Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  Bannerman stared, uncomprehending.

  “Here's how you spend your day. One, you're never out of my sight. Two, at ten o'clock—that's in thirty minutes—you flash the abort signal, the one from Zivic's fax. This means no more real estate gets torched and no more random sniping, but you may, and this is a quote, ‘Put the Kropotkinskaya matter to rest if you can do it within that time frame.’ Otherwise, you spend the rest of the day rounding up your five teams. They get safe passage same as you or they get out on the horse they rode in on. You hear what they're saying, right?”

  ”I guess I'm slow. Spell it out, please.”

  “They don't need this, Bannerman. They want it over.”

  “Then why don't they—”

  “Will you throw away that flower? You look stupid.”

  Bannerman closed his fist over the dandelion.

  “Why don't they what? Lock everyone up? Have a trial in a couple of years? Meantime, they have to worry about every damaged personality who wants to make points with Mama's Boy plus Willem Brugg killing every deal they want to make with Europe.”

  “Irwin . . . whose idea was this?”

  ”I told you. Fuller's.”

  Bannerman shook his head. “Barton Fuller did not go on record plotting retributive murder with three Kremlin ministers.”

  A grimace. “Okay. Fuller did the broad strokes. I did the details.”

  Bannerman waited.

  ”I radioed Fuller. I told him this time around, just this once, I'm with you. He could back me or not.”

  Bannerman closed one eye. ”I get it now. You're a KGB agent in an Irwin Kaplan mask.”

  “See that? Who says you're not a funny guy? Listen, Bannerman, I like Leo Belkin and he could die. I liked Carla, mostly, and she's dead. Ray Lesko is as good a friend as I've ever had and I'm a little bit in love with Elena. Not to mention that I taught Susan how to ride her first two-wheeler. She ever tell you that?”

  “No.”

  ”I want whoever did this.”

  “Irwin . . .”

  “Fuck you, Bannerman.” Kaplan gestured toward the Lincoln. “Say no and you ride in the trunk. I promised I could handle you and I will.”

  Bannerman groaned within himself. He tried to remember the last time he felt in control. It was probably on the Swissair flight when they asked if he wanted beef or fish.

  “Weapons?” he asked.

  ”I got one from the driver. The Russians will give you some room but they're damned if they're going to equip you. The driver's a spook, by the way. He's supposed to be good and he's mine until sundown.”

  “What about Roger?”

  “Roger's State. He can't be in this. He goes to the hospital in case Lesko shows up.”

  Bannerman was still doubtful.”

  “What you got here,” Kaplan said wearily, “is an eight-hour window. All you have to do is agree. No matter who else lives or dies, this ends at half past five. If your people did get Borovik, maybe it's over already. As for this other guy, Kulik, my impression is they hope you make him go away.”

  “You didn't wonder why?”

  “Who gives a shit? Yes or no, Bannerman.”

  He drew a breath. “You're an interesting man, Irwin.” He turned back toward the Lincoln. ”I have an address where Lesko might have gone. If your driver can find it, we'll start there. After that, we'll see how the morning goes.”

  ”Uh-uh. First the abort. The deal was you call in your dogs.”

  “My five teams?”

  “Plus whoever you snuck in with the doctors.”

  “We'll. . . talk about that as we drive, Irwin.”

  76

  Waldo put his nose to the coal chute. His sense of smell had known better days, but he was pretty sure about this one. Human flesh. Burned.

  Still, with the crap these people eat, he thought, it might have been lousy breakfast sausage. He turned his head and listened for other sounds that would go with cooking. He heard nothing. No shuffling of feet, no clink of utensils coming from the basement kitchen. There were lights on, though. He could have done without the lights.

  He also wasn't happy that the Zil was gone. No telling who was out and who was in. He would have to take it slow. That would not be a problem except it was coming up on ten o'clock. Zivic said knock off at ten. That, anyway, is what he and Lechmann decided it meant.

  There wouldn't be any abort signal. What it was, Zivic was giving someone a deadline. Bannerman would strike a deal and then wave a hanky or some damned thing, pretending that it meant something.

