Bannerman entered the bedroom where she sat. The sounds from the kitchen continued. He spoke briefly to Susan, and then to her father. He crossed to Elena and knelt at her side.
“Will there be a service?” he asked.
“Soon. Yes. Within two weeks, I think.”
“May I come? With Susan?”
“Uncle Urs would be pleased. And I will insist.”
“Thank you.”
“It is not yet finished here, is it, Mr. Bannerman?”
“Soon,” he answered. ”I will end this on Sunday. With your permission, I would like to borrow Lesko for the day.”
She frowned. “Come to Zurich now, Mr. Bannerman. Make a new life there, as I have.”
“This is my new life,” he said gently. “And it's my home. But if we may come visit you—”
”I will insist on that as well.”
“Thank you. When will you be leaving?”
“You say you will end this on Sunday?”
”I think so, yes.”
“Then that is when we will leave.”
-34-
Saturday afternoon. Georgetown.
Roger Clew, unshowered, unshaven, stared at the screen of his Toshiba. He'd been at it, unable to sleep, since before dawn that day and for all of Friday. Trying to salvage something.
Anything.
He had also, since Westport, gone through intelligence reports by the score, looking for some piece of information he could use. Some item for which Bannerman might thank him. There was one, the report of a rumor, that placed Bannerman in Spain. Obviously untrue. No help there. And there was another, from Lisbon, placing Billy McHugh in the Soviet Embassy there. Equally unlikely. On the other hand, Clew could not recall having seen him in Westport recently. Perhaps it was worth mentioning. But he needed more.
He went back to the Ripper program, not sure what it could tell him or even what to ask. He'd tried everything. Plotting out one scenario after another, punching in every relevant name he could think of, asking the computer for predictions, assessments, most of which were of no use at all.
It told him, for example, that Harry Hagler, missing for three days now, was dead. Or 80 percent dead. That was the probability. But Hagler, he knew, was holed up in Fort Meade, waiting for this to blow over. Waiting for him, Roger Clew, to mend fences. But Roger Clew, according to this machine, was 90 percent dead himself. On the other hand, so was goddamned Hector Manley. That piece of shit. Walks away from Westport, free and clear, practically with a pat on the back while he, Clew, watches fifteen years of work, fifteen years of friendship, go up in smoke.
He sat back, bringing with him the pad on which he'd scribbled his notes. He read through them one more time, marking them and numbering them in order of importance.
They weren't much. But they were at least an excuse to call. A way to start mending.
He reached for his phone and, with one deep breath, tapped out Bannerman's private number. He listened, then sagged. The damned machine was answering.
But the greeting, Bannerman's taped voice, was friendly. More so, he knew, than a live voice might have been. Still, irrationally, he found encouragement in it. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Paul—look,” he read from his notes, ”I have a report here that Billy is being held in the Soviet Embassy in Lisbon, possibly injured. On the chance it's true and you need —you'd like—me to put some heat on, let me know.”
Silence.
”A few more things.” He read them off, the report from Spain among them.
More silence.
He was not going to mention Hagler. Or blame him again. He could not find a way to say it, especially into a machine, that did not sound puling. Nor was he going to mention the Jamaican whom Bannerman, God knows why, allowed to walk. Maybe Bannerman thinks he might be useful to him someday. Whose word Bannerman took. The word of a drug dealer.
Jesus Christ.
Clew changed his mind.
“Listen—about Manley.” He swallowed. “I've asked the computer about him. It says you can't trust him. If you like, I'll show you what else it says.”
He hesitated. Even to himself, his words had the ring of sour grapes. He tried strengthening his voice.
“He's a lot like you, Bannerman. That's what you see in him. And like you, he can't be hit without hitting back. Like you, if he shows weakness, he loses credibility. He's not going to keep his word, Bannerman. The computer only gives that one chance in six, and only then if he has something more to gain by it. People like Manley—”
He stopped himself. Enough. Too much about too little.
“Look.” He took a breath. ”I guess you know why I'm really calling.”
Silence.
“You're going to see Fuller. Well—you don't have to. I'm out, Paul. He has my resignation.”
A sigh.
“So maybe you'll believe me when I say that all I want to do now is square this. Fifteen years, Paul. Maybe we can . . .” His voice trailed off.
He broke the connection.
-35-
Sunday morning. Arlington, Virginia
Fuller watched from his study as the limousine cleared his main gate and followed the crushed stone of his driveway. He had dressed in his warm-up suit. Force of habit. There would be no platform tennis. No chance of a decent foursome in this group anyway.
Bannerman crippled. No one seems to know how. Kaplan's game flaccid at best. And as for Lesko, if he should take it into his head to try the game, there would probably be no platform left either.
Kaplan was below, greeting him. And his daughter. Now, rather less comfortably, shaking hands with Bannerman.
