The odd thing was, they hadn't even been all that close, at least by modern standards. Met her at an embassy party in Vienna. Had dinner a few times. Took long walks. The nearest they'd come to a tryst was a weekend in Paris. Prowled museums. Went dancing. Separate hotels rooms, not even on the same floor. At the end of it, a hug, a peck on the cheek, a long look into her eyes, nothing more. He was, after all, married to Katherine, rest her soul. And happily so. But that fact did little, it seemed, to keep Cassie Ðannerman out of his dreams. Every man, he supposed, has had a fantasy woman. Cassie was his. And, no doubt, that of a few dozen other men as well. More than good looks, there was a tremendous . . . electricity to her. Beautiful, yet totally un-self-conscious about it. Tremendously kind. Quick-witted.
She said she was an art buyer for several museums. Which was true enough. But she was also, as it turned out, an American intelligence operative, code name “Mama,” who was the control of a small army of contract agents until she was set up and sold out by her own people.
Her son, Paul—she'd spoken of him. Barely out of college at the time, living back in California. He'd spend his school breaks driving all over Europe with her. Nice young man. Nothing in his history to suggest what he would become. Except that he was Cassie Bannerman's son.
An astonishing story, really: He returned to Europe at the age of twenty-four to find out who and what his mother really was, and why and how she'd been killed. He might well have suffered the same fate had he not been adopted, so to speak, by certain of the contract agents she'd been running.
It was a bit like being raised by wolves. These were men, and women, who did not content themselves with the mere urge to kill. Within a few months, three CIA agents, including one section chief, were dead. So were two, possibly three, corrupt Austrian policemen and a pair of German thugs who were the actual triggermen in Cassie's death.
The CIA, sensible for once, sued for peace. Offered reparations, an apology, and disciplinary action against those involved in his mother's death, that's if any of them still lived. Mostly, they wanted this unexpectedly dangerous young man to go away so that the free-lance agents who had embraced his cause would stop the foolishness and go back to work. They chose as their spokesman a young trade mission diplomat—Roger Clew—in the belief that someone Paul Bannerman's age, borrowed from the State Department, clearly uninvolved, would not be shot on sight.
They were too late. Cassie Bannerman's son had grown larger than life. Paul Ðannerman, by that time, had become Mama's Boy. The stuff of legends. A name spoken in a lowered voice. That astonished no one more than Paul Bannerman himself. His newfound friends informed him that, just as they relied on Cassie Bannerman to represent them, negotiate for them, protect their interests, they would now rely on him. He is, after all, his mother's son. He bears her genes as well as her name. He is intelligent, articulate, multilingual, and cool under fire. If he were to abandon them now, any settlement negotiated with the CIA would soon be forgotten. They would be picked off one by one.
And so, at the tender age of twenty-four, Cassie Bannerman's son began running what would soon grow into the most tightly knit, and deadliest, network of contract agents in all of Western Europe. He would work, within limits, for most of the Western intelligence services, including certain of the American services, but he would never again trust the CIA. And Roger Clew, the young innocent who was borrowed via that long-ago phone call to Barton Fuller, built a career on being the only man in the entire United States government with whom Mama's Boy would negotiate.
Pity, thought Fuller, that he hadn't left well enough alone. Bannerman, and Roger, would still be there. But twelve years of that were enough. Roger had earned his reward. Barton Fuller had called in his loan. Still, he should have realized that Palmer Reid would rush into the vacuum left by Roger and try to to reclaim what he considered his feifdom.
“Mr. Fuller?” Roger's voice, behind him.
”Um-hum?”
“Are you okay, sir?”
“Yes.” He nodded, still looking at the painting. “Just woolgathering, Roger.”
He could not recall ever discussing Cassie with Roger. Certainly not his special feelings for the woman. But they'd certainly discussed the son. Perhaps, on one of those occasions, Roger had seen something in his eyes. And had gone back to his damned computer. God knows what was in those things. Good man, Roger. Could do with being a bit less manipulative, however. Well, Fuller thought, let's see. Roger is not the only one who knows how to access a computer file.
“From what I hear”—he turned from the painting, and from Cassie Bannerman—“Mama's Boy has been knocking off more of us than them lately.”
“Palmer Reid's people are not us,” Clew answered evenly. “If the CIA had its way, he wouldn't be them, either. As for Bannerman, Reid tried to hit him at least twice, and he got bloodied each time. Bannerman warned him what would happen. So did I.”
“It won't surprise you that Reid has a different view. He insists that Bannerman and his killers are a pack of mad dogs, that they have invaded this country, and that Banner-man himself is insubordinate, a thief, and a traitor.”
“With all respect, sir, I think you know better.”
Fuller shrugged. ”I know that he and a dozen or so of his killers returned to this country three years ago, waltzed into a CIA training facility up in Connecticut and handed Reid and his people their walking papers.”
“It's not a training facility. That town was one big safe house for Reid's private army and it's illegal as hell.”
“The fact remains—”
“And Bannerman didn't waltz in. Reid lured him there. Reid meant to kill him.”
