”

  “Podolsk. Not Podowsk”

  “Put him aside for the moment. This mess, do you have it under control?”

  “The police certainly. And now Borovik. As for the various other factions involved, I am confident that they can be diverted.”

  “For your sake, I hope so. Already, I think you can expect to be fined for that business in the restaurant. Tell me about your stepson, Arkadi.”

  “What about him?” And fuck you with your fine.

  “How did he trace you to Moscow?”

  “The . . . encounter must have been a coincidence. There is no other explanation for it.”

  The newcomer grunted doubtfully.

  “Back to this Podowsk. What I hear from Leningrad is he's no more than a common thief.”

  “You don't do him justice. According to Sostkov here, he was a most inventive thief.”

  Still the doubt. The man looked at Sostkov, whose face was still aglow with pride at having been permitted to meet him at last. Sostkov snapped out of it. He added his own endorsement of Podolsk.

  “Already,” said Sostkov eagerly, “he runs Borovik's old network. In fact, he has doubled its size. He recruited the new ones himself. It's a wonder, frankly, that he has not struck out on his own, so much does he despise General Borovik.”

  “Not such a wonder,” Kulik put in. “Borovik had the goods on him. He would have been dead or in prison before you could wink.”

  A grunt. “Bringing Podowsk along, Arkadi Ivanovich, that is your decision. Finishing Borovik, that is an act of charity. The sooner you put that one out of his misery, the better. But you must keep this under control. Also, if I were you, I would not be so quick to believe in coincidence.”

  “We . . . bow to your wisdom.”

  They heard a noise. A banging sound and then a ghostly wail. It seemed to come from the heating duct.

  “Borovik,” said Kulik. “He's been doing that since he got here.”

  The newcomer frowned. He glanced toward Kulik's fireplace. The famous golf club was no longer there. But now he saw it. It was
on top of Kulik's desk and ìt was bent in half. He now felt sure that he knew the reason for the wailing.

  “By the way,” he asked Kulik, “why did you bring him to this house? Why couldn't he have jumped off a roof like Pavlov, Kruchina, and the others?”

  ”I need to ask him a few questions.” Including, as those others were asked, where he has his money stashed. If there's a fine to be paid, by God, it will be Borovik who pays it. “He's going to help us control this.”

  “Borovik? How will he do that?”

  “He's going to use his head for a change.”

  Waldo, frozen into a crouch, groped for his penlight to see what he had stepped on. He knew it was not a cat.

  The beam fell on two white thighs. They were trembling. Higher, a pudgy waist, its belly exposed. The pants were down around the knees and the shirt was half open. No socks. One shoe on, the other off. The man had been forcibly dressed. He had a bag over his head, tied off at his neck with a drawstring. It was a thick canvas bag like the kind banks use. Waldo had no doubt who he was. The man asking “Who's there?” had to be Borovik.

  He was handcuffed to the drainpipe leading from a large stone tub. Waldo had seen tubs like it. They were for keeping fish alive before there was refrigeration. Borovik, terrified, kept asking “Who is it?” That, and a low stream of pleadings in Russian. Waldo only caught some of it. He was trying to bargain. Trying to make a deal.

  He scanned the room with his penlight. It was the original kitchen. Pots and pans hung from hooks. Cabinets filled with bowls and platters. A long butcher-block table stood in the center. He saw a massive iron stove that was giving off heat. Someone had fired up the oven. Maybe so Borovik wouldn't freeze.

  Ignoring the Russian, he located the narrow staircase that the servants used. He started to climb. It squeaked horribly. He backed away, crossing the old kitchen to a wider set of stairs. But he heard footsteps, several pair of feet, just above him. Better look for a place to hide, he thought, in case they decided to come down. Preferably something that has a back door.

  There was one large pantry, a wine cellar, and an old root cellar. They wouldn't do. Then he remembered the dumbwaiter. A house like this would have one. It would lead to an upstairs pantry just off the dining room. He found the shaft behind a Dutch door. The dumbwaiter cabinet was all the way down. He tried the rope. The cabinet moved easily. The pulleys squeaked, but they were three floors up. Servants' quarters would be at the top. Along the way, the shaft would likely pass near the master bedroom. Breakfast in bed. This was good, he thought. This gave him three back doors.

  More footsteps. Muffled voices. And a dull shudder upstairs as if a heavy door had been opened. Someone seemed to be leaving. A moment later, he heard the start-up roar of a heavy engine. Probably the second Zil. Waldo checked his memory for the plate number. He still had it.

  He had to assume that someone would be coming down. Borovik was yelling now. Trying threats. Waldo heard both fear and rage. Fear was way ahead. As quietly as he could, he climbed onto the cabinet and closed the Dutch door from inside. He tried the rope. No problem there. It could handle his weight.

  “Where are you?” the Russian was calling. “Where did you go?”

  Waldo grunted. He considered climbing back out and putting him to sleep. But better not. If those other guys come down, he decided, they'll know he didn't clock himself. And Borovik was not likely to ask which one of them has just been prowling around the kitchen.

  And here they came. At least three, by the sound. Maybe four. They figured to be the four from the restaurant, minus the two Arabs whom he hadn't seen among those in the library. He considered hanging around to see what would happen. Hear what they said to Borovik and vice versa. Hope that they stuck to the three or four hundred words Waldo knew. He should have had Lechmann do this. Yeah, right. Lechmann would have had two heart attacks already.

  So screw it. Better to use their noise to cover his. He began pulling himself up.

  He bypassed the dining room in favor of the master bedroom. The dining-room pantry would be right over their heads. He might open the door into a stack of dishes. The only question about the bedroom was whether Kulik had a tootsy up there. But Kulik, given his age, probably had an even limper dick than his own. Waldo decided he could chance it.

