“In a pig's ass, she is. But even if she was, she wouldn't touch you with a garbage man's gloves because you're—”
“How would you like me to rip out whatever brains you got left?’9
“See that? That's why. It's because you're such a nasty son of a bitch and you got no class, Lesko. Plus which you're ugly and if you think—”
Lesko shook off the memory. Maybe it was just as well that Katz was staying away. He didn't need the grief. It was enough that he was starting to get grief from live cops. And who could blame them? They're hanging around Greenfield Hill, getting no sleep, while the allegedly dangerous Mama's Boy is sitting around his dumb travel agency booking blue-haired old ladies onto cruise ships and his gorilla, McHugh, is home helping his landlady wallpaper her dining room. His cops were getting disgusted. But at least they were keeping their ears open.
That was how, in the halls and washrooms of Greenfield Hill, Lesko picked up two rumors. One was that Palmer Reid had holed up in his home in Maryland. The second was that two of Bannerman's women plus a long-distance shooter named Glenn Cook had gone to pay him a visit. On hearing this last, he borrowed the car his cops came in and confronted Paul Bannerman at the offices of Luxury Travel Limited.
“This Cook guy, the sniper, he's down there to hit him, right? You promised me a piece of him.”
“He's there to observe,” Bannerman winced, motioning for Lesko to keep his voice down. It had not occurred to Lesko that Bannerman's reservations clerks might be just what they seemed. “As for Molly and Janet, they're long since back.”
“So why'd they go?”
Bannerman hesitated. But better, he thought, to tell at least part of the truth than to let him go on speculating. “They penetrated Reid's house. Molly rigged his phones.”
Lesko raised an eyebrow. “With a guy like Reid, it's that easy? He doesn't keep them swept?”
“Molly knows her business.” He dismissed the subject with a wave.
“So? What happens now?”
Until Roger Clew's visit, the answer to that had been clear. He could not afford to let Reid, guilty or not, take the initiative. Roger would understand that. And yet Roger had asked him to take no action. If he was being used, therefore, he was clearly not being used to destroy Reid, at least not by Roger. And Roger's friendship was valuable. That of Barton Fuller even more so. Still . . . something about Roger. Roger, unless Helge was mistaken, had lied to him about when he learned of the attack on Susan. Bannerman couldn't think why.
”I haven't decided,” he answered.
“What's to decide? You know he's behind what happened to Susan and Elena.”
”I don't know it. I think it.”
“You talked to Loftus, right? You connected Reid and his greaseball general, right? The guy didn't dig in down there because he's innocent. What more do you want? We sit here waiting for him to drop a bomb on Westport with a signed confession taped to it?”
Bannerman shook his head. “He won't move yet. Not until he knows where all the players are. He probably isn't even sure I'm here.” Reid had already tried to contact him twice in Westport and once more at his Klosters apartment. On that occasion, Lesko answered. Apparently, Reid babbled on for some time with offers of sympathy, men and money before he realized he was talking to a stranger. Lesko did not enlighten him.
“Bannerman,” Lesko slid into a chair. ”I want this guy. I'll work with you or I'll do it alone. But I want him dead.”
Paul said nothing. He seemed to sigh.
“Hey, look,” Lesko leaned toward him. “The last few days I heard a lot about Mama's Boy. All of a sudden you're not acting much like the guy I heard about. Does Susan, by any chance, have anything to do with the change?”
A small shrug.
”I also hear you're thinking about hanging 'em up, letting this guy, Zivic, run the show here. Is that true?”
“More or less.”
“Well, if you think backing off is suddenly going to make you better son-in-law material—”
”I don't.”
“Then what do you say you get off your ass?”
Bannerman shook his head. “You're a smooth talker, Lesko.” He reached for a pad and scribbled an address. He tore off the sheet and pushed it across his desk. “That's where Reid lives. You want to go after him, be my guest.”
“You don't think I will?”
”I think you might. You won't last a day.”
Lesko reddened. He stood up, paced the office, struggling to control his temper. “You got a better idea, let's hear it.”
Bannerman looked at him coldly. ”I don't need you, Lesko. Try to understand that. If my problem was in some New York back alley, you'd be the first one I'd call. You're tough and straight ahead. Reid is devious, cowardly, and probably crazy. But he'll dance rings around you.”
Lesko started to speak. He bit his lip. He knew that Bannerman was right. His expression softened. “Look,” he said slowly. “They hurt my daughter and I didn't do shit. All I did was almost louse everything up and then watch like a dummy while you take over and blow away the Carmody guy. They hurt Elena, they busted her up bad, and all I can do is go see her with this stupid plant and tell her I'm sorry. I have to do something. I have to at least be in on it.”
“Can I ask you a question?*’
Lesko made a face. “What's with me and Elena, right?”
Bannerman waited.
“The answer is I don't know. Look at her, look at me, try to figure. Anyway, what's it to you?”