  Whatever. So we play Beat the Clock. The Zil shows, Lechmann will hit a couple of bleats on his siren.

  He was fairly sure that the house had no servants. None living there, at least. A laundry truck had come and gone. Bundles of sheets had been left outside. An old woman pulling a wagon brought some bread and milk. A man in a bathrobe took them from her at the door. It was one of those Bobbsey Twins who were at the restaurant with Kulik. They both looked like Oscar Homolka. Shit. Half of Russia looks like Oscar Homolka. Those two must be living here, he decided.

  A bad moment came when the old woman left with her wagon. She pulled it out past the gate posts, then turned and came back, walking in the direction of the open gate. Waldo held his breath. It looked as if one of the Oscars had asked her to close it behind her. That was all they'd need, because waiting behind that gate was Lesko. Waldo could guess what would go through her mind. Godzilla, here, must be the fugitive rapist everyone's talking about. With luck, her heart would stop before she could scream. But it was okay. All she wanted was to cop some free flowers. She checked out the front windows, snatched a handful of delphiniums, then scurried back to her wagon.

  Waldo stripped off his coat, reversed it again, and eased himself into the chute, elbows out to support his weight. He could take his weapon now because he knew how far he'd drop. He would not need his arms to slow himself. With his free hand he reached for the wooden cover and positioned it to fall into place when released. He drew in his elbows and slid.

  He saw the lump that had been Borovik. But he ignored it. He swept the kitchen with his MP5, looking for movement, listening for sounds. There was nothing, only some routine noise from upstairs. He turned toward the body.

  It had been strapped to a board with antenna wire and hoisted up across the big stone sink. Waldo recognized the clothing and the flabby waist, but that was where it ended. The hands, cuffed to a pipe last night, were now cuffed behind him. Both feet were badly burned. More than burned, they were charred. Toes curled into claws. That end of the board was burned as well. It wasn't breakfast he smelled through that chute.

  In front of the cast-iron stove he saw cold ashes and soot scattered all over the floor. Oven door still open, still warm. Board or not, the guy must have bucked like a horse when they shoved his feet in there.

  Most interesting, his head was gone.

  They had cut it off at shoulder level, taking the whole neck with it. Two knives and a cleaver in the sink. One knife was bent. Arterial spray on the wall behind it. Lots of it. Guy was alive when they did it. From the cuts, it looked like they worked from front to back, figuring out how as they went along. Even dead, a neck's not that easy to cut through.

  Roasting the guy's feet he could see. Last night, when he heard them doing this, it wasn't just for fun. Between screams they were asking him questions, so there must have been a point. It follows, therefore, that there's a point to cutting off his head. Right? I mean, it doesn't just run in the family.

  Blame Bannerman. Is that the idea? They say . . . Every time he comes to Russia someone named Borovik gets his head cut off and a KGB headquarters gets redecorated?

  Waldo had no time for this. Clock's ticking and Lesko shouldn't be left out there too long. He'll start thinking about Elena and he won't be paying attention.

  Okay. Five minutes. Get upstairs, same way, see who's here, get to the French doors, let Lesko in. We whack them and go home.

 
Maybe ask where that head is first.

  He could do this, Podolsk told himself as they drove.

  He could shoot Arkadi Kulik. He could and he must.

  It helped him to remember the Academician's words. Arkadi Kulik will need you, he said. He will need you until he doesn't. And then he will kill you.

  To know this is true, Podolsk realized, one need only look at Sostkov. Until last night, even early this morning, Sostkov thought he was the apple of Arkadi Kulik's eye. And then he learned the truth.

  There had been three of them, Sostkov said, waiting for him outside the Zhukovka gatehouse. They told him everything. Once you bring him Podolsk, they said, Kulik will not need you anymore. He wants you dead. He has been waiting for this moment.

  Sostkov had not believed them at first. But they played him a tape and there it was. Kulik's voice, no mistake, telling them that Oleg Sostkov had become a liability. Could no longer be relied upon. Time for him to go.

