Billy McHugh—huge, Bannerman's monster, the most frightening of the bunch, had been with Bannerman the longest. Carla Benedict—who likes to play with men, get laid by them, before she kills them. Janet Herzog—never says much, just kills them. John Waldo—once a Navy seal, still likes to work at night. Glenn Cook—ex-FBI, Bannerman's long-distance shooter. These last five, between them, Clew reflected, have probably killed more people than smallpox.
Clew went on, stopping at Gary Russo. Dr. Russo. Their resident surgeon. Also their interrogator. Could make a stump talk, they say. Reputed to be Carla's boyfriend, more or less. Hard to imagine, Clew thought, unless he could also make a stump come. Otherwise, it has to be like fucking a black widow, saying so far so good.
Molly Farrell. The nice one. The youngest. Been with Bannerman since Iran, probably his closest friend after Billy. Also the hardest to figure. Comes from money. Radcliffe grad, nationally ranked college tennis player. Went abroad for her junior year. Something happened. Clew never knew what. But five years later she's making bombs and tapping phones for Bannerman. Now a Westport saloonkeeper. Runs a restaurant called Mario's which is more or less their headquarters.
There were at least four more, Clew was reasonably sure. Bannerman wouldn't say. Not even to him. It was another reason why Reid had not dared to raid Westport in force. Reid could never be sure of getting all of them. Any he missed would vanish. And then they would begin hunting him. There were few things that frightened a man more than the knowledge that he was being stalked by someone who lived only to kill him.
Clew stopped at Bannerman's most recent photograph. It was taken, like the others, with a telephoto lens. He had just left a restaurant on Manhattan's Upper West Side, smiling at some remark made by a female companion whose face, except for a bit of her hair, had been cropped. Clew sat back and studied him.
Clew shook his head. It's amazing, he thought. On the surface, as nice a guy as you could want to meet. Soft spoken. Never swears. A good face. His mother's looks, but rugged. A scar high on one cheek that probably drives women crazy. Not that he'd notice. Or know what to do about it if he did. Almost forty years old and he's still basically a klutz with women, straight ones, anyway. Sticks mostly with his own kind. Says it's just as well, says he's never won an argument with a woman. Molly, Clew suspected, probably takes care of his needs from time to time. What are friends for?
Anyway, he's more of a man's man, really. Good guy, good neighbor. The kind who would not only lend you his tools but would probably drop whatever he's doing and come over to help you. You want company watching a Yankees game on TV or you want to play some one-on-one in your driveway? Call Bannerman. You got troubles? Someone screwing you over and you want a sympathetic ear? Call Bannerman. Good listener, never lectures. The best part is, just talking to Bannerman has a way of making your troubles disappear. The guy who's harassing you suddenly seems to lose interest. Maybe he woke up in the night to see Billy McHugh leaning over his face. Next thing you know, he's a recluse, hardly leaving his house anymore which, by the way, is suddenly up for sale.
Bannerman takes care of his own.
Clew moved on. He scrolled through the dossiers on Bannerman's known agents, past a list of fifty or more possibles —agents who'd been known to work for him at least twice— and reached a set of supplementary files listing various other people known to have had a business or personal relationship with him. He tapped a key to stop it and backed up to the photograph of the young woman whose face had been cropped out of the other shot. Her name was Susan Lesko. Bannerman's current lady friend. A straight one. He called up her file. The more he read, the more he frowned.
The relationship had been going on for several months now and showed no sign of ending. That was not like Bannerman. He tended to stay in his own world. He'd had occasional affairs with outsiders before but he tended to end them at the first sign that they might intensify. Before they could become a distraction. This one seemed not only distracting but foolhardy. The girl, aside from being too young for him, worked for a newspaper. A reporter. She'd been sniffing around Westport, but not on an assignment. On her own. Apparently she'd been helping a friend move into a new house in Westport and had come across a Welcome Wagon brochure that bragged about the unusually low crime rate. She wondered why, dug some more, and then came on another set of figures showing that Westport's suicide and accidental death rates were remarkably high for a town that size. Her curiosity was aroused. Thought there might be a story in it. Stress among the affluent, maybe. Or another rash of teen suicides.
