“Oh, right. Right” Susan remembered. And now her hand was on Katz's arm with the Rolex and she's leaning close and speaking excitedly like she forgot he's been away and they had a lot to catch up on. “Uncle David, as long as you're dead, why don't you look up some of those people from Westport and ask how come they . . . ?”
“The thing is, I'm not going to be dead that long,” Katz explained. ”l been talking to your father and I think he's going to help me fix it, ”
“In a pig's ass, l am. And if you don't get away from Susan I'm going to take your head off all over again.”
Lesko was yelling now. He didn't stop yelling until his feet hit the floor at his bedside.
“Christ!”
Lesko rubbed his face.
What's today?
Thursday.
He looked at his clock. Not even five yet. Less than three hours' sleep since he finally got home from Gallagher's. The dream was receding but the details were still vivid enough. He hated this. Four A.M. dreams. All he needed now was for Katz to walk in with his bagels or Danish. He'd shove them right up his ass..
All right. Settle down. What's bothering you?
He remembered the Bannerman guy with his hands all over Susan. But that's not it, he told himself. You're always doing that with guys she's seeing. You always think they're creeps until you meet them and talk to them. Then you always think they're wimps. Whatever Bannerman turns out to be, he's nothing like the guy you just dreamed about. In fact, the guy in the dream looks more like you. Because Susan told you he reminds her of you. Which is probably why you don't like him. That's all that meant.
So what else is wrong? It's not that Westport stuff. That's not even worth thinking about. It's not Katz because him at least you're getting used to.
It's Elena.
Face it.
You could have done without hearing her name again. Seeing her look at you. You're never going to see her again but wherever she is, you hope she's okay. Admit it.
It's also Loftus. He bothers you.
But why?
Because he's after Elena? Maybe. But that really isn't it, either. What it is, he should never have told you that. Not if he's a professional, not even after you pounded him a little. And if he's FBI, he went to one of the best surveillance schools in the world and yet he did the most piss-poor job of tailing you ever saw. Even Donovan spotted him the first ten minutes.
Donovan.
Donovan would be making his calls today. We'll see. Now come on.
Get some sleep.
That morning in Westport, three hours later, Billy McHugh drove past the shuttered gate house at the entrance to the Compo Beach parking lot. He spotted Paul's blue Honda among the handful of cars parked at odd angles along the breakwater. It was the only car facing away from the water, he noted approvingly. Rear tires on a solid surface. Not on sand or gravel like the others.
McHugh chose a spot not far from Paul's and parked his car in a similar manner. Pocketing his keys, he stepped onto the rocky beach and saw Paul at once. Paul had his back to him, though Billy was sure he'd watched him come. He was sitting on his heels talking to a black Labrador retriever who was wet and frizzy and had a coating of sand up to his shoulders. The morning sun was warm; last night's unseasonable weather was holding. Billy could see two other dogs running free along the beach, their owners ambling behind them. It was nice that they did this. If Billy had a dog he would take him for long walks all the time. Or he could come down here and go clamming like the men at the far end and the dog could keep him company.
The black Lab backed off at Billy's approach, then pirouetted playfully as Billy eased to a squat alongside Paul. The dog took Billy's scent and, deciding he was friendly, settled down to watch the two men as they gazed out over the gray-green waters of Long Island Sound.
“Did you ever read what it says on that statue up where you drive down to the beach?” Billy gestured in the general direction of the bronze statue of a minute-man and the historical marker that told of a British landing at this spot during the Revolutionary War.
“I've read it.” Paul nodded.
“It says,” Billy told him anyway, “they landed for what they call a lightning raid on Danbury, to capture stores of rebel arms.” He shook his head bemusedly. “Some lightning raid. Forty miles on foot. It took them two days in full pack, wearing redcoats that made beautiful targets every step of it.”
Paul ran his fingers through the polished stones at his feet, saying nothing.
“They had guts.” Billy said quietly. “I could never walk in a line like that past all those stone walls, never knowing when some farmer was going to put a hole through you.” Billy reached for a piece of amber sea glass that he studied for a long moment. “Paul,” he said finally, “I would like not to die just yet.”
