Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  “There go the trucks.” Carla flicked a finger. “And there goes Roger after them.”

  Bannerman turned. Roger Clew was trying to wave down the trucks. The soldiers ignored him. One threw him a finger. They roared off. Clew ran back to Kaplan, who was making calming gestures. Bannerman could almost hear Kaplan's words. Forget it, he'd be saying. You think Bannerman's sealed up in a crate? He's back in Brugg's plane waiting for us to chase after those trucks.

  Clew yelled for an embassy car all the same. It pulled out, three men in it, drove up to him. He seemed indecisive. Kaplan folded his arms. At last, Clew told the driver to follow the trucks. Kaplan began walking toward the plane. Clew threw up his hands and followed him.

  “Carla ...” Bannerman turned to look at her. ”I want you to stay with Yuri. Yuri? If Mr. Belkin here approves, you might want to go to Major Podolsk's apartment and wait there. Lesko is running around loose. If he's with who I think he's with, he has Podolsk's name by now and he won't stop to wonder what side he's on. Carla?” He held her gaze again. “Do this for me, please. I'm going to see if I can get a ride with those two.”

  He stepped from the car and started toward the plane, counting backward from ten, waiting for the sound of a second door slamming. He heard it at eight. The next sound would be the angry click of Carla's heels.

  “Hey, Bannerman,” he heard her hiss. “What the fuck is this?”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her so that she faced away from the plane. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear.

  “Tell me what you thought of Leo's uncle,” he said quietly.

  A touch of sadness. ”I know. He's a turkey.”

  “Is he a leader?”

  “Like you, you mean?”

  “Like anyone.”

  A tentative shrug. “He's more of a chaplain. He thinks he's Jesus but at least he's honest.”

  “He's righteous, Carla. That's not the same as honest.”

  She twisted her neck to look up at him. “And maybe you're just pissed because he doesn't buy your act.”

  “He thinks I'm ruthless. What does that tell you?”

  “That he isn't. I know.”

  “Would you follow that man?”

  Silence.

  “Well?”

  She shook her head. ”I can see why Yuri buys into him. It could feel good for a while. But no.”

  “It's Yuri that I'm worried about. He gets near that old man and his mind stops working.”

  ”I know.”

  “Don't misunderstand me. Leo's uncle is a man determined that nothing should be done in the old ways. If he wants to take the high road, I think that's admirable, but he doesn't belong in this line of work. Predict his future, Carla.”

  She squirmed.

  “Okay. Then tell me why he's still alive.”

  She took a breath, then nodded. “They know he's harmless. A two-year penetration just to get one name. I'd have had it in two minutes.”

  “He had it all the time, Carla. He just never made the connection because he was too busy proving that he could rise above private emotions. But not all his disciples feel that way.”

  “One of them dropped a dime. I know.”

  “So if this high-road business is beginning to wear thin, I don't want to see Yuri backing the wrong horse.”

  “I'll stick with him. He stuck with me.”

  Bannerman gave her a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Try to catch up with my death squads.”

  “How come Clew and Kaplan? I mean, I can see Kaplan, but.. .”

  “Yuri didn't think I'd understand Leo's uncle. I'm afraid I do. But I definitely understand Roger. More to the point, Roger understands me.”

  74

  Viktor Podolsk was blindfolded.

  He himself had wrapped the red necktie twice around his head and tied the knot. The man who came for him, the man now driving the Zil, then sealed it off with adhesive tape.

  “Borovik is finished,” he had whispered through the door of Podolsk's apartment off Tishinsky. “Bad for him. Good for you. They want to see you, Viktor Vasilyevich.”

  Podolsk, a Makarov in his hand, had stood to one side of the door. With a rolled-up newspaper, he reached to block the light from his peephole to see if a bullet smashed through where his face seemed to be.“You see?” said the voice. “Nothing in my hands, nothing under my coat. In my shirt, however, there is this.”

  Podolsk wouldn't look. But a second later he heard the man getting down on his knees. Fifty-dollar bills, American, began to appear under his door. Ten at a time. The voice counted them off. He stopped at five thousand.

