The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Hey.” Billy nudged him.

  ”Hmm?”

  “Forget Fuller. Get some sleep.”

  “Sure.”

  He might have done it out of emotion . . . bereavement . . . hatred. Bannerman could understand that. It was how he himself had begun. And look where it led. Each time, it became easier. More impersonal.

  “You hear me?” Billy said.

  “Yeah.’’

  “Get som.e sleep.”

  He wondered if it had become easier for Barton Fuller as well.

  Bannerman closed his eyes.

  -21-

  “David?” whispered Lesko.

  No answer.

  This is so goddamned dumb.

  His plane had landed before seven. The sun was no more than a grayish glow to the east. He'd passed through immigration without incident, looking beyond the glass booths to the place where Elena had been waiting the last time he came. There was no one. Just the backs of other passengers following the signs to baggage claim and customs. He had nothing to claim, nothing to declare. Just the clothes on his back and the small overnight bag he'd carried on board.

  He passed through a knot of waiting relatives, scanning their faces out of habit. No one looked at him.

  He paused at a bank of public telephones. Too early to call. He didn't know what he'd say to her anyway. Or whether he'd even make the call. But the phones reminded him that he needed to change dollars into Swiss francs.

  Near the currency exchange he saw signs, in English, pointing to a train that ran directly to downtown Zurich. He followed them. It would kill some time.

  But only ten minutes' worth. He found himself in a cav-

  ernous main terminal, track announcements blaring in German, in the middle of rush hour, clusters of vacationers pushing baggage carts with ski bags through the crowd. He found a coffee shop. He used its bathroom to wipe some of the shine from his face and to brush his teeth. He sat down with a pot of coffee. He wished he had something to read.

  “Can you think of anything else?” He heard Katz's voice in his head. He ignored it.

  ”I mean, maybe you could take a bus tour. That'll take care of the morning.”

  “Leave me alone,” he muttered.

  “Then there's lunch. Maybe after that a museum until whatever time the bars open around here and you can get sloshed enough to go ring her doorbell”

  “David . . . ” He chewed his lip. Never mind. He wasn't even sure it was Katz. Not wide awake. It was probably himself. All 240 pounds of him. Needing a shave. Probably stinks. Wondering if she'll even open the door when she sees him. But Katz, or whoever, was right. Either get it over with or climb back on the train. With a sigh, he pushed to his feet.

  “Elena?”

  No. Another woman's voice. Speaking German. Probably a maid. He said his name. She said **Jah, something, something, bitte” and was gone. Too late to hang up. He waited.

  “Lesko?”

  His stomach flipped.

  “Lesko, is it you?”

  “Yeah. It's me. How are you, Elena?”

  “It is—it is good to hear your voice. You are well?”

  “I'm fine. And you?” Schmuck. You just asked her that.

  ”I have been thinking about you.”

  His stomach turned again. ”I would have called. Things got a little busy back home.”

  “Back home?”

  “Where I live.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Back in the states.”

  “Lesko, where are you now?” She seemed alarmed. “You are not in Spain.”

  “Spain?” Why would he be in Spain. Then he understood. “No. No, I'm not.”

  “Where are you, Lesko? This minute.”

  “I'm here. Zurich. I wondered . . . maybe we could get some lunch.”

  She gasped. “Where, precisely?”

  He told her.

  ”I will come for you,” she said. “Ten minutes.”

  On the sidewalk outside his apartment building on Vermont Avenue, not far from the White House, Harry Hagler watched as a tow truck dragged the last of four badly damaged automobiles up the ramp from his basement garage. This one was charred. All its windows shattered. Several dents and scars made by flying metal. Hagler held a rolled-up newspaper in one hand. He slammed it against his open palm.

  His own car was still down there. What was left of it. Being picked over by a crew from the FBI forensics laboratory. A bomb had done it, no question. Radio controlled. Fragments of the receiver had already been identified, although not its type or origin. It had gone off midmorning, probably accidentally, triggered by someone's inadvertent use of the radio frequency chosen by whoever had planted it. The timing of the blast had been fortunate. No injuries. No one had been in the garage. The assassin had intended, the FBI assumed, to wait for Hagler to drive out, follow him in another car, and detonate the charge at a predetermined time and place.

  But, if so, the killing had been carelessly planned. Hagler rarely used that car because he seldom left the District except by air. It had collected two weeks' worth of light basement dust since it was last driven. A professional should have noticed that, thought the federal agent in charge.

  Hagler turned away. He walked northward along Vermont Avenue to the intersection of L Street where a Lincoln Town Car waited at the curb, its engine running. Roger Clew's chauffeur climbed from the car as he approached and stepped to a nearby doorway, arms folded. Hagler entered the Lincoln.

  “Well?” he asked Roger Clew.

  “I've tried all over Westport. I don't think he's there.”

  “Of course, he's not there, for Christ's sake. He's down here.”

  “We don't know that.”

