The KGB guy understands English. He's listening to all this. Tells Lesko how glad he is to hear it, but he still looks suicidally depressed.
Miggs says he's also glad to hear it. He introduces himself, shakes Lesko's hand. But Miggs doesn't look so happy, because whatever he's looking for, he doesn't seem to be finding it. He's been shuffling through file folders, discarding them, now he's pulling books out of those heavy canvas bags like banks use, leafing through them, tossing them aside.
Bannerman crosses to the desk. Waldo walks over to Miggs. He says, “Nothing good, huh?”
Miggs introduces himself . . . You must be John Waldo ... heard about you ... never believed half of it until today . . . and no, this is all junk . . . can't understand why it's even in a safe.
Bannerman's on the phone with Susan, speaking softly. Kaplan knows he must still be wired because he can hear almost every word. All his senses seem heightened.
Yes, Bannerman is saying . . . it's wonderful news . . . Yes, me too ... Here? ... Well, we've just...
Lesko's waving at him, shaking his head. From his gestures, what he's saying is let's not go into a lot of detail here.
Bannerman says he'll let her father explain ... no real trouble, no ... Irwin's been with us right along, he says, as in If lrwin Harmless is here, you know there can’t have been any violence. No, sweetheart. He drops his voice. You have nothing to apologize for... If anything, I'm the one who ...
Bannerman stops himself. Takes a breath like he's changed his mind about something. Looking directly at Lesko, he says, “Susan…I will tell you everything when I see you... o, I want to…you have every right... you're a part of my life. Susan . . . you are my life.
“No, I said life.
“Lifeline?...”
Bannerman's eyes seem to melt. Even go moist. Kaplan can't believe it. Bannerman's getting emotional. “Lifeline ... yes ... yes, that's the word ... that's the only word,” he says.
Kaplan looked away. He had no business listening. But maybe he liked Bannerman just a little better now.
Waldo steps over Miggs and goes to this metal cabinet... opens it ... it's the minibar he was talking about. . . little bottles in the door. He reaches in, way back, comes out with two bottles of beer, asks who else wants one. Three stiffs in the room and he's raiding the icebox.
Podolsk points at the lower shelf, stammers something.
Waldo says what? He pulls out this big plastic bag, examines it, makes a face, puts it on the pile with Miggs's discards. Kaplan can't see what's in it. Waldo reaches back in, finds some vodka and tequila, passes both bottles to Podolsk, who is just sitting there rocking now, eyes vacant. He puts his cassette down and takes the two bottles. Come to think of it, Kaplan thought, I could use a beer myself.
Lesko's drumming his fingers, scowling, waiting for Bannerman to get off the phone. It's easy to read his mind. Listen, Bannerman … my daughter doesn't have to know shit…at least not about me … tell her Podolsk blew all four of them away.
Kaplan felt the same way, sort of. Well... no, he didn't. Bannerman could tell her about him if he wanted. The way he sucked in that putz who thought he could push the little four-eyed Jew around. The way he handled himself. He wouldn't tell Roger, though. It's more satisfying if Roger hears it from someone else. Bannerman, he has a hunch, will enjoy telling him. If he doesn't, Miggs will.
Bannerman's saying maybe an hour, two at the most, they'll be back. Sounds like Susan wants to tell him something…he's asking why she can't tell him now. Whatever. She doesn't want to. Maybe she's worried about a tap.
Waldo finds four more beers. He pops their caps and lines them up on one side of the desk. He sips from one, says everyone help yourselves. He reaches back in, finds some smoked salmon, caviar, and an open box of shortbreads. He puts these on the desk and begins slicing the salmon with a knife he pulls out of his sleeve.
Podolsk, watching all this, has a look of utter disbelief. Kaplan doesn't blame him. I mean, this is the scene of a massacre here, and all anybody seems to care about is how the women in their lives are doing and fixing a snack. But it occurs to Kaplan that yesterday, even an hour ago, it would have been him who had that look on his face. What the hell, he'll let himself feel a little smug about it. He raised his beer bottle to Podolsk.
“To better days,” he said.