“He denies that as well.9*
Clew made a face.
Fuller tried not to smile. “The fact remains,” he pressed, “that Bannerman and his people have taken over an entire American town. Wouldn't you say that borders on bending the law?”
“Bannerman took and held a number of properties that Reid acquired with unaudited funds. There's a clinic, a restaurant, some houses, and a few retail businesses to give his people something to do. Bannerman himself runs a travel agency. He has not taken over the town. He simply lives there.”
“Westport, Connecticut.” Fuller returned to his seat at the machine. ”A nice place. I'm told the crime rate is remarkably low.”
“Bannerman takes care of his own. He always has.”
“The local residents—they know nothing?”
“There's no reason why they should. Bannerman doesn't bother them. If anything, he protects them.”
“Still, you'd think someone would notice that—”
Clew shook his head. “Westport is a commuter town. New people come and go all the time. Bannerman's people don't have horns. Most were born in this country. They look like everyone else.”
“Back to Reid. You say he's tried to dislodge them?”
“Not dislodge them, kill them.”
“Then what's kept Mama's Boy from killing Reid?”
“My opinion? He uses the threat of Reid to keep his people on their toes. You can lose your edge in a place like Westport. Anyway, he knows Reid won't try to retake the place in force because that would leave bodies all over the street. The media would notice.”
”I dare say.”
“And Reid would have to explain why he's conducting operations within the borders of this country. He's the one who's breaking the law, not Bannerman.”
”I take it you've been to Westport.”
”I stay in touch.”
“And you're satisfied that Bannerman and his people have no other agenda? That they're simply trying to live normal lives?”
“No question.” Clew gestured toward the Toshiba. “That's what's going to make this a hard sell. You have to realize that contract agents are people. They get tired. They get lonely. In Westport they've made friends, new neighbors, who treat them like ordinary human beings. In Europe, everyone was afraid of them. In Westport, nobo
dy is.”
“Except, presumably, burglars, car thieves, and the odd drug pusher.”
“I'm told that such people have . . . moved along.”
“All except Palmer Reid.”
“Except Reid. Yes.”
“May I have a few more minutes with that machine?” He gestured toward the IBM.
Clew looked at his watch. “You have almost an hour before Hagler and Kaplan get here.”
“I'd like twenty minutes. Alone, if you don't mind.”
Roger Clew spent that time wandering the grounds of Briarwood, calming himself, wanting to shout out loud. The subject had been raised. It had not been rejected out of hand. It was a beginning. He balled his hands into fists and shook them, a silent cheer. He turned back toward the house.
A German shepherd, one of two, trotted by, paused to pick up his scent and then, satisfied that his odd behavior posed no threat, resumed patrolling. There were no other guards. Not on Sunday, not even Fuller's chauffeur. Only the gatekeeper. There were two household staff, an elderly couple, but they had gone to church. They would be back soon to begin preparing lunch. Clew reached the French doors off the broad flagstone terrace and stepped through, allowing one of them to slam behind him.
Barton Fuller was still at the machine. Not using it. Just staring at it. Clew cleared his throat. Fuller raised a finger, using it to beckon the younger man to his side. He brought the finger down on the plastic-covered list of commands and tapped a finger against its heading.
“Are you ready to tell me what JTR EFFECT means?” Fuller asked.
“It's not important.” Clew seemed faintly embarrassed. “Just a name I gave it.”
“Well? Tell me. That way we'll both know.”
Clew took a breath. ”I had to call it something. I call it the ‘Ripper Effect.’ ”
“As in Jack the Ripper?”
“Yes.”
“Melodramatic.” Fuller raised an eyebrow. “But apt. Random terror. Tied up an entire police force. Kept people at home nights.”
“And,” Clew added pointedly, “the Ripper was never identified.”
Fuller sipped thoughtfully from his mug. “No one else, beyond you and me, Kaplan and Hagler, would have to know?”
“And Bannerman, if he'll do it.”
“No records would be kept?”
“None.”
“No accountability?”
“You might wish to tell the president. That's up to you.”
Fuller threw him a look. He did not bother to comment. “When Hagler and Kaplan arrive, we will play platform tennis. That's all.”
“Can I tell them you'll . . .”
“You can tell them I'll think about this. If you wish, I'll say something cryptic to that effect. But the four of us will never sit down and discuss it.”
”I understand.” A sigh of satisfaction. Relief.
“It's a fascinating premise, Roger. Not just counterterrorism. Terrorists, America's own, striking back, taking the initiative for a change. But it's hardly the answer to all the world's problems. And your friend Bannerman is just one man. I assume you do not expect him to eradicate both the terrorist threat and the drug problem single-handedly.’9
“Of course not. But he can start giving us the experience we need. Let me work with him. A test. Find out if what works in theory will work in the field.”
“And if he refuses?”
”I won't let him. He owes me.”