“Just trying to know you a little better.”
“We're not going to be pals, Bannerman. All I want from you is one thing, one time. Are you going to do something about Reid or not?”
Bannerman leaned back in his chair. His eyes rested, thoughtfully, on a drawer of his desk. He reached to open it. From it, he pulled out a small address book. He reached for his phone and began punching out a number.
“Who are you calling?”
“It's time to find out what Reid's up to.”
“How do you do that?”
He motioned Lesko to the extension at the far end of his office sofa. “I'm going to ask him,” he said.
“Paul? ... Is it you? . . . Where are you?”
Palmer Reid held the phone as if it were a living thing. He snapped his fingers, silently, in the direction of his assistant. Charles Whitlow, lips pursed, one eyebrow raised, carefully lifted an extension from its cradle.
“I'm back in Westport, Palmer. You called. What's on your mind?”
The voice, thought Reid. Not at all cordial. Yet not hostile, especially. Preoccupied. Distant. Weary.
“The girl, Paul. How is she?”
“Look . . . Palmer . . .”
“Paul, we've had our differences.” Reid gathered himself. “You know that I would happily see you and all your people behind bars. But you cannot believe that I would have harmed that innocent girl.”
”I don't. Necessarily.”
Reid let the qualifier pass. “How is she, Paul?”
A brief silence. A sigh. “Somewhat better. She's here. I've been spending most of my time at her bedside.” He saw Lesko's eyebrow go up. He touched a finger to his lips.
“Who did this to her? Could she describe them?”
“She has no memory at all of what happened. She's barely lucid. There's apparently brain damage. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”
“The least I could do,” Reid mumbled. His attention had turned to Whitlow who was busily scribbling questions on a pad, now holding the pad for him to see. Reid nodded, frowning. “Paul, I called your Klosters apartment two days ago. A man answered, pretending to be you.”
“Probably Lesko. He took his daughter's key to collect her things. Do you know where he is, by the way?”
“He's not with you?”
“Hardly. He blames me for what happened to his daughter. He's threatened to kill me for it. For all I know, he's still in Switzerland with that drug dealer of his
.”
Reid blinked. A smile spread across Whitlow's face. He raised a tiny fist as if in triumph, then scribbled another question on his pad.
“Paul,” Reid asked, again nodding toward his assistant, “the Swiss police say the attackers were a man and a woman. Do you know who they are? Any sign of them?”
“They sank out of sight.”
“Probably shot your man Russo as well, don't you think?”
“It wouldn't surprise me. But they're only hired hands. I want who sent them. If you didn't do it, tell me who did.”
“Paul ... I have certain . . . evidence . . .” Reid was squinting, trying to make out Whitlow's scrawl.
“Evidence of what, Palmer?”
Whitlow wrote a name in block letters. He underscored it twice. He jabbed at it with his pen.
“Palmer? If you know something, tell me.”
”I hesitate because . . . Paul, there are people who would like nothing more than to see the two of us at each other's throats. People who would try to destroy me before I can expose them for the traitors they are.”
“Names, Palmer. Who are you talking about?”
'I’ll answer with a question. Why would Roger Clew, in a telephone conversation with Irwin Kaplan of the Drug Enforcement Administration, be so concerned that the purpose of your visit to Switzerland might be to meet with Elena Bragg?”
A long silence. “When did this call take place?”
“The week before you left. Paul, it gets worse. Much worse.”
“Tell me.”
“Drags, Paul. And Barton Fuller. That hypocrite has been using his office to facilitate drag traffic for years.”
“You can prove that?”
“Not in a court of law, perhaps. My evidence would be ruled inadmissible. But I have tapes that leave no doubt.”
“Then why don't you leak them? Let the press destroy him.”
“This is a nation of laws, Paul. I want it done correctly, no matter how long it takes.”
“If this is true, I'll sentence him myself. How is Roger involved?”
“For your sake, I've tried to believe that he's been an unwitting dupe. But after intercepting that call . . .”
“I'll want to hear the tapes. All of them.”
“Only,” Reid's voice became firm, “if you'll promise to work closely with me on this. Your people and mine. I can't have you going off half-cocked.”
“Show me the proof and you've got a deal.”
Reid closed his eyes. “I'm pleased, Paul. Very pleased. We should never have been adversaries.”
“Palmer, I'm going to call an immediate council meeting here. Then in, say, two hours, let's have a conference call. Will you be there?”
“Depend on it.”
“Palmer?”
“Yes, Paul.”
”I owe you one.”
Lesko put down his extension. He stared disbelievingly at Bannerman. “What the hell was all that?” he asked.
Bannerman rubbed his eyes. “Apparently, he wants me to kill the secretary of state.”
”I heard. You believe any of that shit?”
“No.”
“What was that about me blaming you, which I do, and threatening to kill you, which so far I didn't?”
