He hesitated. “It's not worth the—”
“I'm staying with you.”
One hour later, the sun still high behind it, the limousine veered onto the exit ramp at Westport, pausing at a stoplight. Bannerman leaned forward in his seat.
“To your right,” said the driver. “Two men.”
“Thank you.” Bannerman had seen them. They were in a car, illegally parked. One held a camera and was peering through the lens. He could see nothing of the occupants but the diplomatic plates, Bannerman assumed, had caught their attention. He was not alarmed. Many diplomats lived in Fairfield County. Such plates were a common sight.
Bannerman watched as the light turned green. Neither man raised a microphone to his lips.
On directions from Zivic, the driver made his next left turn and continued on until they reached Westport's Main Street. Another car, two more men, were stationed not far from Zivic's antique shop. They went on. In a residential area just north of town, Susan saw two more such cars. She knew this street. Mrs. DiBiasi's house. The gray colonial. She'd once seen Billy McHugh raking her leaves. Billy rated two cars.
The limousine worked back to the south, coming out onto the busy Post Road. Turning right, it passed Compo Shopping Plaza. The parking lot, Susan noticed, was full. Several windows displayed banners announcing final winter clearance sales. Across Post Road, several dress shops, a restaurant, and Hermann's Sporting Goods store. Lots of shoppers on that side, too. Hard to spot a surveillance team. She saw that Paul's office was closed, the blinds drawn. He noticed it as well.
“What happened to—”
“Your staff? I furloughed them,” Zivic answered. ”I thought it best.”
“Did they ask why?”
“Two airline tickets to island of their choice were sufficient explanation. You are a generous employer.”
Bannerman grumbled. ”I notice you're still open for business.”
”Um”—Susan clapped her hands—“Children—”
“Never mind.”
The limousine turned onto South Compo Road. A mile or so down, on the right, Susan saw the small brownish Cape Cod belonging to Molly Farrell. An unremarkable house were it not for an adjoining tennis court twice its size and, on its roof, an unusually complex antenna. A bit farther, an unmarked van, no doubt equipped for electronic surveillance. She was sure of it when Zivic, catching her attention, brought a finger to his lips. No one spoke until the limousine turned onto Greens Farms Road.
“Have you seen enough?” Zivic asked.
”I guess.”
“What now?” Susan asked.
“Let's go get a beer.”
“At Mario's?”
“Mario's.”
Railroad Avenue is a short, one-way street running no more than the length of the Westport commuter platform. The station is at it's center, Mario's directly across.
The limousine pulled up outside, passing yet another surveillance car. Bannerman reached into his bag. He found the Belgian automatic pistol; he slipped it into his sling, the muzzle against his elbow. Susan showed no surprise. With their diplomatic passports, they had bypassed metal detectors when boarding the plane in Lisbon.
“Five minutes. No more,” He told the driver. “We'll let ourselves out.”
Inside, a light blinked. At the bar, he asked for two beers. Zivic walked toward the kitchen. Two men at a table picked up ski jackets and followed. Bannerman raised his beer, sipped at it, then left it untouched. “Why are we doing this?” Susan asked. “To let people know we're in town.”
“Won't they all come here? Block off that street?”
“Not in time, no.” He gazed at the overhead clock. “Drink your beer.”
In a room at the New Englander Motor Inn, Roger Clew snatched at the phone and said his name. He listened, frowning.
“At Mario's? Drinking beer?”
He listened further, incredulous.
“We're on our way. Stay with them.”
“Hi.” The man in the ski jacket rapped on the driver's side window of the surveillance car, parked near the newsstand at the foot of Railroad Avenue.
Two men looked up, startled. Instantly, the glass on the passenger side exploded inward, showering them with fragments. An Ingram machine pistol followed. The man holding it, another ski jacket, reached in and lifted the door lock.
“Either of you guys care for a drink?” he asked.
Bannerman, Susan with him, not Zivic, returned to the limousine.
“Just pull around the corner,” he told the driver. “There's another car waiting. We'll take that one. Your next left will take you back onto 1-95.”
“Is it permitted to stay?” the big Russian asked. ”I would like to watch.”
Bannerman hesitated.
”I can draw them off. Give you more time.”
“It's not necessary, but sure. Do you remember my office? The travel agency?”
“That Colonel Zivic has closed, yes.”
“Drive around town for fifteen minutes. If you're not intercepted, go there. Park and watch. Don't leave your car.”
He turned in his seat, extending his hand. “My name is Yuri Rykov.”
“Are you KGB, Yuri?”
“Of course.”
Bannerman took the hand with his left. “Nice to meet you, Yuri.”
Susan drove. At Compo Shopping Plaza they waited, briefly, for a parking space. Susan, taking Bannerman's keys, worked the double locks of the doors. Bannerman flipped on the lights, turned up the heat, then adjusted a mechanism that left the front door fully ajar.
