-27-
Martin Selly opened the second of the two backpacks. The contents of the first lay on a glass-topped table before him.
The second held more of the same. But no sleeping bag. Apparently they had only one between them. He found spare clothing, not clean, damp with mildew. American jeans and a beaded denim jacket. Shorts and T-shirts. One cold-weather jacket and a poncho. An unused bikini. A two-liter bottle of Evian water. Junk jewelry, some of it rather clever. Tampons. A Fodor's Spain. And in this one, unlike the other, a packet of condoms. A lesbian, to be sure, but perhaps not beyond redemption.
A zippered plastic bag contained her toiletries. Within it, her passport. Also American. Several hundred dollars in traveler's checks, a few thousand pesetas, a few British pounds. No alcohol. No drugs.
He opened the passport. Issued two years earlier. Home address, like the other, Carmel, California. The Fodor's guide had been borrowed from a Carmel library. It was months past due.
Standing near, Amal between them, were the two women. Eyes wide. Terrified. Hands bound in front of them with a twining of electrical tape, both still naked but for the loose-fitting shirts they'd scurried into at Amal’s approach. The shirts, men's shirts, clung to their wet bodies. Water dripped to the tile floor. Fear and the chill had hardened their nipples.
Erna Dietz stood at the terrace door, her attention struggling between their well-toned bodies and the two helicopters that had hovered so long before landing on the beach of the Puente Romano. The helicopters lost. Her eyes were caressing the younger one. The one who had swam to the other. She tried to keep her expression stern. But her breath was catching in her throat.
They were young enough, thought the Englishman. Although not so young as he'd thought at first. Still, their bodies were firm. Breasts high and proud. Only the first hint of lines at the edges of their eyes and mouths. Their bellies flat. He liked bellies. He liked to rub them.
California girls. He'd assumed they were all blond. Or at least all deeply tanned. More than these two. And that they all had money enough not to travel off-season. But these two were designers, they claimed. Of costume jewelry. Precious little money in that.
“And you designed these, you say.” He chose a sample. A tiny silver skeleton fashioned into an earring. The sort of thing seen in a discotheque.
One of the women, the one who had condoms, nodded, then chewed her lip.
He frowned. “Or do you steal jewels?” he asked. “Is that what you were going to do? Look for jewels in that house?”
“No,” the woman insisted, her voice quaking. “Really. We just wanted to—”
“Bathe.” He answered for her.
He stepped nearer. The one who spoke tried to shrink from him but Amal placed a hand against her back. Selly reached to touch her hair. It was worn short. A butch cut. Not recently shampooed. Bits of algae from the untended pool still clung to it.
”I believe you,” he said gently.
The women stared.
“And I'm going to let you go.”
They wilted in relief. The one started to speak. He brought a finger to her lips.
“But first”—he grimaced, picking at the algae—“we're going to clean you up properly. We have our standards here, you know.”
She tensed. “Oh—that's okay,” she said. “We can shower down on—”
The finger came up sharply, this time in warning. But then the gentleness returned.
“And after you've had a good scrubbing,” he continued, his voice purring, “perhaps you can think of some way to thank me.”
Her mouth fell open. She shuddered.
Selly moved to the second woman. Even smaller than the first. Frizzy hair. All the dirtier for it. The one whose pack contained knitting needles and yarn and a pair of dildos but no birth control device.
“And you,” he said, “will make amends to this nice lady” —he gestured toward Erna whose chest was rising— “for all the trouble you've caused. You'll know how to do that, won't you?”
She swallowed. Then she closed her eyes. And nodded.
Bannerman, on the deck of the suite he shared with Billy, raised his Nikon to his eye and, touching a button, brought the telephoto lens into focus.
He could see no movement at the house on the hill. But they were there. He'd seen them earlier. First the blond man and the woman on the terrace. Next, the delivery truck came and went. Then he'd watched as the woman and the Algerian stepped from the house and walked to the one below where Bannerman had, before breakfast, seen a sleeping bag draped over the hedge. Airing out in the sun. The Englishman, he felt certain, had not seen the bag. The house would have blocked his view of it. But he had surely seen its owner. And her friend. Bannerman had watched as four figures scurried back up the hill. Two women in front, legs and feet bare, frightened, dripping wet, prodded from behind by the two who had surprised them during their morning swim.
He could do, he thought, with a swim himself. Some of last night's crowd might be down on the beach. Those he'd missed at breakfast. Especially the two Israeli women and the two SAS men who were bodyguards to Princess Anne. He would ask them the same favor he'd asked the others. The more the better.
But then, Leo Belkin had sent a note asking if they might have some time together. Perhaps lunch or dinner. Just the two of them. Or, if Bannerman preferred a third party present, Urs Brugg could join them.
