He entered the warren. There was no direct route, he knew, to the marina. One had to climb up and down steps, pass through tunnels, make several tums along the narrow streets. He proceeded, his pace casual.
Part way in, he passed a darkened service alley, sensing a shape there which he presumed to be Billy. He walked on, never glancing behind him. Soon, the masts of yachts came into view. He reached the waterfront. It resembled a boardwalk, except that it was concrete, lined with open air restaurants. He approached the best known of these, Don Leone. It was nearly empty. Only one young couple in T-shirts bearing the name of their boat. The woman held a sleeping infant. Bannerman chose a table nearest the water and asked for a wine list.
He had made his selection by the time Billy appeared. Billy took a seat, saying nothing. He appeared puzzled.
“What is it?” Bannerman asked.
Billy hesitated. “You remember Kurt Weiss? Skinny guy? Used to race cars?”
Bannerman nodded. They'd used him on occasion, once for surveillance and twice as a driver. Bannerman had not seen him in five years. Last heard of, he was working for an arms dealer named Grassi. “You saw him?”
”I think so. I'm not sure.”
“Tailing me?”
“No. But maybe some other guys were. I'm not sure about that either.”
“What did you see?”
”A guy's walking along, same direction as you. You turn, he keeps going. But then another guy is walking along, same direction as you. You turn again, same thing happens.”
Bannerman shrugged. “It might be nothing.”
“Yeah, but if that was a tail, that many guys, add to them that car that turned around, it means they must have this place covered like a rug.”
“KGB?”
Billy made a face. “Them we expected. This feels, I don't know, like something else.”
A man strolled by. Abruptly, Billy turned in his chair, staring hard at him. The man never looked back. But his cheek was twitching under Billy's gaze. He walked on.
“There's another one,” Billy said.
Bannerman had to agree. An innocent passerby would have glanced at Billy, if only involuntarily.
“You know what I think?” Billy leaned closer.
Bannerman waited.
“We should split an order of paella. You should eat some, get back in the car, and get out of Spain. You've been seen. You made your point. Leave me here, I'll hook up with Johnny Waldo, and we'll be in and out of that house before you're two hours away.”
Bannerman shook his head. ”I want you with me. Let's leave the plan as it is and see what develops.”
“The plan,” Billy argued, “was before we saw those two sitting out in the open like they didn't have a care in the world. They were even backlit, the way the moon bounced off the glass behind them.
That had surprised Bannerman as well. It bordered on suicidal. But even professionals relax at times. And it did not have the look of a baited trap. The bait would have been just as effective if they showed movement behind drawn blinds without the risk of being picked off from below. Glenn Cook, with a night scope, could have finished them with two bullets in as many seconds from the roof of the Puente Romano.
”I should have stayed up on that hill,” Billy brooded. “I'd have left them in their chairs. By the time they started to stink we'd all be home in bed.”
“Or you'd be dead. We didn't see the other shooter. He could have been covering us. And this whole thing could have been staged.”
Billy waved for the waiter. “There's a lot of that going around lately, isn't there.”
“It does seem that way.”
“Now it's Urs Brugg?”
”I hope not. But maybe.”
The waiter came. He took their order, nodding approvingly at Paul's choice of a fino to start and a vintage rioja with their paella. He returned with the sherry two minutes later.
“Senor Bannerman,” he said as he set down one glass. *'Señor McHugh,” he said, as he set down the other.
Billy's eyes became hooded. Bannerman smiled an acknowledgment. The waiter seemed pleased with himself.
“It is my honor to tell you”—the waiter dropped his voice, his tone at once confidential and respectful—“that Señor Grassi sends his compliments and insists that your meal be charged to his account.”
“That's very nice of him.” Bannerman nodded politely. “Did he say, by chance, how we might return the favor?”
The waiter beamed. “He says that you must not hurry your meal, but, if you are so inclined, perhaps you might join him for a nightcap at his hotel.”
“Which is, I take it, the Puente Romano?”
“In the bar, sir. Yes.”