He walked to the rear, to his private office, glass enclosed, and left that door fully open as well. He picked up a chair and placed it behind the heavy, oversize desk, next to his own, facing the street. He asked Susan to sit.
“What now?” she asked.
“Just relax. It won't be long.”
“This is it? We sit and wait?”
He nodded, then held out a hand. “Could I have Billy's gun, please? You're breaking the law.”
She made a face. Damned blinking lights. But they'd entered both places together. They blinked for his own gun. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Put it in the drawer.”
She hesitated, but did as he asked.
He gestured toward the front door. “Anyone comes in, if you see a weapon in their hand, or even if one hand is hidden, you drop right to the floor behind this desk.”
“What'll you be doing?”
“I'll be there with you.”
Roger Clew, his radio in hand, stared at the shattered glass. Farther up the sidewalk, an agent called his name. Clew turned. Two men, his men, were stepping through the front door of Mario's, their hands raised to their shoulders. He cursed.
“Is he in there?” he called.
They shook their heads, gesturing toward the far corner.
Clew spoke into his Motorola. “Has anyone seen that limo? Report.”
“Unit six. We have it,” a voice crackled. “Wilton Road, Merritt Parkway entrance. It just climbed on, headed north.”
North, Clew muttered in his head. To where?
“Can you see passengers?”
“Negative. Only the driver . . . wait. He's exiting again. Exit forty-two, southbound.”
Clew felt a chill. He turned to the two men, now approaching, their expressions fearful, disgusted.
“Who's in Mario's?” he asked.
”A few people. Not the ones who took us. They disappeared out the back.”
The chill turned to horror. “Out of here!” he shouted. “Everyone!”
Bannerman. He likes to let you commit, come in behind you. Clew could almost see it. Cars, Bannerman's cars, sealing both ends of this little street. Guns on the roof, more on the station platform. Nowhere to go.
“Out of here. Now.”
“Unit two,” the radio crackled. “We have Bannerman and the woman. He just entered his office.”
“You're sure? Confirm.�
��
“It's Bannerman. We still see him. Door's wide open. No Zivic.”
“Door's open? What's he doing?”
“Nothing at all. Talking.”
“Three minutes. We're coming.”
“Mr. Clew? There's a lot of locals here. We can't just—”
“The hell we can't.” Clew ran to his car.
The first thing she noticed that was at all odd was the turning of heads in the parking lot outside Paul's office. Shoppers walking to their cars, suddenly stopping, looking behind them, then ahead, then quickening their pace. Whatever had startled them, a few seemed to be backing away from it.
Some, now, behaved as if they were being tugged. An unseen string, on either side of the doorway, seemed to be pulling at them. The same few, and a few more, resisted. They appeared confused, even frightened.
“Something's happening outside,” she said.
Her hand was on his desk, her fingers running along its edge. The hand paused over the drawer in which she had placed Billy's pistol.
“Don't you dare,” Bannerman warned.
“Well? Tell me.”
“It's Roger. Trying to clear a perimeter. He seems to be having trouble.”
It struck her, fleetingly, that more than a few outside were black or Hispanic. Unusual for Westport. And they seemed even more disoriented than the whites. Yes. Three blacks, two men and a woman, had backed against the window, as if trapped there, and were nervously eyeing the open door as a possible place of safety.
Now men were shouting. “This way.” “That way.” “Freeze.” “Move.”
“Bannerman—”
“It's okay. Easy.”
She saw them now. A few in uniform. Most in civilian clothing wearing blue vests with large letters on the back. Most had assault rifles, all wore flak jackets.
“That's a SWAT team,” she whispered.
“Treasury Department, I think.” He craned his neck. He glimpsed the letters. “Yeah. ATF agents. That's Alcohol, Tax, and—”
”I know what the hell it is. Bannerman, why are you fucking calm?”
He winced at the language but kept his eyes on the street. “It's okay,” he repeated. “We're rolling.”
The shoppers, converging on the open door, now numbered about ten. Suddenly, they broke. A woman first, then the man with her. They dashed for the door. The rest followed. They scrambled through, elbowing, shoving each other. One man tripped against a desk. A monitor pivoted on its base and crashed to the floor in a spray of green glass. Bannerman winced again. Some hid behind desks. Some lined the walls. Others backed away farther, toward Bannerman, obscuring his view.
He rose to his feet, peering over their heads. Outside, all had gone quiet. Across Post Road, a crowd had gathered. A lone agent tried to herd them away. They ignored him. Several heads peered back at him from behind a black stretch limousine.
“YOU PEOPLE INSIDE.” A bullhorn. Bannerman did not know the voice. “COME OUT IMMEDIATELY.”
No one moved.
“YOU ARE IN NO DANGER IF YOU COME OUT NOW.”
The black woman screamed. She began sobbing.
“PAUL BANNERMAN?”
Roger's voice. He'd taken the bullhorn. Through the blinds, Bannerman could see shadows moving. Figures, crouched low, were tugging at another, trying to pull him down.