Podolsk blinks. But slowly, he raises his little vodka bottle, salutes with it, and drains it.
Bannerman's off the phone. For a long moment, he stares into space, eyes soft, almost dreamy. Suddenly, a grimace. He shakes it off. Bannerman's all business again. He huddles for a minute with Lesko, and then with Lesko and Podolsk together. “Go ahead ” Lesko says to Podolsk. “Tell him what you told me.”
Kaplan could only catch parts of it—Podolsk was nervous, struggling with his English— but the part he heard clearly was where Podolsk didn't think any of them would get back to Moscow alive. Something about the safe.
Miggs looks up. He's been listening. Not this safe, he says. There's nothing here. But the man has a point, he says, about us making it back to Moscow. Zhukovka's real easy to seal off, and whoever sent that bunch outside will be wondering why they haven't heard from them.
Bannerman nods. “Irwin?”
“Yeah.”
”I want you to go out to the Lincoln, call Roger on the radiophone, tell him we need an armed escort of at least four embassy cars and we need it now.”
”I can call the Russians. They said if—”
“Call Roger, Irwin. Tell him to assume that the moment he hangs up, he'll be in a race with someone else. Save the address and directions until last. Give no names, no other details.”
“Bannerman, we have a pass here. Why shouldn't I—”
“Irwin.” Lesko's voice was weary. “Make the call.”
“Do it, Irwin.” Bannerman was polite. “Please.”
“Okay, for Christ's sake.”
“When you've done that, stay out there with Lechmann. Help him watch the road until you're relieved.”
“Take him a beer,” said Waldo.
“Hey, screw you guys,” he flared. “This is to get rid of me, right? Get lost, Irwin, so us big boys can talk?”
“And take my gun,” said Waldo. “You could need it.”
Kaplan hesitated. He stared at Waldo's weapon, this Star Wars thing with two different scopes and a silencer. ”Uh ... how does that work?” he heard himself asking.
Lesko rolled his eyes. They could have sent a letter by now. Waldo showed him the MP5. Here's the safety, he says, and this switch is for rate of fire but leave it at three-round bursts. You don't shoulder this thing, he says. You just shine the beam and shoot. He demonstrates by beaming a red dot to the forehead of the only Russian who still had one.
As Kaplan studied the German gun, Waldo recapped the beer and stuck the bottle in his pocket. Oh yeah, he said. And take him this. He picked up the cloudy plastic bag and placed it under Kaplan's free arm.
Kaplan had turned and started walking before the glint in Waldo's eye registered. As had the fact that the room was dead silent except for someone being shushed and that the fingers of his left hand had a secure grip on what felt very much like a nose and mouth. Kaplan's ears began to ring.
Whose head it was, he had no idea. Borovik's, if he had to guess. Who says Waldo doesn't have a sense of humor. He wanted to drop it, get away from it, fling it back at Waldo.
He'd be damned if he'd do either.
He stopped, framed in the doorway to the hall. He turned the bag, twisting it in his hand so he could grip it by the gathered neck. He held it out at arm's length, appearing to study it. He counted three, brought it to his face, and kissed it.
Boomalacka-boom.
He dropped his arm. Just get me outside, he told his legs.
82
The motorcade, six cars in length, left Zhukovka well before noon.
Leading it, lights flashing, was a blue Volga of the Moscow militia. Four heavy sedans,
two men in each, had come from the embassy. The men were armed with Ingram submachine guns, diplomatic status, and full authority to protect the person of the American ambassador, whose armor-plated Lincoln, flags streaming from the fenders, had been borrowed by Roger Clew.
Clew's car was in fourth position. The two behind it were assigned as chase cars, instructed to block pursuit. The two in front were authorized to ram if a roadblock should be encountered. Of these, Miggs drove the first.
The motorcade met its first challenge just beyond the gatehouse leading to the Minsk Highway. Two black Chaikas appeared, KGB plates. Men in raincoats, cigarettes in their mouths, leaped out, tried to flag it down. They were ignored. One man was knocked aside. A second drew his weapon but another restrained him. They scrambled back into their cars. One sped off toward Kulik's house. The other turned and gave chase.