Clew couldn't imagine Bannerman getting nervous about this. But for some reason he'd contrived to meet her, get close to her, see what sort of questions she was asking. Possibly to see whether she just might have stumbled on something that might lead to him or his people. To do some distracting of his own. He might even have done it to save her life.
Whatever. She did lose interest in the story. There was no reason for Bannerman to keep seeing her. Now she was nothing but trouble.
For one thing, he thought, Palmer Reid almost certainly knows about her by now and is bound to be wondering what Bannerman is doing with a reporter. He probably also knows that Bannerman and this girl are about to take off together on a ski trip to Europe. That in itself would be enough to make him crazy—that Bannerman is allowed to come and go as he pleases and yet he has the gall to tell Reid never to set foot inside Westport. But this reporter business would be the real kicker. Reid will toss and tum over it. He'll see a conspiracy in it because he sees conspiracies everywhere. Ask Reid for the time of day and he'll wonder if you're trying to establish an alibi. Fuck him. Let him stew.
Another concern was the girl's father. Roger Clew hit the “scroll” button again. He stopped at a photograph taken from newspaper files. A huge man. The build of a wrestler. Mean face. Daughter must have been adopted. In the photograph, a television reporter was asking him a question he must not have liked. Lesko looked like he was about to eat him.
Raymond Lesko. Former New York City police detective. Highly decorated. Retired two years ago under a cloud. Suspected of a triple murder. Story is that Lesko's partner went bad. Was ripping off drug dealers. Did it once too often. They blew his head off in the driveway of his home. A few days later, Lesko slaughtered two Bolivian nationals and one Colombian in the back room of a Brooklyn barbershop. Or so they say. Lesko was never charged. But Irwin Kaplan, who knows Lesko from way back, says it's true. Says Lesko splattered them all over the walls, reloaded his shotgun, then emptied it into a million dollars worth of cocaine until the whole room turned red and white.
Lots of stories about Lesko. One says there was a woman in that barbershop. And that she was the one who ordered the hit on Lesko's partner. Lesko blew all the others to hell but not her. He left her standing there. Some say he just couldn't kill a woman. Others say he didn't know who she was until later. A few say that he did know her and was on the take from her and wanted to teach her a lesson. Irwin Kaplan says that's horseshit; he says the partner turned out to be a thief but Lesko was straight as they come, and the partner was lucky to get killed before Lesko could get his hands on him.
Which brings up one of the weirder Lesko stories. Kaplan says that Lesko doesn't seem to want to let the partner, whose name was David Katz, stay dead. Says he stiJJ talks to him sometimes. Maybe it's not so weird. You work with the same partner for ten years, day in and day out, counting on each other, you find yourself finishing each other's sentences after a while. You develop a kind of ESP. Same way, maybe, that a widower would go on talking to his dead wife as if she were still out in the kitchen. Or that people visit graves and have long talks with the person buried there. Not so weird. Maybe it's just lonely.
Anyway, Kaplan says this woman, known only as Elena, never photographed, dropped out of sight. Retired. Some say to La Paz, some say to Zurich. If you want to know more, Kaplan suggested, ask Reid. Reid had some kind of connection with her. “Ask me,” Kaplan said, �
�Reid was probably protecting her in retum for a cut of her action.” Clew wasn't surprised. He knew that there were some in the CIA who saw all that drug money as a way to fund other activities that would not survive congressional scrutiny. If they couldn't stop the drug traffic, they felt, they might as well get some use out of it.