Speaking of whom, he would have to go and greet the Brugg party before long. Impolite not to. He'd heard them arrive. Helicopters. He did not actually mind. A face-to-face meeting with Urs Brugg was well overdue. They'd spoken only by telephone. And he was pleased at the prospect of finally getting to know Elena, whom he'd seen only twice. Once while being pummeled by Lesko and again, shortly afterward, while trying to stop the flow of Gary Russo's blood.
Lesko was another matter. But—Bannerman checked his watch—perhaps he'd be in better humor with his daughter now safely in Zurich. Perhaps Elena had managed to mellow him a bit as well. He would have called Lesko in any case. Given him, as he'd promised, the option of flying down to see the damage for himself. But only after it was done.
“Um—hi ,there.”
A woman's voice. Sounded almost like Susan. Billy heard it as well. He put down the pistols he'd been cleaning and stepped out onto the deck. Billy saw her first.
“Hi, Billy.”
“Guess who,” the bartender said through his teeth. He waved, his smile more or less genuine, at Susan Lesko who had parted the top of an hibiscus shrub for a clearer view of their deck.
B. J. Tucker was on foot. His head and heart were pounding. His first thought, on shooting the cook who had startled him—not his fault—and then the guard who'd come running down the dock, was of escape.
All along the wharf, hatches had slid open, heads had popped up at the sound of the gunfire. He ran, gun in hand, waving it. The heads ducked out of sight. He reached the parking lot. He found two cars unlocked but both were BMWs. Hard to hot-wire, even with tools and with two good hands. He had neither. He searched for hidden keys. There were none. But there were maps. A road map of Spain and a tourist map of Marbella and Puerto Banus. He took them.
The main road was some distance away. Few cars on it at this hour. He thought of going there, flagging one down, taking it. But to do that he would have to stand in the open. And he was a mess. His collar caked in blood. No one would stop.
The map of Spain showed no other road. But on the tourist map there was a thin dotted line running through Puerto Banus to Marbella. It was the old Roman road, the map said. It led to the Roman bridge on the grounds of the Puente Romano, cutting through several other beach hotels along the way.
Tucker tried to think. A part of him wanted to go back there. To empty one full clip into one of those who had shamed him. Even if he died for it. But he knew that was crazy. If he followed that old road, however, there would be other parking lots. He might catch someone getting into a car. And, better still, no one wou
ld be looking for him to come that way. He began walking.
He waited in the shadows of one hotel and then another. No luck. At a third, a gardener stumbled on him as he hid in the shrubs bordering the lot. Tucker clubbed him with the machine pistol. But the man, falling, had somehow grabbed his splinted thumb. He broke it again. Tucker's hand and brain were screaming. He staggered on.
Before he realized it, he had reached the Roman bridge. He went under it. He hid there, soaking his hand in the cool running stream, washing his face, drinking deeply.
A fluttering sound. Distant. He recognized it. A helicopter. He climbed the bank and looked, his first thought that it was searching for him. But no. There were two. One landing, the other waiting its turn. In the distance he could see Ronny Grassi, on the beach, waiting for them. His grip tightened on the machine pistol, the knuckles of his good hand turning white.
Tucker watched.
A man, bearded, was helped out of the second helicopter. Now two women, one young, the other with both her arms in slings. A second man, very large, almost Tucker's size, was helping them. Tucker rubbed his eyes.
“McHugh?” he whispered.
He wasn't sure. Something different about him. He'd wait. Get a closer look. They were moving toward the courtyard now.
He watched as the party disappeared behind the beach house and then came into view again. Much nearer. He could hear their voices. They had reached a table. They were sitting. He still could not see the big man clearly. His eyes were blurring from the effort. And they hurt. He felt his brain pressing against them from the rear. He needed something. Calm him down. He patted his pockets, felt the outline of some pills. They were bennies, he remembered. Not what he needed now. He could have used some dust to clear his head. Or some dillies for the pain. But he swallowed them anyway. All three of them.
The choppers.
Why hadn't he thought of them? The speed helped after all.
Screw grabbing a car. All he had to do is get to that table. Grab Grassi by the throat. Tell the rest of them he'd kill them if they moved. Which he might do anyway. Especially McHugh, if that's him. Blow both his ears off. Then his nuts. Drag Grassi down to the beach to that chopper. Get it to take him someplace. Ireland, maybe. France.
He didn't know. Someplace.
Throw Grassi out on the way. Make him beg first. Then hear him scream until he bounced.
Shit.
Then what?
Where could he go that they wouldn't find him?
You know who'd know?
The Englishman. Up in that house. And the other two with him.
Pilot could set that chopper down right outside. Street's wide enough. And it levels off up there. Make Grassi tell him what was going to happen to them. How he set them up.
Stupid?
You call me stupid, you fucking wop?
I'll show you who's stupid.
“Of course I’m glad to see you,” Bannerman insisted. It was not quite the truth. It was not quite a lie either. But he made no move to embrace her.
“You're sort of glad,” she corrected him, accurately. ”I understand. I don't blame you.”
Billy had gone down with him, after handing him his pistol. At first, Bannerman had refused it. Susan was likely to hug him, at least touch him. She would feel it.