  They told him the real reason. They told him, he said, of all the others who had been at the scene of a certain accident. He had thought they were in Europe running companies, living in villas, enjoying their money. But they were dead. All of them. They died because they knew where the bodies were buried. Only Sostkov had been spared because he was needed. That need had now passed.

  Podolsk was quite sure that he knew what this “accident” was. And that knowing where the bodies were buried was not a figure of speech. But Sostkov made it clear that he was not to ask.

  “You can't imagine how depressed I was, Podolsk. I'll admit to you that I could have cried. And you know what they did? They embraced me. First the one you met, then both of the others in turn. Not since I was a child has another man embraced me.”

  “And you . . . knew then that they were your friends.”

  But Sostkov didn't hear the doubt behind those words.

  He didn't want to. They told him, he said, that they are not all like Kulik. Yes, they want to be rich, he said. They did not deny that. Yes, they want the power of wealth because without it they cannot rebuild their country. The money from a certain shipment, now lost to them, could have built hospitals, new roads, new technical schools.

  This, they told Sostkov, is the kind of men we are. If we get rich it's because we make lots of our people rich. Kulik, however, cares only for Kulik. It is Kulik who has become the liability.

  Why? A hundred reasons, said one of them. He is too ambitious. Too full of himself. He had boasted once too often that he put these men and others where they are and he could bring them down just as easily. Next he'll think he makes the sun come up.

  There are also practical reasons, said another one. They had to do with that business last night. Trying to protect himself, Kulik made phone calls he should not have made. Trying to deflect attention from himself, he accomplished just the opposite. Never mind whether that shooting was his fault or not. Who will believe that he was innocent of it? Will General Belkin's friends at Yasenevo? Will the Bruggs? Will Mama's Boy, who was, even now, said to be on his way to Moscow?

  “But the first man, the one I took you to see, Podolsk, said forget all that. The big reason for him, personally, was that he could no longer stand by and see the devotion of men like Oleg Sostkov answered with betrayal. That's what he said, Podolsk. Men like me. He meant you, too.”

  Podolsk forced a smile to show that he was gratified.

  Sostkov slowed the Zil and prepared to turn right. Just ahead, Podolsk saw a road sign for the suburb of Zhukovka.

  “Wait until you see this house,” said Sostkov, brightening. “It once belonged to a count. His paintings and furniture are still in it.”

  Podolsk blinked. With all this, we're going to talk about a house?

  Tolstoi himself stayed there once. For an entire summer. He was hiding out from the czar's police. In the study where we will talk, he wrote 'I Cannot Be Silent.’ Very famous essay. It's true. Kulik has documents and there is even a photograph of Tolstoi working in the garden. The front of the house is behind him, plain to see.”

  “That is ... very exciting.”

  Sostkov shook a jubilant fist. “You know what's exciting? Can you guess why I'm talking like this? That house is going to be mine, Viktor. As soon as things cool down, it's my new address. And you can come visit as often as you want. That's when you're not cruising on the Mediterranean or shopping in Rome.”

  This kind of talk both comforted and troubled Podolsk. Comfort, in that Sostkov's pleasure was so genuine. He, Podolsk, was not being led into a trap. At least not by Sostkov. But two things about it troubled him. Is this the way a man talks when he is on his way to kill another? Podolsk's stomach was filled with boiling stones. His bowels felt loose. It seemed to him that Sostkov should be thinking less about what those faceless men had promised him and more about the business at hand.

  And now the other thing. If Kulik had become a liability, why was this not true of Sostkov? Was he not at Kropotkinskaya 36? Will the police not want to talk to him as well?

  “You know, I envy you.” Sostkov's mood had turned serious again. “The more I think of it, I wish they gave Kulik to me and left the others to you.”

  “Others?”

  “Kulik's toadies. Don't worry. Those two will be easy.”

  The hot stones began tumbling again. Now it's three? They are going to murder three men?