“We'll be delighted.”
At the reception desk of the Puente Romano, Bannerman collected his room key and asked that their bags, his own and Billy's, be sent to their suite. The keys to the BMW had been left with the doorman. He would park it. Sometime before dawn, John Waldo would crawl beneath it. He would tape two automatic pistols to the forward edge of the gas tank. While there he would check for explosives and voice transmitters. He would open the trunk, let the air out of the spare tire, and place two more weapons plus extra clips inside it. Through the night, he would be somewhere nearby. Neither Bannerman nor Billy would ever see him. Nor would any man or woman who threatened their safety.
Three messages awaited him. The first, a reminder from Ronaldo Grassi. The second, “Call Anton—clinic,” The third, a telex from Urs Brugg dated two hours earlier. It read, Arriving tomorrow, noon latest, with Lesko. Could not be helped. Susan arriving Zurich same morning per Anton Zivic.
Bannerman stared at this last. “You won't believe this,” he muttered to Billy.
“You won't believe this,” Billy answered, looking toward the bar. ”I see Grassi. Also almost everyone else.”
Bannerman turned toward the bar. The first thing he noticed was the crowd. Hard to see how many because the bar was nearly as tropically lush as the grounds outside. Every table seemed occupied. Many faces, all turning toward him. Some saluting as they caught his eye. Some holding thumbs up. He recognized nearly all of them. In the center, seated in a peacock rattan chair, was the arms dealer, Grassi, a beefy, coarse-looking man, gold ascot, blue blazer, hands raised as if he were about to applaud. He did applaud. The others joined him.
Billy shrugged. “You wanted to be seen? You're seen.”
Bannerman, his expression glazed, moved toward the bar. Billy stayed at his shoulder, his own eyes dancing from table to table, reciting the names of men and women he recognized.
Bannerman listened, gathering himself. He knew all but a few of the faces, most of the names. For whatever reason, they had assembled here from all over Europe. A few Americans. Expatriates. Several Germans, French, and Danes. Two Israelis, both female, one of whom had been Molly Farrell's instructor in explosive techniques. They were, with a few exceptions, contract agents, working for one Western government or the other, usually for several, occasionally for a Warsaw Pact country depending on the nature of the job. Among the exceptions were two Englishmen, formerly SAS commandos. Last he'd heard, they were bodyguards retained by the royal family. Good men. Dull job. Another exception was Grassi: Italian born and Brooklyn raised, he had moved back to Rome. A dealer. Weapons, spot market oil, laundered cash, possibly drugs although he denied it. Mob connected, but his own man. A high roller, lived well, also lived long because he was known to keep his word. Provided work, at one time or another, for half the people in the room. So had Bannerman.
Bannerman worked his way toward him, taking outstretched hands as he went, exchanging greetings. Only a few greeted Billy other than with silent nods. Most were afraid of him. Some had seen him work. The rest had heard the stories.
Seated at Grassi's table, following his progress, was Kurt Weiss. Billy had been right. He was probably Grassi's driver now and one of his bodyguards. A second man, younger, late twenties but almost totally bald, a neck wider th
an his head, had not taken his eyes from Billy. In his expression Bannerman saw ... he was not sure. Interest, certainly. No fear. A hint of envy. Perhaps a challenge. He made a mental note to keep himself between them. All three rose to their feet. Grassi made the introductions. The younger man's name was Tucker. American. Southern accent. Another bodyguard. Surly. Said little. Bannerman asked Kurt Weiss about his wife and son. They were well, living near Salzburg. Weiss grinned broadly, flattered that Mama's Boy remembered. Tucker all the while stared at Billy.
“Do you think, Mr. Grassi,” Bannerman asked pleasantly, “that we might take a walk?”
The dealer beamed, pleased with himself. “Mr. Grassi,” he repeated for the benefit of the man named Tucker. “Did I tell you? Always polite. Always a class guy.”
“And usually discreet,” Bannerman added. “Can we talk, please. Alone.”