  “Next comes my spravka”, said the voice. “It's a little out of date, but it's me.”

  Podolsk picked up the blue-covered KGB pass and opened it. Oleg Sostkov was the name. Captain, Special Inspectorate. The pass had expired. A little out of date was almost three years already.

  He recognized the face. Very stiff. Cold and unsmiling. He had seen this man much more recently. He'd seen him wandering around Moscow Center from time to time, most often down in the basement cafeteria where the worst of the cells used to be. Drinking Pepsi. Chewing the fat. The older hands all seemed to know him. Some were cordial, most gave him the cold shoulder, but this sort of mixed reception was not uncommon when former officers stopped by to visit. Podolsk, however, had paid him no mind because this man had showed no interest in Borovik, nor had Borovik so much as looked at him. But for the past few months, to hear him tell it now, he was practically Borovik's control.

  Podolsk, finally, had let him in, but he kept the Makarov in his hand. The face startled him. Still unsmiling, both eyes had been blackened and his nose was swollen and held in place by tape. The eyes, however, seemed full of good humor.

  When a smile did come, he would raise a hand to cover it. His face, Podolsk realized, had an unfortunate musculature by which a simple smile looked more like a sneer. It was not an asset. Sostkov clearly knew that. Podolsk gestured questioningly toward the more recent facial damage but Sostkov waved it aside. He repeated what he'd said from the corridor. For Viktor Podolsk, this was to be a day of days. It was Podolsk's impression that great good fortune had recently visited Sostkov as well.

  Even later, however, in the Zil, after agreeing to be blindfolded, he kept his pistol. It was small comfort by then, of course, but Sostkov said, “Keep it, if it makes you happy, until I say we're almost there. By that time, if you don't know I could have killed you ten times over, you're a hopeless case.

  “It's the biggest day of your life,” he kept saying. “All you have to do is make a good impression. Already this man wants to like you because I have personally vouched for you.”

  In the time that he was blindfolded—it was only thirty minutes—Sostkov coached him on how to behave, what to say. His advice was simple. “Be yourself, be truthful, don't tell him what you think he wants to hear. He knows you hated Borovik. Believe me, that will stand in your favor.”

  The Zil made many turns. But always, in the end, Podolsk would feel the morning sun on the back of his neck. They were headed due west. Out into the suburbs. Sostkov asked for the gun. Podolsk held it out to him.

  At last, the Zil stopped. Two short beeps of the horn. Sostkov's window rolling down. Podolsk could smell lilacs. “Give me a minute with him first,” said Sostkov. He climbed out of the Zil.

  Podolsk listened. At first, he heard only birds and Sostkov's footsteps. Sostkov stopped, not far from the car. New footsteps were approaching. And now a quiet voice, not Sostkov's, asking questions.

  It was not the voice Podolsk was listening for. No singsong voice from deep in the chest which the Academician had seemed to recognize. This one was flat, a bit nasal, and had a minor impediment. He was pronouncing Podolsk as “Podowsk.”

  Sostkov was telling him how he, Podolsk, had reacted when Sostkov went to fetch him. “He was ready for anything,” he said. “He thoug
ht he would be blamed for what Borovik had done. When he saw it, last night on Vremya and more this morning, he thought he would have a heart attack.”

  “What have you told him about Borovik?” came the voice.

  “Only that he's finished. And that we have him on ice.”

  This last brought a chuckle from the other man. Podolsk had no idea why it was funny.

  The voice cleared his throat. “There's not much else to laugh about today,” he said. “This comes none too soon. Have you heard they found the canisters?”

  A gasp from Sostkov. “No. I have not.”

  “Fucking Borovik, again. His fucking Chicago Brigade. The canisters were stored in one of their meat lockers. The Lubertsys shot their way in, took all the meat they could carry, and set fire to the building. This morning, people were coming in off the street, through the flames, to get what was left. The militia saw some of them carrying the canisters and stopped them because they look like artillery shells. By that time, it was just as well. They would have taken them home, smashed them open, and that would have been the end of Moscow.”