Bannerman stood up, stretching. “Reid likes to hedge his bets. If you go home to Queens he'll probably look you up, show you evidence that I ordered the attacks on Susan and Elena to frame him and try to get you to kill me. You wanted a way to get at Reid, there's your opening. All you have to do is go wait for your doorbell to ring.”
“What evidence would he show me?”
Bannerman shrugged. “More tape recordings. We've had any number of phone conversations over the years. He's taped them all. So have I. Give a good editor half a day and Reid could play you conversations proving that I'm a child molester.”
“That's what he'll do with Clew and Fuller?”
“Same sort of thing. Yes.”
Lesko pondered this. “Let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“You two do this all the time? In that whole conversation, neither one of you hardly said a word that was true.”
“Except I know when I'm lying and when I'm not. I'm not sure Reid knows the difference anymore.”
“You don't get tired of that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You made up your mind?”
“Yes. If Anton and the others agree.”
“I'm in, right?”
“If you do it my way. And you do as you're told.”
“You get first shot. You miss, it's my tum.”
“Fair enough.” Bannerman checked his watch. Half past three. “Be back here in two hours.”
“What happens then?”
“Happy hour.”
-13-
Charles Whitlow, a small, windup toy of a man who seemed to flit rather than move, quietly replaced his extension and, raising his chin toward Palmer Reid, applauded him using the fingers of one hand against the back of the other. That done, he cocked his head, smirking, toward the third man in the room. The man answered with a sneer and a hand to his crotch. Whitlow rolled his eyes.
“Enough of that,” muttered Palmer Reid distractedly. He sat, one fist against his mouth, staring at the phone on his desk.
Whitlow allowed himself one more smirk in the direction of General Oscar Ortirez. Pig of a man, he thought. The Bolivian had arrived in a black business suit that was at least a decade out of style. His embroidered white shirt, already stained, had a collar a full size too small. The necktie was atrocious and four inches wide. Someone, thought Whitlow, probably had to show him how to knot it. Pity they didn't show him how to bathe. Skin shines like a dead fish.
And he had not stopped harping about the failed attempt on Elena since he got here. Machine pistols, he screamed. Two little Jew popguns against a heavy Mercedes on an open highway. One team of gunmen. No cross fire. No chase car. And you wonder that she is still alive? Why should she not be alive?
It was hardly Whitlow's fault. He found the best people he could in the time he was given. If Ortirez had not made his appallingly stupid call to Elena, trying to rub her face in the death of the Lesko girl, who, lest we forget, was not dead either, we might have proceeded at a more orderly pace. Even with all that, the attempt should have succeeded. Who would have expected a man like Russo to shield her with his body? And Ortirez is a fine one to talk about the choice of personnel. “The Carmodys are the very best,” he said. “They never miss because they never quit/9 he said. Well, where are they, then?
As for his whining complaint that he should have been told about Bannerman, that Bannerman was something more than a Connecticut travel agent, it was simply none of his business. Everyone he's ever been asked to remove was something more. That was the point, don't you see, in removing them.
No matter. It seems that this mess is about to sort itself out after all. With only one thing to be regretted. It might no longer be necessary to sacrifice Ortirez. To show Bannerman his corpse. Pity, after bringing him all this way.
“General Ortirez,” Palmer Reid's voice snapped Whitlow out of his reverie. He had brought his knuckle to his mouth. He was biting it. Always a good sign, thought Whitlow. ”I would like a few moments alone with Charles.”
Whitlow glanced at the man in the dreadful suit. He had stiffened. Flat, stupid face. Pig eyes. ”I am here to be consulted,” Ortirez raised his chin. ”I will stay.”
Reid bit harder. Whitlow saw his eyes drift toward the door and then beyond it in the direction of the armed guards who were stationed in his foyer. Do it, thought Whitlow. Call them in. Have them club this oily brute to his knees as a lesson in deportment. But he did not.
“Events, General Ortirez,” Reid said, uncoiling, “have progressed beyond the limits of our relationship. I must now deal with a matter that is vital to the interests of the United States.”
Ortirez spat. It was more than a gesture. A spray of browni
sh droplets arced onto Palmer Reid's carpet. “This is shit,” he said.
Reid stiffened. “What did you say?”
“What you are doing,” Ortirez repeated, “it is shit. I stand here listening as you make an allegiance with this Bannerman. You say his great enemy is now his friend, his great friend is now his enemy. Is Bannerman so great a fool that he believes you?”
“He is not a fool,” Reid said evenly, although he seethed at the insult. He had just, brilliantly he thought, improvised a strategy that he wished he'd followed from the beginning. ”I will show him evidence. Even then he will doubt it. I will show him more. At best, yes, he will make an attempt on the life of the man who seeks to deprive you, not to mention your poor country, of your only source of wealth. Then I will destroy him.”
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 13