“She's got to get used to it,” Billy told him firmly. “Now's as good a time as any.”
Bannerman tucked the weapon into the small of his back. He slipped into a blazer. But she had not hugged him. She greeted Billy first, kissing his cheek. For Bannerman, she waited. He kissed her lips, lightly. She touched only his arms. Billy realized that she knew. He excused himself and walked up the path that led to the courtyard restaurant.
They stood in silence, watching him go. Bannerman took a deep breath, his expression stern, hands on his hips, one thumb pressing on the butt of his pistol to keep it from showing.
She poked at his arm. “Say you're glad to see me. This time, mean it.”
“Who brought you here, Susan? Urs Brugg?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And your father let him?”
”I didn't give them much choice. Come on, Bannerman. Say it.”
“Susan, we need to talk.”
She held up a hand. “Do I know why you're here? The answer is yes. Do I understand that you'd rather I stayed home, pretty in pink, keeping the home fires buming? Yes again.”
“The fact is—”
“The fact is,” she interrupted, “I'd probably be doing just that if Molly hadn't hustled me out of town. That doesn't mean I would have liked it. Say you're glad to see me anyway.”
“Fact is, I guess I am.”
“That's progress.” She made a show of examining his waistline. “Now say, ‘I know you grew up with men who carry guns, Susan, so I'm not going to stand here like a dummy trying to hide the one in my belt anymore.’ ”
He closed one eye. “Susan—”
”I think this is where I say, ‘Paul—be careful. Come back to me.’ ”
He looked skyward.
“Or I say, ‘Paul, why can't we let the police handle those three?’ But I already know the answer. You're Mama's Boy. You don't do courts.”
“Susan—” He stepped closer to her.
”I know what you're going to say. Don't.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you sure we need two of us for this conversation? Why don't I go back upstairs and you can finish it by yourself.”
“I'm not leaving you.”
“Fine.”
”I mean it, Bannerman. I know too much. The phone calls. The blinking lights. Fortress Westport. I'm even on the run now so your pals in Washington can't—What did you say?”
”I said fine. We'll work something out.”
“No more secrets? All or nothing at all?”
“We'll see about all. But you're right. Nothing is no longer an option. Why don't we talk about it over brunch.”
“Brunch?” She stared at him, blankly.
”I have to go up and say hello anyway. We'll get something from the buffet. After that, let's find you a swimsuit and go down to the beach.”
“Brunch.” She repeated the word, tasting it.
He's here to kill three people, but only after brunch. That's right, isn't it, Paul? You're going to shoot them?
Uh-huh. Try the Eggs Benedict
And it's your basic execution, right? I mean, we're not talking gunfight at the OK Corral here.
You got it. Care for a sticky bun?
No thanks. Too heavy. We're going swimming, remember?
Oh, yeah. Then maybe while you're dressing for dinner I'll run out and blow those suckers away.
Oh. Okay. Good plan, Paul
Thanks, partner. Glad you came.
Oh, well.
She took his hand.
In for a penny, in for a—
She heard the sound. Like a New Year's Eve noisemaker. Brak-brak-brak. Not loud. Not at all like gunshots. But she saw, in Paul's eyes, that they were. He mouthed an order— Stay here—raising a fist as if to back it up.
He had barely turned away when she saw the pistol. It seemed to leap into his hand, his thumb already working its safety. He raced, in stocking feet, toward the courtyard where she'd left her father. He made no sound at all. She had not even seen him kick off his shoes.
She kicked off her own and followed.
-28-
The Algerian raised his binoculars. Something had happened at the Puente Romano.
He'd heard nothing. Too great a distance. Nor could he see much within the hotel's grounds. But on the beach, strollers had suddenly stopped. Sunbathers in folding chairs, spread out to the left and right in a pattern that seemed too precise to be random, were, as if on signal, springing to their feet and turning toward the hotel.
Now, on each side, a person waving. Gesturing. As if directing traffic. The rest hesitated. Now a few moved toward the hotel. Others toward the two helicopters
, one on the landing pad, the second on the sand fifty yards distant, as if to guard them. About half stayed where they were. At their posts.
Yes. They were definitely not tourists. He could see no weapons but nearly all carried beach bags or had towels draped suspiciously over their hands.
The Englishman should know of this, he thought. Even if it came to nothing. A fight, perhaps, between rival gunmen. Grassi was known to cause such fights. It was good, for that reason, that they kept to this house. Too many of those others despised the Englishman. Some would have mocked him. One or more would surely have challenged him. And the Englishman, who was a coward, would refuse. He would walk away, back to his room, to his bath, where he would try to scrub the shame from his body. He would make threats, take an oath of vengeance, but it would come to nothing. All he would do, he would send Erna to find a young woman and he would scrub her until blood seeped through her skin. Her screams would make him feel like a man again. Today, perhaps twice a man. Today he had two. Soon the screams would start.
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 32