On the Minsk Highway, several Russian-made cars appeared. Some had been waiting on the road and pulled out as the motorcade approached. Others roared up from behind, then slowed, keeping pace. One car, a Mercedes moved up one Lincoln at a time, peering into each of them, a man in the front seat taking photographs. The windows of the ambassador's car were smoked, frustrating his effort.
These men seemed unsure of what action to take. The Mercedes pulled up to the blue Volga. The man in the back shouted over the road noise to the plainclothes militiaman driving, demanding to know why he was escorting these Americans.
“You think they tell me why?” Lechmann answered in Russian. “They tell me go do it and shut up.”
He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket, and displayed it. “Five signatures,” he shouted. “With big shots like this, you don't argue.”
The man seemed to want to reach for the paper. It was impossible, of course. The man snarled in disgust. Lechmann smiled within himself. In Russia, paper was still everything. Even if it was only the repair authorization that he found in the glove box.
Roger Clew was too angry to be nervous.
Lesko really couldn't blame him. Nobody would tell him much. Clew sat at his side facing Irwin Kaplan, who had taken the jump seat, the better to watch their rear. But Kaplan wasn't watching the pursuit cars. He was staring into space.
Kaplan was coming down fast. His swagger was pretty much gone and Lesko knew that stare. The makings of future nightmares were beginning to form. Kaplan was cradling a shotgun. Waldo had given it to him when he reclaimed his MP5, but now Kaplan was holding it too distractedly for Lesko's comfort. Lesko told him it would be just as handy lying on the floor. Kaplan refused to put it down.
Back at the house, before Clew showed up, Waldo and Bannerman had gone off into the trees. When they came back a minute later, Bannerman was struggling under the weight of a body and Waldo had picked up that shotgun. Together, they eased the dead man into the back seat of the Zil. Bannerman reached in, took the man's wallet, replaced it with another, and backed away. Waldo aimed the shotgun at the dead man's face and pulled the trigger. Kaplan let out a yip. This was when Waldo traded guns with him.
Taking the MP5, Waldo fired a burst into the fuel tank of the Zil. It didn't ignite. Muttering something about Russian gas, he waited until most of it had drained and then tossed a match. The back half of the Zil was quickly engulfed.
Suddenly, Waldo had a worried look. He hurried to the driver's-side door, opened it, released the hand brake, and pushed the Zil several yards forward. By the time he stepped clear, his coat was smoking. He asked Lesko to check his back for sparks.
“John . .. why'd you do that?” Lesko had asked him.
“Nice house. It might have caught.”
Lesko closed his eyes. ”I meant the stiff, John. Why'd you shoot off his face?”
“Looks more like Podolsk that way.”
“You gave him Podolsk's wallet?”
“Yeah.”
He found Borovik's head where Kaplan had put it down. In a planter right outside the door. The way Kaplan left the house with it, Lesko would have bet that he'd had thoughts of dropping it on Roger Clew's lap. Not now, though.
Waldo took the head out of the bag and tried to balance it on the hood without success. He pulled out his sleeve knife and was about to do some trimming when Bannerman saw Irwin turn green and said lying the head on its side would do just as well. Lesko didn't even ask about this one.
“So where's Bannerman now?” Clew asked Lesko, bringing him back to the present.
Lesko gestured vaguely. “He went ahead.”
“And Waldo's with him?”
A shrug. “You know Waldo. You turn around and he's gone.”
Both statements were more or less true. Bannerman was up on the floorboards behind Lechmann, covered by the drapes from Kulik's French doors. Poor Podolsk drew the trunk, but at least he was cushioned by the rest of the drapes.
Bannerman says he needs an hour or two. The plan, such as it is, is to get to the embassy. Lechmann will pull ahead to block traffic while the Lincolns lined up to show ID at the Russian security checkpoint. If they're waved through, fine. If they're stopped for a search or if undue attention is paid to Lechmann and his cop car, Miggs will blow through the checkpoint and ram the gate trying not to crush any Marines. Lechmann will drive off in the confusion. Miggs will say his accelerator stuck.