Fuller shook his head.
It was Bannerman's business, of course, whom he chose to trust. And Lesko, according to Irwin, was a man of fierce loyalties to those he trusted in turn. The girl, however, was something else entirely. Too young. Too little experience, her travels with Bannerman notwithstanding. Worst of all, her very relationship with Bannerman will put them both at risk. She, as his Achilles' heel, a way to hurt him. He, as a man distracted.
Too young.
Still, he found himself envying Bannerman. Not least, for having a woman who loved him. But also for the world he lived in. One that relies on no outside agency, governs itself, polices itself. Defends itself, with finality, when necessary. And most of all, one free of moral ambiguity, at least by Bannerman's lights.
Nor, it seems, is it only Westport that aspires to that happy state. Zurich as well, by all reports. And parts of New York City. There seems to be a ground swell afoot. Communities, or at least neighborhoods, are taking shape throughout the country: neighbors banding together, choosing their own leaders, setting up their own patrols, having despaired of the capacity of the law and of politicians to protect them. Bannerman's new friend, this Covington fellow, was among these new leaders. And, oddly enough, with the blessing of some of those same politicians.
New York City's mayor, himself an advocate of community action groups, has called a press conference this very morning at which Mr. Covington is to be held up as an example to all. And, afterward, a block party at which the Manhattan Borough president is to award a citation to Mr. Covington and his 153rd Street Association. Speeches, refreshments, rap bands, and dancing in the streets, that sort of thing. Not the best weather for it, but timely nonetheless. The ray of hope that rotting city needs will hardly be found in a summer sky.
Fuller returned to his kitchen, uncovered a tray of sweet rolls, and returned with them to his study. He stepped to the painting that he had bought because Cassie Bannerman liked it. He smiled, as if to Cassie herself. Then he opened it on its hinges. He checked the panel behind, watching the dials. And then, satisfied that the surveillance cameras were working properly, he walked to his front door where he waited to greet his guests.
“You have your mother's eyes,” he said as Bannerman eased into a chair. “Are you aware that I knew her?”
“Yes, sir. I a
m.”
“Now that we meet, I can see a great deal of her in you.”
“Thank you.” Bannerman passed the pastry tray to Susan. She declined.
Oddly enough, thought Fuller, he could see a trace of Cassie Bannerman in the Lesko girl as well. There was a certain . . . strength to her. Polite enough. Gracious. No hard edges yet. But not at all in awe of meeting the secretary of state. Perhaps Mama's Boy is a hard act to follow. To say nothing of the redoubtable Raymond Lesko.
“You will understand,” he said, “if I am less than comfortable having this discussion as a group. Especially in front of two people whose interest is no more than—peripheral/’
“Sir, I trust them both. We're here to find out whether we trust you.”
Kaplan stiffened. Fuller did not.
“I'm not offended,” he said. “You have concluded, I gather, that I had foreknowledge of Mr. Clew's—invasion. I had none. I was in Brussels at the time.”
Bannerman had played Roger Clew's message. He had not returned the call.
“What will you do about Roger?”
”I have his resignation. After this discussion, I will decide whether to accept it.”
“Why would you do that?”
Fuller spread his hands as if the answer were obvious.
“If you'll forgive me,” Bannerman told him, “you should not accept it and I don't think you will. Not while he knows about the Ripper Effect. The same applies to Mr. Hagler.”
Fuller raised his cup to his lips. He sipped slowly. He dared not look at Kaplan. “The Ripper Effect, you say.”
“Mr. Fuller”—Bannerman let out a sigh—“if we're wasting each other's time, we can leave now.”
He sipped again and swallowed. “Forgive me,” he said. “Do I gather that both Mr. Lesko and this young lady are familiar with that—exercise?”
Bannerman looked at his watch.
Irwin Kaplan cleared his throat. “We're not trying to be coy,” he said to Bannerman. “Clew told us you know. We just don't know how much and we didn't figure you'd tell—” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Lesko and his daughter.
“I'll say again”—Bannerman filled his cup—”I trust them. I trust you, Mr. Kaplan, because Lesko says I can and because you've been straight with me. But only within limits. I appreciate that your first loyalty is to Mr. Fuller.”
“That's not true.” Kaplan tapped his fingers against his chest. “My first loyalty is right here. They can have my job any time they want.”
Bannerman studied him. “But you'd rather keep it?”
“I'd rather do it. That's not the same thing.”
“How would you feel about working with me?”
“Can I ask you first how much Lesko knows about the Ripper Effect?”
“He's seen it. I've explained it to him.”
“Lesko?” Kaplan asked. “Would you use it?”
“Yeah, Irwin. I'm going to.”
“Then, no offense,” he said to Bannerman, “I'd feel better about working with him.” “No offense taken, Mr. Kaplan.” Again, Bannerman glanced at his watch. “Mr. Fuller? Could I ask where your loyalties are?”