Grassi picked up a bottle of cognac and poured a waiting glass for Bannerman, another for Billy. “Whatever you like,” he said, “but I don't know what I can tell you that everyone here doesn't know already.”
“Such as?”
“That you're here to pop those three turkeys up the hill. We're all here to catch your act.”
Billy groaned disgustedly. Bannerman took a seat. He picked up his glass, swirling its contents as he scanned the room. Grinning faces everywhere. A girl he'd known in college had once thrown a surprise birthday party for him. His first and last. This made him think of it. All that was lacking was a cake. He closed his eyes, rubbing them. “You're going to help me to understand this, aren't you, Mr. Grassi.”
He said it patiently, without menace. But he knew that the answer would probably not come quickly. Grassi was having too good a time, amused at his discomfort. He'd been drinking, his face glowed from it, but he was not drunk. Merely expansive. Bannerman, his eyes speaking for him, told Grassi that he was less than pleased.
“Hey look,” Grassi said, winding down, ”I never saw anything like this either. What's the harm if I enjoy it a little?”
“Well,*’ Bannerman answered reasonably, “the word unconfidential comes to mind.”
“Yeah, but you're among friends. You know who located those three, don't you? The KGB up in Bern.”
“Leo Belkin. I know.”
“That didn't make you wonder a little why they'd care? And whether they'd be down here waiting for you?”
“It did.”
“So it figures you planned for it. Forget them. Except for Belkin, we told them to get lost.”
“How did you come to be here?”
”Urs Brugg. We go back a ways. He called in a favor.”
Bannerman waited.
“Belkin's a friend of his,” Grassi explained. “He even offered to nail those three himself but Brugg didn't want to owe him that big a favor and, besides, he says he promised them to you because of Doc Russo.”
He had not, but Bannerman nodded. “Go on.”
“Anyway, friend or not, with the KGB you never know so Brugg asked me to keep an eye on things. Also to make sure the hitters stuck around until you got here.”
“How did you do that?”
“Easy.” A smug grin. ”I hired them. Sent Kurt, here, over with some money. Told them to sit tight until I tell them what the job is.”
Grassi reached inside his jacket. He produced a small stack of photographs, which he dealt out like playing cards in front of Bannerman, making three piles. He held up the last of these to show that it had information written on the back in longhand.
“News you can use,” he said. “Background stuff. What jobs they did, references, how they like to work, how they're armed right now. Ask me, Reid scraped the bottom of the barrel for these three. Word is you iced him for it. Word is Molly Farrell rigged his phones.”
Bannerman grunted. He leaned over the photographs.
“Lady from Mossad”—Grassi gestured with his thumb— “hasn't stopped bragging about her.”
The photographs were recent. Marbella backgrounds. All taken from a distance but with excellent detail. Two each were head and shoulder shots. One showed them all together, full length, walking up a dock from a large motor yacht that, Bannerman supposed, belonged to Grassi.
He was glad to have them. He'd had only physical descriptions and capsule profiles, third hand. But he did not linger over them. Better not to show that he was less than prepared. Enough that the descriptions were accurate. The Englishman, their leader, was one Martin Thomas Selly. Blond hair, worn long, combed back, receding chin, features vaguely aristocratic. Rejected by Sandhurst after psychological testing but claims to have graduated. Joined the South African Security Forces, deserted to avoid court martial on unspecified morals charges. The shorter man, Algerian, named Amal Hamsho, peasant face, crooked teeth, hooked nose, looked rather like one of the camels with which he was probably raised. The woman, Erna Katerina Dietz, born in Danzig but had a West German passport, bad skin, stretched tight, expressionless eyes dulled by drugs, a prostitute, $20 tops, probably how she met Amal. Altogether an unlikely trio. The Englishman must have scraped the barrel as well.
“Watch out for the Brit, by the way.” Grassi pointed. “Kurt thinks he's nuts.”
So is all this, thought Bannerman. Or is it?
“That explains you.” Bannerman cocked his head toward the other tables. “Why is everyone else here?”