  Academician Belkin would never permit this. Not three, and probably not even the one. Just get names, collect facts, he would say. There is a right way and a wrong way to do things. There are plenty of cowboys we could have used, Viktor, but I chose you because you know how to use your mind. Remember your Agatha Christie. Think how Hercule Poirot would behave and you can't go too far wrong.

  Very well. What would Poirot do? Would he pass up the chance to not only get in solid with Sostkov here but also with the man who is at the top? A man who will show his face only after I prove myself?

  “Kulik will want to talk to you alone,” said Sostkov. “Or maybe with the other two, but me he'll ask to wait outside. Take your time. See what he has to say.”

  Podolsk swallowed.

  “It won't be an easy interview. He wants to see what you're made of. But then, if he likes you, he will suddenly become your favorite uncle. He'll probably give you a nice present as a taste of what's to come. If it comes from his desk, that's one thing. But if he goes to his safe for it, that is when you pull out your pistol. Once he opens that safe, don't let him close it. There are things inside, documents, especially a certain videotape, which I have to bring back to our friend.”

  “At what point do l...”

  “When you're ready, your pistol's out, give me a yell. I want to see the bastard's face.”

  Sostkov gestured with his chin.

  “There it is,” he said, elbowing Podolsk. “My future home.”

  “It's . . . quite handsome.”

  “See there? Those French doors? It's where Tolstoi planted his tomatoes. He made his own shoes as well. Did you know that?”

  “Shoes? No.”

  “When it's mine, I think I'll plant roses.”

  Lesko wasn't cut out for this.

  He wasn't built for stealth.

  You could be talking to Waldo and suddenly he's gone. Just as suddenly, he's standing next to you again. His feet never touch the floor. By contrast, every step Lesko took sounded like ga-loomp.

  Waldo had waved him in from the first French door. You're clear. Come on.

  Clear, my ass, thought Lesko. I'm supposed to cross sixty feet of front yard and garden, some of which is crunchy gravel, passing under about twenty windows, broad daylight, gun in my hand, and hope nobody's looking out?

  But he did it. He lowered his head and did it. Ga-loomp, ga-loomp, ga-loomp. He's halfway there when Lechmann's siren goes off. Lesko thought it was the alarm system. Visions of searchlights and Dobermans. But he realized it was Lechmann. Keep going. Ga-loomp. Waldo held the door for him so he wouldn't go through it clos
ed.

  ”I don't want to be critical. . .” whispered Waldo.

  “Will you give me a break?” Lesko covered his heart to silence it.

  ”I mean, I didn't expect Nijinsky, but I didn't expect you to stop and say 'Fuck' when you heard that siren either.”

  Lesko showed his teeth. But he offered no rejoinder because it dawned on him that they were standing in a room that anyone could walk into at any moment. He pointed the Beretta at one door while he watched the other.

  “Relax,” said Waldo quietly. “It's a dining room. Nobody walks through dining rooms.”

  “Who says?”

  “Just don't knock over a chair.”

  No one walks through dining rooms, he muttered to himself. There's one to file away. But again, he didn't argue. Waldo knew this house. He knew the traffic patterns.

  “Who's here? You get a count?”

  Waldo knew what he was asking. “No Tupperware party. Just Kulik and the two goons. They're across the hall but we wait.”

  Lesko felt his adrenaline pumping.

  “Here's the Zil,” said Waldo. “Don't move.”

  But Lesko did. He turned toward the French door. Waldo hissed at him. He froze. Two men in the front seat were looking right at him. It seemed, almost, that they were talking about him. The Zil passed from sight.

  Waldo gestured toward the corridor door. He eased toward it, bidding Lesko to follow. “Guy driving,” he said, “he's from last night. The other one's new to me.”

  “Not to me. He's the KGB guy from the hotel. What’ll you bet he's Borovik?”

  Waldo shook his head. “I'll show you Borovik. Later, though.”

  “Okay, that other name. Podolsk? Maybe that's Podolsk.”

  Waldo shrugged. He put a finger to his lips. ”I gotta listen now,” he said, almost mouthing his words. “But if those two come in the front, and they ask who's in the dining room, we move. They come in, they don't ask, we wait till everyone's settled.”