  Podolsk tried not to breathe.

  “Already it's on television,” continued the voice. “Yasenevo blaming the Security Ministry, the ministry blaming the army, the mayor saying I told you so, and a militia captain taking bows for finding them.”

  Sostkov started to speak, but it seemed that the man hushed him. His voice dropped to a whisper. Podolsk heard the word “window.” He had noticed, it seemed to Podolsk, that the window of the Zil was partially open. Podolsk did his best to seem oblivious. He pretended to be occupied with a strip of tape that was stuck to his hair.

  But his mind was racing. “Canisters . . . The end of Moscow.” These words put him in mind of a rumor that he'd heard, officially denied, of a tragedy out in the Urals. And of another, also denied, about enriched uranium that was missing. Through all of this he tried to listen. It was no use. They were still speaking in soft murmurs although not about him. He heard Borovik's name. Lots about Borovik. Another name. Sounded like “Kulik.”

  Kulik.

  Podolsk seemed to know that name. Yes. There was a Kulik, years ago, who came to KGB Higher School. Gave talks on party discipline. The need for vigilance. Encouraged the best young officers to apply for a Special Inspectorate posting, which nobody in his right mind would ...

  Of course. Special Inspectorate. Sostkov's spravka. In his mind, Podolsk could hear that lecturer now. Singsong. It had to be. It was the voice from Borovik's green telephone.

  The door of the Zil opened, startling him. Then another. Men climbing in.

  “Relax, Viktor Vasilyevich.” Sostkov speaking. ”A few questions. First, do you think you're ready for Borovik's job? You would be reporting to me.”

  “Reporting to you?” Podolsk was confused. “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, indeed.”

  Sostkov saw the confusion, misunderstood it. ”I don't mean in KGB. You would have to resign. You are willing?”

  ”I will do what is needed. But there is a condition. I will not run the Chicago Brigade. That's if there's anything left of them. Using those clowns was nothing but disaster.”

  Silence. Then a grunt from the front seat. It had the sound of approval.

  “Major Podowsk . . ” The voice came from the same direction. “Have you ever killed a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “An associate was cheating me. I had been fair with him. Even generous. He cheated me all the same.”

  “You sent someone? Or you did it yourself.”

  ”I shot him. Face to face. To send someone would have been cowardly. Also, I wanted him to know why.”

  “So. You are the hot-blooded type, Major.”

  Podolsk shook his head. “It was necessary. I took no pleasure in it.”

  He could feel Sostkov, on his left, nodding vigorously. He seemed to like that answer. Never mind that it was all invention.

  “Who was this man? Where did it happen?” asked the voice in front.

  Podolsk feigned reluctance but he gave the particulars. The name was not an invention. The event was part of his cover legend. A man, shot during a robbery attempt, the case investigated but never solved. Podolsk could have told him what the man was wearing when he died, the names of his wife and children, even that of his mistress. But the voice asked him none of that.

  “There is another necessity,” he said. “Like you, we take no pleasure in it.”

  “Our hope,” said the other, “is that you, with Sostkov here, will see to it for us.”

  Borovik, he realized. They want me to kill him. Maybe not so difficult. He nodded gravely.

  “His house is not far from here. His name is Kulik. Arkadi Kulik.”

  Podolsk sputtered. “May I know why?” he managed.

  “Sostkov will explain. You have an appointment with this man in twenty minutes.”

  The heavy door clicked open. The front seat creaked, one foot touched the pavement. The man hesitated.

  “See to this, Major,” he said. “Do this well, and the next time we meet there will be no need for a blindfold.”

  75

  “Let's take a walk.” Kaplan touched Bannerman's arm.

  “I'd rather ride. Can you get me out of this airport?”

  “Five minutes,” Kaplan said firmly. “Just you and me.”

  This exchange came when Roger finally lost his grip. It was the news about the sausage machine that pushed him over the edge.