“BANNERMAN, THIS IS ROGER CLEW. SEND THOSE PEOPLE OUT. NO ONE NEEDS TO GET HURT.”
Several, on hands and knees, crawled to the edges of the door. Outside, hushed voices urged them on. A black man was nearest. He stopped. “Man here,” he called to those outside, “say he shoot us if we try to leave. He say you talk, he don't shoot.”
Susan blinked. She glanced at Bannerman's hand. It had made no move toward a weapon. He'd said not a word.
“BANNERMAN. THIS IS A LEGAL ARREST. YOU HAVE NO PLACE TO GO.”
Bannerman cleared his throat. “Come in, Roger. Just you. Bring the warrants.”
Silence.
But Bannerman could almost hear the whispered conference. Urgent voices, arguing. “We can't go in. People in the way on either side. More near his desk, in the line of fire.” “No, Mr. Clew. Not you either. We can't let you.”
“Roger?” he called. “You won't be harmed. My word on it. Just talk.”
A long pause.
Shadows moved. A brief struggle. Roger Clew shook off a restraining hand and appeared in the doorway. But at once, two men with rifles pressed in front of him, shielding him with their bodies. They were just inside the door. “Talk from here,” one of them snapped.
Susan, as he'd asked, had slid to her knees. Bannerman, still standing, eased into his chair. “No,” he said. ”I don't think so.”
Suddenly, the shoppers rose. Making, Susan thought, a dash for safety. But the two men with rifles stiffened. They parted. The black man, rising between them, blocked Roger Clew from her sight. Now he was backing up, into the office, bringing Clew with him. She saw Clew's face, head back, eyes wide. The other two—their hands were rising. Their rifles, snatched from them, sailed through the air, tossed by two of the shoppers into the waiting hands of others. Susan stared, openmouthed. They weren't shoppers any more. None of them. More weapons appeared in their hands. They moved quickly, expertly, taking positions as if they'd been assigned. The door swung shut. The room was silent.
Clew, searched and released, approached Bannerman's desk. His right hand, knuckles white, still gripped his radio.
“Have a seat, Roger,” Bannerman said quietly. “Use that thing. Tell your men to relax.”
“Bannerman—”
“Do that now, Roger.” He drew the pistol from his sling and held it across his chest.
“You gave your word.”
“Yes, Roger, I did.” He nodded. “But if I hear one shot outside, you won't hear the second.”
“What good is this?” Clew asked. He'd been searching the faces of the men and women in his office. He recognized none of them. “You have nine people. I have thirty. All legal.”
Bannerman ignored him. He was reading the warrants. The charge of kidnapping seemed to intrigue him the most.
“Where is Hector Manley?” he asked.
“In custody.”
“Where, Roger?” He raised his eyes. “Is he outside?”
“Down the road.”
“Make another call. Get him here. We'll settle that one first.”
Clew hesitated, but he raised the radio to his lips and gave the order. Someone argued. Clew switched him off.
Bannerman rose to his feet. He stepped into the conference room, returning shortly with a Scotch bottle and a single glass with ice cubes in it. These he placed in front of Clew. Clew's fingers twitched but he left the bottle untouched.
“What's with the arm?” he asked.
Bannerman ignored the question. He continued reading.
“If that's a bullet,” Clew said, ”I had nothing to do with it.”
Bannerman said nothing. He sat back, his eyes closed.
Five minutes passed. He heard sounds outside. Shadows moved. The black man at the window raised a slat of the blinds. He turned to Bannerman and nodded. Then he backed toward a rack of brochures and sat. Another man held the door open. Hector Manley stood there, a disembodied hand on his shoulder. The hand pushed him forward. The door closed behind him.
“This way, Mr. Manley.” Bannerman rose to greet him. “Straight ahead, please.”
The Jamaican showed no fear. His expression was one of fascination, even amusement. He was dressed as Bannerman had first seen him. Long leather coat, white turtleneck, sunglasses, gray snakeskin boots with two-inch heels.
“Unfinished business, Mr. Manley.” Bannerman tossed the arrest warrant aside. ”I offered you your life if you could give me certain assurances. I'm afraid it's now or never.” His manner was pleasant enough. Unthreatening.
Manley shook his head as if to clear it. He had seen the guns outside. He knew of the warrants. He had even sworn the complai
nt. And yet, here was this Mama's Boy acting as if he still had him chained to a wall.
“Could I—ahh.” He paused, searching for words that would seem neither impolite nor foolish. “Might I see a bit more of your hand, Mr. Bannerman?”
”I think I'll need an act of faith, Mr. Manley.”
He eyed the pistol. Then the man from State. “Mr. Clew?”
“He's not going anywhere,” Clew told him. “And he won't shoot you. Not here.”
Bannerman looked at his watch. “There you have it, Mr. Manley. You have two ways to bet. Please make your choice.”
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 38