Whatever. Clew wasn't interested in Elena, especially not in Reid, and he didn't really care about Raymond Lesko. Except that, retired or not, Lesko was a cop, a very formidable cop, and except that he was a father who presumably took an interest in his daughter's choice of lovers. Especially one who was pushing forty. Especially one who was about to take her on a ski trip to Switzerland. Bannerman had to realize that. Clew could only hope that Bannerman knew what he was doing. And that he was not in love. That, Clew thought, is all we need.
Switzerland.
Clew made a face.
Zurich.
Kaplan said the woman, Elena, might be in Zurich. Reid had to know that as well.
Damn.
He tried to imagine what Palmer Reid would make of this. Paul Bannerman had almost certainly never heard of Elena. He'd never even met Lesko. Has probably been ducking him. Yet here we have a neat little circle that seems to run from Bannerman, to the girl, to the father, to Elena, to Reid, and back again to Bannerman. Reid hates and fears Bannerman. But he doesn't dare move against him. And Bannerman has promised to live and let live as long as Reid keeps his distance. But now here's Bannerman, all of a sudden, apparently developing a connection with a woman who could, conceivably, blow the whistle on Reid. Yes, definitely; Reid would see a plot unfolding here. The topper would be Bannerman's upcoming trip. Where is he going? Switzerland. Who else lives in Switzerland? Elena. What could be clearer?”
“But,” he muttered softly, “what will you do about it, Palmer?”
Roger Clew stared at the telephone on his desk. He should, he knew, call Bannerman. Tell him about Lesko, about Elena, and what Palmer Reid was likely to be thinking. But what might Palmer Reid actually do?
Wouldn't it be great, Clew wondered, if he could ask the computer. What if the Cray-3 system were programmed to predict Palmer Reid's behavior? It would take a while but it ought to be possible. Even for a mind like Reid's. Reid might be borderline crazy but probably no more so than any terrorist. If he fed the computer everything they had on file about Reid, his personal and professional history, his psychological profile, the mind of a probable paranoid schizophrenic who does nothing except circuitously, he would be able to tell Bannerman what actions Reid is most likely to consider in ranking order of probability.
And how Bannerman should respond. For maximum effectiveness and maximum damage. Bannerman would be grateful. He'd owe him big.
But what if the computer turned out to be wrong? Clew leaned forward on his elbows, his hands cupped over his mouth, his expression distant. How would he know whether he fed the right information? Or enough information? Garbage in, garbage out. Do this wrong and Bannerman might never trust it again.
And the Ripper Effect would be just one more idea that died in committee. Better, maybe, to say nothing. But do a trial run. Program the computer, ask it what Reid will do. Even ask it how Bannerman might respond. If it tums out to be right, Bannerman's got to be impressed.
If it doesn't, who's to know?
-3-
Mid-January. Southeastern Switzerland
Elena had noticed the van. It had followed her silver Mercedes since Davos. It stayed fifty meters behind, not passing when invited to do so, keeping its distance even when the Mercedes paused at stop signs.
Her cousin Josef Brugg, driving up front, had noticed it as well. It seemed strange to him that the van made no attempt to pass. The road ahead was clear. And he was driving slowly, in part not to risk being stopped by the Swiss police, and in part not to jar the bleeding American who was rapidly sinking into shock.
Still he was not greatly alarmed. The van, colored maroon and brown, with German plates, had a ski rack on its roof. There were many like it on this road every day. And the driver, as best he could make out, seemed no more than a boy, traveling alone. At one point, driving through the town of Küblis, Josef had seen the boy honk and wave at a knot of skiers who were trudging along the road in their heavy boots, their skis on their shoulders. Two or three of the skiers had raised their arms in response. That their response was tentative, even questioning, Josef Brugg did not notice. He relaxed. Josef tugged the hem of his trench coat so that it covered the automatic pistol that rested on his lap and concentrated on the road ahead. Soon, in any case, his brother, Willem, would be catching up to them in the other Mercedes. Willem would not be far behind, perhaps five kilometers, depending on how long it took him to help the other Americans clean up the mess they had left in Davos.
He adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could see the back seat. The van snapped out of sight. Slouched directly behind him was the wounded American doctor, Russo. He was barely conscious now. His head lolled in rhythm with the springs of the Mercedes. Elena was holding him, her arm around his shoulder. With her free hand, she kept pressure against the most serious of his injuries, low on his chest, where the assassin's knife had entered. The others, those under his right armpit, were flesh wounds made by bullets. Elena had torn her cotton blouse to make a packing for them.
Elena was talking to the American, encouraging him. Only a little farther, she said. The clinic is not far. They know we are coming.
Russo grunted. He lifted his head and nodded feebly.
He felt no fear. Only humiliation. There was not much pain where the knife had entered. But there was a sense of fullness, a coldness, which he knew to be a sign of internal bleeding. It was the bullet wounds, although far less serious, that hurt the most. The bullets had only grazed him but the muzzle blast from Bannerman's pistol had also seared his flesh and set his clothing afire. And yet he knew that Bannerman, in shooting through him, had probably saved his life.
The man, Carmody, had taken him from behind. So stupid. So careless. Carmody was in the act of killing him, driving the knife into his heart, and would surely have finished him had the knife not squarely hit a rib. It gave Russo time to struggle. It gave the others time to reach him. But by then the knife had penetrated a full three inches and had twisted. Carmody had held him like that, pinioned, his body a shield now that Carmody saw that he was trapped and tried to bargain his own life for what remained of Russo's. Bannerman had not hesitated. He stepped forward, lifted Russo's right arm and thrust his pistol into Russo's armpit, then clamped the arm back down to muffle the sound of the shots. He fired three times, through Russo, into Carmody's heart.
The next ten minutes had been a blur. The others had broken into a shop where he could be kept warm until cars could be brought up. Davos Hospital was near but there could be no question of bringing him there. That would mean police. His carelessness had done enough damage already. Then he heard the woman's voice. Elena’s. Banner-man must have sent for her. She was nodding. Yes, she said. There was a clinic this side of Zurich that her family had funded. Treatment would be swift and discreet. She and her cousins would take him there. And she tried. No one expected the van.
The killers were patient. They had waited for the silver Mercedes at the edge of Davos, knowing that it must eventually retum the way it came. There was only one road back to Zürich.
True, there had been many places along the winding mountain road where the Mercedes could have been overtaken. But if, as was likely, it ran off the road at the first burst of fire, even if it then plunged down through the trees, its occupants might well have survived. Worse, escape would be difficult. If the attack were witnessed, and an alarm given, this single road was too easily sealed.
And so, keeping their distance, they followed. Another thirty kilometers and the Mercedes would reach the junction town of Landquart on the valley floor. There, the mountain road connected to an autobahn. Plenty of room to pass, not much traffic at this hour, farmland on eith
er side. Best of all, there were many exits, several main roads branching off it, a wide choice of escape routes.
On the autobahn, the van had dropped farther back, the driver biding time. Now, gradually, it closed the distance, ready to ease off if the Mercedes, which could easily outrun the van, accelerated. If it did, they would wait. It did not.
They were near the town of Sargans, where the autobahn would soon branch off toward Austria, and where the morning fog had begun to thicken, when the killers made their move. The Mercedes had remained in the right-hand lane, the van in the center. Now it moved up, slowly, until it had drawn abreast.
Elena Bragg saw the shape. She raised her eyes. The van's driver, a young man, no, a woman, thin, bad skin, was looking back at her. Shouting something. Not watching the road. What is it, she wondered. A low tire?
But then she knew. Even before the side door of the van swung open, she knew. She called a warning to Josef. But the door sprang back. Two men. One was tall, fair skinned. The other was short, dark, with a cigar between bared teeth. That was all she had time to see. Except for the weapons now appearing from behind their backs. The dark one fired first, at Josef.
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 3