  He was doing fine, Kaplan thought, up through the We-never-lied-to-you part and the We feel-as-bad-as-you-do-about-Carla part. He was well into the All-we 're-trying-to-do-is-help-this-country-out-of-the-shithouse part—the missing billions and all—when a flash comes in to the Lincoln that the three who were taken with Lesko have been found unharmed but Lesko is still at large.

  Bannerman, to whom this should have been news, barely reacts. He checks his watch, resets it to Moscow time. To Roger, this can only mean that Bannerman knew in advance that Lesko would be sprung. The time check was to see if it was done on schedule. Bannerman doesn't bother to answer. He wants to hear the rest of it:

  Clew has trouble getting back into his script because a new and more urgent flash comes in about a stash of stolen nerve gas that was found at this burning packing plant this morning.

  Now Clew's sure of it. It was Bannerman's people, not some rival gang, who hit that place last night. He wants to know how long Bannerman knew about the nerve gas, and why, by the way, did he just have a meeting in a KGB Chaika?

  You've been working with them right along on this, haven't you? No? Then why were they talking to you? They aren't supposed to go near you.

  This last remark gets Bannerman's interest but mostly he has this dreamy look on his face like he's seen this movie before. The phone from the embassy chirps again. The driver calls Clew over. Clew says take a message. The driver who is more than a driver says he'd better hear this.

  It's another report on that packing plant. In a bucket next to a sausage grinder they have found human remains. It looked like someone had been taking the machine apart, cleaning it out, got interrupted. Anyway, in this bucket, someone spots a flap of skin with an ear on it. They dump the bucket over and the ear slides across the floor. They see that it's attached to the whole top inch or so of a man's head. Black hair. They think it might be this kidnapped KGB general because of such and such a tie-in he's supposed to have had with this gang, this Chicago Brigade, who operated out of this packing plant.

  Clew has no more doubts. It's clear to him now. Bannerman's people got Borovik. In fact, Bannerman's people did everything. That includes shooting up Moscow Center just so no one will suspect that the KGB has been in this with them right along.

  It was right about here that a private talk seemed like a good idea.

  “The guy they turned into meat loaf,” Kaplan asked. “Was that Borovik?”

  ”I don't know. I doubt it.”


  “What about Lesko? Any idea where he'd go?”

  Bannerman didn't answer. He stooped to pluck a dandelion that was growing from a crack in the concrete. Rising, he scanned the terminal area and the main gate. It was made of double chain-link fence and topped with razor wire, but it was wide open. Two guards at the gate. Neither seemed especially alert. And they were facing out, not in.

  He heard an automobile engine starting up, then a second. It was those other two KGB Chaikas. They were turning and heading for the gate. Bannerman watched them go. No one else seemed to have more than a passing interest in four Americans, two of them wandering around what is certainly a restricted area, one of them a man who'd had a KGB price on his head for the better part of fifteen years.

  He glanced back at the Lincoln. Clew was leaning against the front fender, arms crossed, one hand covering his mouth. He had that defeated look again.

  “For the record,” said Kaplan, “Clew was trying to be straight with you. But you see what happens. It's like his body rejects it.”

  A dismissive wave. “Irwin . . .”

  “Why am I here, right?”

  “No. But now that you bring itup.. .”

  “I'm here because the President asked me, which should tell you how much shit you stirred up. I'm here because they think you trust me. Long-term, they think you're going to trust me so much that I'm the one guy in Washington you might be willing to work with. This is one reason why Roger is sulking, by the way, but they can shove that right up their asses.”

  “Could we ... back up just a little bit, Irwin?”

  “Just so you know I'm not a total schmuck.”

  Bannerman raised his hands. “Irwin . . . we're in a high-security airport that has no security. You've made some kind of deal here. What is it?”

  ”I didn't. Fuller did.”

  “Fuller then. With whom.”

  “With everyone. With fucking Russia. The past hour he's been on the horn with three different ministers. The bottom line is you're untouchable until half past five this evening. If you're not back here by then, in the plane that got me here, he doesn't know you.”