  Hagler hooked a thumb back in the direction of his building. “That was a bomb, Roger. A car bomb. You don't see a hint in there someplace?”

  “Terrorists plant bombs, too, Harry. And some of them don't like you.”

  “You mean Jibril? He's got a whole school for how to blow people up. He wouldn't have missed.”

  “Neither would Bannerman.” Unless he meant to. “Anyway, why would he single you out? As far as I know, he's probably never heard of you unless you left a trail up there.”

  ”I didn't.” Not to me.

  Hagler began to unfurl the newspaper he was carrying. He stopped abruptly. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was in another car. Eyes widening, he jabbed a finger toward the floor.

  “It's clean,” Clew assured him. “So is Kaplan's.”

  “You talked to him? What does he say about this?”

  Clew shook his head. “He wouldn't take my call. He's been ducking me for two weeks. He won't even meet me at Fuller's house.”

  Hagler fell silent. Through Clew's window he saw the tow truck, dragging the car with the blown out windows, heading up toward Thomas Circle, leaving a sprinkling of glass each time it hit a bump.

  That bomb, he thought.

  For it to go off, accidentally, someone has to happen to be transmitting on that frequency—odds maybe 500 to 1 against—and they must happen to be passing the garage entrance at the time so a strong enough signal can get in and at a time when there happens to be no one else in the garage, not even the security guard who works there.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “It was a message. Bannerman has to be on to us.”

  Not us, damn you. You. “How, Harry?” he asked wearily.

  “Maybe he's got us wired.”

  “We're swept three times a week, Harry. All of us. There's no wire.”

  “Then maybe the Jamaican. Maybe he sold us out.”

  “Harry . . . does he know who we are?”

  “No. He couldn't.”

  “Does he know who Bannerman is?”

  “No.”

  “Then it's not the Jamaican.”

  Hagler fell silent again for several moments. Then, “Do you read The New York Times, Roger?” He indicated the newspaper he was holding, now opened to the “Metropolitan” section.

&nb
sp; Clew's eye dropped to the page. It followed Hagler's finger to a two-column article. Its headline: “Five Die In Drug War.” Clew snatched it from him.

  The report chronicled a weekend of violence on Manhattan's Upper West Side. A bombing and a machine gunning on Saturday evening, thought to be an encounter between rival factions. One dead. Fire bombed in his car. Bumed beyond recognition. Then, on Sunday, four more street killings in three separate incidents. Two of the dead were members of a Jamaican drug gang known as the Jungle Posse. The other two, members of a rival Dominican gang. A photo was shown of the man who led the Jamaicans. The police were seeking him for questioning. Clew read the caption under the photo. He wilted visibly. The caption identified Hector “Dandy” Manley.

  “Did you notice,” Hagler asked quietly, “that another car got bombed?”

  Clew couldn't speak.

  “The charred body. Unidentified. What'll you bet it's Manley?”

  Still nothing.

  “While I've got your attention”—Hagler closed one eye— “let me ask you another question. Could Bannerman have gotten his hands on one of our computers?”

  “No. No way.”

  “This doesn't look to you like the Ripper Effect put to work? First he cooks Manley, then he sits back as the Jamaicans and the Dominicans run around killing each other? Not to mention blasting my car by way of a thank-you note.”

  “No,” Clew said firmly. “There's no way he could have it”

  “Yes, there is, Roger. From Irwin.”

  Clew stared. Then he shook his head. “You know him better than that.”

  “Maybe. But if he did, I'll blow his fucking head off.”

  Clew sat back, hugging himself. Asking himself. Is it possible? And if Bannerman did have the program, look what else he was doing with it. Setting them against each other just like the drug gangs. Making them paranoid.

  “I’ll go see him,” he whispered. “Today. I’ll go to Westport.”

  “And what? Ask him? You can't even find him.”

  “Let me think, Harry.”

  “You walk in there, with all this, you better damned well bring some backup/’

  “That's the worst thing I could do,” he snapped.

  Or maybe it isn't. Wouldn't I do that, Clew wondered, if I were worried about him? If I'd tried to reach him and couldn't? If I'd heard about a plot to bomb Westport?

  Maybe.

  And maybe I just go. Find him. Feel him out. Look into his eyes. Then, if there's nothing there, play it by ear. Maybe give him the Jibrils after all Or maybe give him Harry Hagler. Damn you, Harry.

  “I'll make one more call,” he said. Maybe two. Maybe he'd try Lesko first. See what he knows, if anything.

  “Don't just call. Go.”

  “Harry,” Clew hissed. “I'll handle it.”

  Damn you.

  The messages on Paul's machine, which he no longer locked away, were all from Roger Clew. He left no name but Susan knew his voice. It was the man from the State Department who had brought her from Switzerland. Except he was calmer then. A bit nervous but in control. Now he was breathing deeply. Swallowing often.

  “Listen . . . Paul, ” went the first message. “We have to talk. Did you . . . ? Never mind. Just call me. ” Click.