“Brugg suggested I call a few, mostly to keep the KGB honest, distract the Spanish cops, things like that. Kurt, here, gave me a list of people he thought you'd trust. What nobody figured on was that they'd each call three or four more. You were a popular guy, Paul.”
“It is because,” Kurt Weiss added, “he took care of his own.” He smiled at Paul. “It's why, when you called, we always came. It's why we do not forget.”
Tucker sniffed.
Weiss's smile faded. He looked at Grassi. Grassi only shrugged.
Bannerman remembered something about him. He liked to watch fights. He liked to stage them. There was something else Bannerman wondered about.
“Why the bodyguards, Mr. Grassi? Here of all places.”
A look of innocence. “Kurt is my driver. Also my friend.”
”I meant this one. The one with bad manners.”
The younger man leaned toward him. “I've got a name,” he said. “It's Mr. Tucker.”
The nearest tables went quiet. Billy seemed to be dozing. Grassi put a hand on Tucker's arm.
”B. J. Tucker,” he said to Bannerman. “Football player, Atlanta Falcons, two seasons, then he hit a coach. Philadelphia Eagles, two seasons, until he failed his third urine test. Then a felony warrant for beating up two cops who stopped his car. That was worth three to five. He jumped bail, blew the country, showed up in Rome a few weeks ago looking for work. You might call this a try out.”
Bannerman shook his head, but said nothing.
Grassi squeezed the arm, gesturing with his free hand toward the bar in general. “This is your competition,” he said to Tucker. “What do you think?”
Tucker sneered. “Old men. Women. Couple of faggots. Has-beens. I could pick tougher people out of any truck stop in Georgia.” He raised his chin toward Billy. “This is the one who's such a bad ass? He can't even stay awake.”
Bannerman leaned closer to Ronny Grassi. “Don't do this,” he said quietly. He pushed back his chair, not bothering to pick up the photographs. “Anyway, it's late and there are a few more people here I'd like to say hello to.”
“Wait a second.” Tucker straightened. “Don't do what?”
Bannerman looked at him. “You think he's testing you. He's not. He already knows that you're mean, that you're a bully, and that you're stupid. What he's doing is getting rid of you.” He turned to Grassi. “Is that about right?”
Grassi tossed his head. ”I wasn't sure about stupid.”
Tucker froze, turning crimson. His eyes flicked between Bannerman and Grassi as if deciding which one to hit first. He lunged at both, one hand seizing Grassi
's ascot, the other aimed at Bannerman's necktie. Bannerman slipped it, then shoved the outstretched arm toward Billy who was already rising, fully alert, no expression, eyes dead. Billy caught the hand in flight. He snapped the thumb. Tucker squealed.
Billy released him. He sat back down. Bannerman made two quick signals. In response, several figures moved at once to the lobby entrance, sealing it with their bodies. Others gathered around waiters and bartenders, turning them, blocking their view.
Clutching his hand, gasping, Tucker stared at him, first in disbelief, then in rage. He exploded. Snarling, he whipped his forearm toward Bannerman's face. Again, Bannerman ducked, toppling backward over his chair and rolling into a crouch. Grassi had scrambled away. Billy remained seated, arms folded, within Tucker's reach. Tucker roared. He lunged again, grasping Billy's lapels, heaving him to his feet. He cocked a knee, aimed at Billy's crotch. It was never thrown. Just in time, he felt a hard coldness beneath his chin. A knife, a broken glass, he didn't know which. He'd seen nothing in Billy's hands. He went rigid. Then, still gripping Billy, afraid to release him, afraid not to, he felt himself being eased backward against the edge of the table, and then across it. He was looking up now, hearing no sound, feeling Billy's breath against his face, seeing those dead eyes, the hardness still at his throat. But it was moving now. He felt it tracing upward, over his cheek, pausing at the corner of his eye. No. No . . . no, don't/ But it was moving again, away from his eye, down his cheek toward the table's surface. He felt a tug against his ear. And a wetness. Eyes wide with fear, he tried to speak. Billy shushed him.
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 29