“They have not often been questioned, Mr. Bannerman.”
“They certainly don't extend to Roger Clew or Harry Hagler. Are you ready to tell me the truth about that?”
“Which truth would you like?”
“Did you set them up? To be killed by me?”
“No.”
“What did you do, Mr. Fuller?”
”I tested them.”
“They're both good men, you know,” Fuller said. He was on his feet, pacing the room. He seemed drawn to the IBM workstation on the stand beside his desk. “And you are correct. I do not want their resignations. But if you tell them what is said here today, they will surely leave of their own accord.”
Bannerman waited.
“That would be a waste. They are, in their positions, what Mr. Kaplan here is in his. Entirely dedicated. Unselfish. Like Mr. Kaplan, they are also frustrated. But unlike Mr. Kaplan, those men tend to be buccaneers. I had to know—” He stopped himself, pausing once more at the IBM machine.
“How much of the program have you seen, Mr. Bannerman?”
Bannerman hesitated. “Enough, I think.”
“But you won't tell how you found access to it?”
“No. I won't.” Nor would he mention that, in his pocket, was a silver lead-lined envelope containing another disk, handed to him that morning by Yuri Rykov. “Jibril,” Rykov had said to him. “This is how it can be done.” Bannerman had been tempted, more than once, to throw it away.
“You're aware, however,” Fuller was saying, “that it has other applications beyond terrorism and drug trafficking.”
Bannerman nodded. “It can work against any criminal organization, including corporations.”
“Against corporations,” Fuller corrected him, “whether they are criminal or not. That application begins to stretch the point, don't you think?”
”I would think. Yes.”
”I had to know two things. First, given such a weapon, how far would Roger go? Would he step over the line? Where, indeed, is the line?”
“And the second?”
“How far Mama's Boy would go.”
“So you had Roger watched.”
“Every step of the way. I think you know that, Paul.”
He did. The two in the bar. “And you wired his apartment.”
“Only after Irwin came to me. He'd had a meeting with the others. He feared that they were about to cross that line.”
“When was that?”
“Late January. A few days after we—um—lost Palmer Reid. When Irwin learned of a supposed DEA tape that no one in the DEA knew anything about, that business about the car bombs and Westport, he felt sure he saw their hand in it. On the chance that your Jamaican friend might have actually gone through with it, we decided that you should be alerted. We chose to do so indirectly through Mr. Lesko and his former colleagues.”
“Why didn't you simply stop it?”
“The truth? To see how you'd respond.”
“Another test.”
“Yes.”
“Was it the first, Mr. Fuller? Or did you test me as well when you learned that Susan and I were going to Switzerland?” Bannerman checked the time.
”I—don't get your meaning.”
The telephone rang. Fuller's private line.
“It's for you,” Bannerman said.
“Hold it.” Lesko pushed to his feet. He looked into Bannerman's eyes, suspiciously. The phone kept ringing. “Suppose I get it,” he said.
“It's for Secretary Fuller.”
“Yeah—well.” Lesko stepped to the desk. He picked up the handset. The earpiece was not the kind that twisted off. Probably no dart. Still, he held it gingerly, moving it closer to his ear but keeping it pointed toward the ceiling. He heard only static.
Fuller, frowning, glared at Bannerman. “Is he in danger?” he asked.
A small shrug. “If it were me, I'd drop that thing on the floor.”
Lesko blinked. Then he felt it. The phone in his hand was becoming hot. He let it fall, then stepped away quickly. The earpiece spat flame. Only for an instant. Then it was out. Black smoke rose from the ruined carpet.
Fuller's color rose steadily. “You did that?” he said to Bannerman. “You've been in my home?”
“Someone has. Yes.” Bannerman gestured toward the painting that was Fuller's favorite. “Your security system must not be working properly. Go look at it.”
Fuller sighed. “And what will I find there, Mr. Bannerman?”
”I think it's been shorted out.”
Fuller didn't bother. He walked instead to the partially melted telephone, prodding it with the toe of his tennis shoe.
“Would this have killed me?” he asked.
Bannerman shook his head. “It was a demonstration. And a warning.”
“Against what, for God's sake.
”
“Games. Too many games.” Bannerman rose to his feet. “Drive carefully, Mr. Secretary.”
“Hey, Bannerman. Hold it”
Kaplan's voice. Angry.
Bannerman, one hand on the car door, turned. He waited as the DEA man approached, glaring at him, one hand balled into a fist.
“Tell me something,” Kaplan said, fuming, stopping inches from his chest. “Just who in hell do you think you are?”
Susan blinked. Bannerman said nothing. He had half-expected this.
“How dare you,” the smaller man sputtered, “how dare you talk that way to a man like Barton Fuller?”
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 40