Fuller didn't doubt it. Palmer Reid had, however uncharacteristically, tried to harass Bannerman by legal means. Getting his passport lifted; trying to interest the IRS in his financial affairs; and demanding the arrest of Anton Zivic, a former colonel in Soviet Military Intelligence, in the country illegally and now, apparently, Bannerman's second in command. Roger Clew had blocked him at every tum. A thought struck him. “That computer of yours . . .'* He pointed with his mug. “Is Bannerman's organization in it?”
“Yes.”
“And is Reid's?”
Clew hesitated.
”I thought so.”
Clew remained silent.
“No further action, Roger. No experiments. No computer games. Do nothing at all. I've said I'll think about it, and I will.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why aren't you arguing?”
“The truth? This is already more than I'd hoped for. I was afraid you'd ask me to resign.”
”I still might. You're a very good man, Roger, but you may have spent too many years with Mama's Boy. I hope it hasn't damaged you.”
“He says the same thing about my years in Washington.”
Fuller frowned. “You took an oath. He didn't.”
”. . . Yes, sir.”
“May I hold on to that laptop for a few days? I'd like to become more familiar with some of these groups.”
“Sir, if someone should get into this room—”
“Take the list of commands. I've memorized them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, Bart,” Fuller corrected him. “The meeting is over.”
The Ripper Effect, indeed, mused Barton Fuller, retuming to his painting. The Ripper was small potatoes compared to some of Bannerman's crowd. As Roger knows perfectly well. Why not call it The Bannerman Effect and be done with it?
The Bannerman Effect.
“Oh, Cassie,” he whispered. “What have we created, you and I?”
-2-
Harry Hagler arrived. Irwin Kaplan appeared moments later. The platform tennis was subdued, played almost in silence until Fuller, true to his word, held up his serve long enough to indicate that he had seen the proposal and had not at once summoned the FBI or a State Department psychiatrist. It was enough.
Clew did not stay for lunch. He would not have been able to bear it. He doubted that Barton Fuller would be an especially attentive host that day either. His briefing of Hagler and Kaplan, held in the parking lot of a nearby Dunkin' Donuts, was punctuated by the smacking of Hagler's fist into an open palm. Irwin Kaplan merely sighed. Kaplan was always sighing.
Hagler—red haired, thick-set, pugnacious, the face and temperament of a saloon brawler. Irwin Kaplan—paunchy, balding, thoughtful, cautious yet relentless. The pit bull and the bloodhound, Clew called them. Different men, different styles. But both excellent. Personal reputations: superb. Prior achievements: stunning. Record of accomplishment in their current jobs: dismal.
Especially Hagler. In two years, not one of his offensive strategies aimed at terrorist organizations or at freeing hostages had been implemented. Only his defensive measures. And only those deemed politically safe. He had hoped for a positive change with the coming of a new administration. But it, if anything, was worse. No more of that ludicrous ”make-my-day” posturing but no air strikes either. Just lots of earnestness, niceness, wringing of hands. It was humiliating.
Kaplan had at least put people in prison and had seized billions in drugs, cash,boats, planes, and Florida real estate. But he was, as even he realized, just a finger in the dike. No more. He despaired for the country in which his two young daughters must grow up. His vision of it frightened him. Made him sigh. Made him angry. It had taken Roger Clew many lunches with Kaplan, many walks along the Potomac, and an entire summer of tennis matches, making little progress with him, before he realized that the way to reach Kaplan was through his children. Within days of that revelation, shortly after their return to junior high school, their principal, acting on an anonymous tip, found vials of crack in both their lockers. They denied any knowledge of them, of course. And Kaplan believed his children. He knew that the drugs had been planted, perhaps by a schoolmate, perhaps by someone who wanted to cause him pain. It made him angry. Another step forward.
The three shook hands in the Dunkin' Donuts lot. Patience, Clew told them. Just a little further, a push here, a push there, and nobody will be able to stop it.
At his townhouse on N Street in Georgetown, Roger Clew tapped out the digital code that disconnected the alarm sys
tem and another that permitted him to open his safe.
From the safe, he drew out a Toshiba that was a duplicate of the one he'd left with Fuller and a file of hard 3½-inch disks. He selected a disk marked “auto-repair records” and booted it into the machine. He scanned past the repair records, some genuine, some fictitious, until he came to the most recent entry. Now he typed in an access code. The repair records blinked off and a file titled “Westport” appeared on the screen.
He hit the “scroll” button, then sat back as the machine scanned a series of files on Bannerman and his people, occasionally stopping the scroll as a photo appeared. There were nine, counting Bannerman, who were positively identified as being in Westport. He had photographs of the nine, mostly passport photos, plus a few others taken over the years, always with a telescopic lens.
Clew had no purpose in calling up his Westport file. Except to see them. To count them. To be with them. He scrolled upward again, stopping to linger over each of the photographs. Anton Zivic. He smiled. The only extant photograph, as far as he knew, and he had it. Dapper little man. Cultivated. Looks more like an Italian sports-car maker than a Russian. Very smart. Once Ðannerman's enemy, now his right hand.
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 2