  There was no one. And no problem with the door. He tied off the pulley rope lest the cabinet go crashing back down. That done, he paused to think this over. Right about here was where Lechmann would tell him he's crazy. Like ... um, tell me, John ... what was the point of all this?

  ”What? Going in here? This is reconnaissance.”

  “Reconnaissance for what?”

  “For when we want to hit them.”

  “So? Why don't you hit them now? You have five targets, authorized by Zivic, all in the same house. Go out, get your weapon, go back in, and spray the whole pack of them as they climb the basement stairs.”

  ”I don't know. I don't think so.”

  “Too easy, is that it?”

  ”I don't know.”

  “You want to know the truth? You are addicted to creepy-crawly. If you lived in Paris you would know every inch of the sewers.”

  “Well . . `. Maybe I do know. You know whose hit this should be ?”

  “Whose?”

  “Lesko's.”

  Lechmann would argue with that. He'd agree with the premise . . . nice thought and everything ... but he'd point out that Lesko is basically not a killer. I mean, he would definitely bang anyone who was involved in Elena getting shot, but he'd probably want to sort them out first and be sure he had the right guys. With us, standards are less exacting. A bird in the hand.

  Lechmann might have a point. Waldo would think about it.

  In the meantime . . . back to reconnaissance.

  He made his way down the grand staircase. Good carpet. No creaks. In the light from the center hall he saw that he'd forgotten to turn his clothes rightside-out again. He decided to leave them. If anyone got a look at him, most of what they'd remember would be seams and shoulder pads.

  He went first to the front door and made sure it wasn't bolted. Exit number one. Next, he went into the dining room. He checked the French doors for wires, found one, and traced it to its terminal. Holding his breath, he disconnected it. No alarm sounded. Shitty system. Exit number two.

  Reversing himself, he passed through the pantry, which, he saw, had been made into a small office. It opened onto the center hall directly across from the library. In the library itself, the first thing he noticed was the safe. It was an antique. Beautiful old thing. Ornate brass trim with hunting scenes etched into the door and sides. It stood against the wall on one side of the desk. A hotel-type minibar sat next to it looking tackily out of place. He was moving toward the safe when he heard voices, hollow and tinny. He realized that they were coming up from the basement. He listened at the duct.

  There was a struggle going on down there. Heavy breathing. One voice, sort of melodic, was giving orders. Must be Kulik. Waldo listened. From the tone and what words he could pick up, it sounded like Kulik was telling Borovik what they're going to do to him. Now he's asking questions.

  He wanted to know about some money. Waldo got that. But he was also talking about cooking something. Baking something. Feet? Sounded like feet. Waldo couldn't be sure, but if he had to guess, he was saying that either Borovik came clean about the money or they'd stick his feet in that oven.

  Whatever.

  From the sound of it, they'd be busy for a while. He had time to look around. He checked out the top of Kulik's desk. Nothing interesting there. He wondered about the broken golf club, but he didn't dwell on it. His mind was more on that safe. Gorgeous thing. But seriously low tech. What the hell, he decided. He'd give it a shot.

  It took him six minutes. But for the shrieking down below, making the tumblers hard to hear, he could have had it in five. He opened the heavy door and sat back to look over the contents.

  He saw a little
bag of white powder, which he presumed to be happy dust. He ignored it. His eye was drawn to the canvas bags. More bank bags like the one over Borovik's head. Three were filled. Several more lay flat and empty. The next thing he noticed was the hats. Scottish tams. Two of them. They seemed identical to the one Kulik had worn into the restaurant. He wondered, idly, who keeps hats in a safe, but he did not dwell on that either.

  On the shelf with the hats there were several folders, a number of documents, and what looked like a set of charts. He had no idea what they were, but if they were kept in a safe, they had to be important. He wondered if he should take them. Tomorrow, even tonight, they might be missed. On the other hand, if this stuff is anything good and the shit, meanwhile, hits the fan, it might be gone by the time they come back. Waldo thought of the bedroom. He was tempted to run back up for a pillowcase. The hell with it.

  Waldo stripped off his coat and spread it in front of the safe. He took all the folders, all the charts, and piled them on top of it. He went to Kulik's desk and opened a file drawer. He pulled a handful of files from the back. Waldo didn't know what these contained either, only that they were likely to be less interesting than those in the safe. He put them where the others had been. The arrangement was by no means identical but, perhaps, close enough for any casual inspection.

  He opened one of the canvas bags. It was filled with German marks. Large denominations. A second bag was split between dollars and pounds. A third held Swiss francs and, way in the back, he found a small leather pouch that felt like it was filled with gemstones. Waldo didn't bother to open it. He pocketed the pouch and then dumped the contents of all three bank bags onto his coat. He folded it and tied the sleeves across, making a bundle. Next, he took the now-empty bags and, with them, walked along the bookcases stuffing them with the thinnest volumes he could find. So filled, he returned the bags to the safe in approximately their original positions. He closed the door and spun the combination.

  Like Lechmann says, a bird in the hand. Speaking of which . . .

  He turned the key of the minibar, opening it. He hated these things. They all had toy ice trays that made cubes the size of teeth and they never had Guinness. This one didn't either, but it had some other good stuff, most of it foreign except for some chilled vodka and several tins of caviar. He saw a half-empty bottle of tequila. It seemed out of place because otherwise there were two bottles of single malt Scotch, eight bottles of Scottish beer, a box of Highland Shortbreads, and a slab of Scottish salmon. This guy's got a definite thing for Scotland, thought Waldo. Waldo took two cold beers from the back and shoved them into his bundle.