  The message had been recorded shortly after noon. A second message, apparently, followed a call to Paul's office. Clew seemed to have learned that he had gone someplace. He had also tried to reach Anton Zivic. For some reason, Zivic's absence from his Main Street shop was cause for concern.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked. “What the hell's going on?’9

  Between the second and third calls he had obviously tried to reach her father. He was now even more upset. But there was something different about his voice. It had, she thought, a certain coldness to it.

  “Something is happening, ” he said into the machine. ”I can't tell you over the phone but it's big and it involves a major threat to the security of your base. If I can 't reach you, if I can't even reach Leskofor Christ's sake, if you're unable to reach me, I may have to move some people in there for your own good. ”

  Paul's base?

  That, she assumed, could only mean Westport. But what major threat? And—good question—where was everybody. And what's this about moving people into Westport? Who? The Green Berets?

  She punched out her father's number in Queens. No answer. Another machine. On an impulse, she called Paul's office, identifying herself.

  “Did Paul leave word where he could be reached?”

  Sorry, she was told. Not authorized to say. But she might try asking Mr. Zivic.

  “But isn't he with them?”

  A short pause. “No, he isn't.”

  “Well, I know that they've gone back to Switzerland. Paul and my father. Are you telling me there's no way to get a message to them there?”

  Another pause. “Your father is in Zurich. But we have no hotel for him.”

  “My father, you said. But not Paul?”

  “Miss Lesko . . . you'll really have to talk to Mr. Zivic. You might try him at the Greenfield Hill Clinic.”

  Susan replaced the phone.

  Damn.

  Her father in Zurich. No hotel. Apparently without Paul. Which might mean that he's gone to see Elena. Which is fine except why the urgency? He's probably traveling on that same fake passport. And what did this have to do with Urs Brugg's urgent message to Paul? We'll assume, she decided, that Elena is not pregnant and that my father is not being summoned to do the honorable thing. And we'll grant that my father did not need Paul as chaperone. So where is Paul?

  She could, she supposed, ask Anton Zivic. Nice man. Seems second only to Paul in this Westport thing. But she didn't really know him. What about Molly?

  Wait a minute, she decided. First let's see who else is gone around here. She found a phone book and flipped to the number of the Westport Library where Carla Benedict worked as a researcher. She dialed it, asking for Carla, planning to hang up if she came to the phone. But Carla wasn't there. Took a few days off. Probably back later in the week. One down, three to go.

  She dialed Mario's. Asked for Billy. Same story. Two down.

  “And Molly's away too?” she asked.

  “No,” the relief bartender told her. “She's here. Want to talk to her?”

  Susan hesitated. “Thanks. No. I'll just come over.”

  Molly's presence, business as usual, surprised Susan as much as it gratified her. But there was no reason, she supposed, to assume that Paul would always travel with the same group of—specialists?—whatever—just because these three, plus that doctor they lost, were with him in Switzerland. She slipped into her coat, feeling for the car keys in her pocket. Her eye fell on the leather reclining chair near Paul's fireplace. She went to it, knelt, and reached beneath it. Her fingertips found the automatic pistol that he had slid under that chair two nights before. She'd half-expected Paul to have taken it down to the shore and thrown it far out into Long Island Sound. He hadn't. Must have had other things on his mind. She slipped it into her purse, down to the bottom, covering it with her wallet and two packets of tissues. She didn't know why. Yes, she did. It was because of all the phone calls, all the mystery, the hints of imminent violence. And because she was alone. And because she was damned if she was going to become a victim again.

  They had barely spoken. Elena's car, a new Mercedes, wound silently up narrow streets following signs that read “Zurichsberg.” It was to Zurich, Lesko guessed, what Greenwich, Connecticut, was to New York except closer to town. It was where the rich people lived. Big houses. Many hidden behind walls or thick evergreens. He wondered if anyone there, in their whole lives, had ever cooked their own dinner or carried out a load of garbage. This was a mistake. He didn't belong here.

  A chauffeur drove the car. A real one. Not a bodyguard. But Lesko had seen the second car, two men in it, that had pulled up fifty feet behind the Mercedes and stayed at that distance as it climbed the hill. He'd te
nsed when he saw it. But the chauffeur, holding the door for him, followed his stare and nodded a reassurance. He urged Lesko to enter quickly.

  She was in the backseat. Her eyes shining, her lips moving. She seemed to be trying different words but all that came out was, “Hello, Lesko.”

  Nor could he reply at first. She seemed even smaller than he remembered her. More vulnerable. She was wearing a dressing gown of some sort, loose fitting, Oriental. A dark fur had been draped over her shoulders. She could not use the sleeves because both arms were in slings. The left arm, shattered by gunfire, was encased in plaster. Metal screws protruded from the cast. The right arm rested on a lighter sling that kept pressure off her shoulder. Where her gown opened at the throat he could see the edge of a bandage. He had almost forgotten how badly she'd been hurt.