As for Waldo, he was walking toward the woods again the last time Lesko saw him. He asked Bannerman where he was going. “John likes to go out the back way,” was all Bannerman would tell him.
“Irwin . . ” Clew tried appealing to Kaplan. “You asked me to come and I came. I brought eight men who are risking their lives to get you back to the compound safely. And this is all you're going to tell me?”
“Roger, I don't even know what I know.”
Kaplan held up a hand to show that he was not being evasive. “You looked in the house. I told you who did what to who.” He gestured toward the Mercedes that was keeping pace with them. “If you want to know why these guys wanted us before they even saw what happened out there, pull over and we'll ask them.”
“How did Bannerman know they'd be coming?”
“He just seemed to know it.”
Clew turned to Lesko. “There was an empty safe back there. What was in it?”
”I don't know. That's the truth.”
He could have told him to ask Miggs, who had gone through it. Or that the contents of the safe were nothing Bannerman seemed to care about, which was true. Come to think of it, it was odd that Bannerman showed no interest at all. So Lesko had asked Waldo, on a hunch, if he'd already cleaned the safe out. Waldo gave a little twitch that said yes.
“So? What did you find?” he had asked him.
A shrug. “It's all in Russian. Except the money.”
“Where is it?”
“Later.”
Podolsk was not much more informative.
Whatever was in there, he said, Sostkov was to bring it back to that man whose face Podolsk never saw. Podolsk was convinced that Sostkov would have left him among the dead. But Bannerman was fairly sure that neither man would have left that house alive. Someone wanted a clean sweep, and to get it he needed all of them in the house at the same time. The men in those two yellow cars were a cleanup crew. They even brought shovels with them, possibly to drag six bodies deep into the woods and bury them. Too bad, he said, that we couldn't have kept one of them alive for a while. But having Podolsk might be second best. For the time being, let's keep it among ourselves that he survived.
Miggs had a problem with this because he was career Intelligence and that career would be over if he made a false report. Bannerman made him a promise. Make a late report, he said, and I'll give you enough intelligence for ten careers.
“Listen,” Lesko told Clew, who was starting to fume. “You came right out and we appreciate it. But you want us to tell you what's in Bannerman's head and we can't.”
“You didn't ask him?”
“Yeah, I did.” Lesko nodded. “He wants to get out of this town in
one piece. He wants to take Susan back to Westport and look for a bigger house. That's pretty much all he said.”
“Bigger house?”
“Don't ask.”
The domestic image brought a rueful grunt. Clew blinked it away. “What's stopping him?”
“Roger .. . look out the window.”
Clew glanced at the cars. He seemed unimpressed. In fact, Lesko realized, those cars were showing progressively less enthusiasm for the broadside they'd get if they made an aggressive move.
“Speaking of windows,” said Clew, ''I thought Bannerman had this wonderful eight-hour pass that Irwin here worked out for him.”
Lesko heard the sarcasm. “He thinks that's bullshit. He wasn't going to touch it.”
The answer seemed to gratify Clew, but it brought Kaplan to life. He jabbed the shotgun back toward Zhukovka. “Eleven dead. You call that not touching it?”
Lesko cursed his own big mouth.
“That deal was straight,” Kaplan insisted. “The Russians had no use for those assholes either. They said help yourself and he did.”
“Okay, Irwin. I guess that's right.” Lesko's eyes said, “Irwin . . . later.”
“They wanted it over. They just didn't want Bannerman hitting at random while they had their own man . . .”
A glare. “Irwin . . . Shut the fuck up.”
You're getting upset, Irwin. You don't want to believe you were being used, especially by Fuller. Jesus Christ, Irwin. You're DEA, not State. Of course you were being used. You were also, I think, about to make reference to Podolsk and we don't want to do that yet.
Kaplan seemed to get the message. He settled down. The motorcade, Lesko saw, had reached the Garden Ring Road. Less then ten minutes to the embassy. Those other cars were starting to drop back and now the Mercedes was turning off. To get new instructions, maybe. Christ, how big is this thing?
Bannerman's Promise Page 50