Paul looked up at the bigger man, “I'd like that, too, Billy.”
“Is that why I'm here? You're going to tell me it's time?”
“I think I'm looking for a reason not to tell you that.”
The bartender from Mario's let out a sigh. “You want me to say I'll never go off on my own again.”
Paul gave a small shrug but didn't answer.
“I sure would like to, Paul.”
“You don't think you can?”
“Last week I would have. But then that woman came in. Paul, you just can't imagine how she carried on.”
“I know. Molly told me.” Eventually. At dinner. About the other woman, not Kitzy Sweetzer, who had had one whiskey sour too many.
“I mean, have you ever heard of such a thing in your whole life?”
“Not like that, exactly.”
“But I did get hold of myself, Paul. And it wasn't really too late. I had that Gelman feller from behind and I said to myself, this isn't right. I promised Paul. I promised Molly. Then I said, what I'll do is get him good and drunk, then I'll tighten up on his neck just enough to put him peaceful, and then I'll leave. I'm not saying I wouldn't have left his balls in the soap dish for when he woke up but at least he would have been alive and he never wouîd've seen my face.”
“Who actually killed him?”
“You said Molly told you.”
“She did, but in broad strokes.”
“Well,” he hesitated, “I'm not sure I should say more. Nobody but me deserves to be tarred for this one.”
“Okay.”
“What's okay mean?”
“I'll think about this. How are you doing otherwise?”
“Real good. Did you know I've been keeping company?”
“With Mrs. DiBiasi,” Paul nodded, a soft smile. “How long has that been going on?”
“I don't know,” He shrugged. “We just got to talking more and more, watching TV together, going to the food store and stuff. She's teaching me how to play her piano. She says no one is ever too old to learn about music.”
“I think that's great, Billy.”
“You know she's not one bit afraid of me? Nobody in this whole town so far is afraid of me. Except maybe the Doc, sometimes.”
“Gary is probably a little nervous about all of us, sometimes. He'll come around.”
Billy raised one eyebrow at Paul's reference to the future. “Paul, if that means I haven't used up my chance, I sure would like to hear you say it straight out.”
“What happens the next time someone hurts one of your friends?”
“I go straight to Molly. Then we sit down with you and talk about what was done and what's the best way to teach that person a lesson if he deserves it and it's not none of our business.”
“What if someone harmed Mrs. DiBiasi?”
“The same thing.”
“That wouldn't be hard for you?”
“Sure it would. But I know you and Molly would want to fix the guy just as much as me and I know you'd let me be in on it.”
“What if you saw some of Palmer Reid's people nosing around?”
“Straight to Molly or you.”
“Or to Anton. But not to Carla or Gary for a while.”
Billy dropped his eyes, then nodded that he understood. He would never have said anything that would get Dr. Russo in trouble. Or Carla. But they never had to let that Gelman see their faces. They walked in meaning to kill him. And they wanted him to see who did it. Which is bush-league. When you go to kill, you kill. It's not a game.
“What if you can't reach any of us?”
“I disappear. Then I wait to see if it's because Reid got you. Then I make it real expensive for them.”
Paul picked up a piece of broken shell and tossed it toward the black Lab, who sniffed it disinterestedly. Then the dog moved forward and offered its head to be scratched. “Billy,” he seemed to be searching for words, “I want you to know how much I hate having to talk to you like this.”
“I was afraid of a lot worse.”
Paul grimaced, shaking his head. “I'm talking to you like a kid. You're a man. A very special man. And you never talked to me like this even when I was a kid.”
“Different times. Different ballgame.” Billy reached for the dog's back and found a spot that started its hind leg pumping. “Most of my life I worked alone. Here, you got thirteen people to think about and I got to think about them, too. I can't screw it up for the rest of you. We got a good thing here and I. . . .” Billy let his voice trail off. He gazed out over Long Island Sound. Come spring it would be covered with sailboats. Come summer he meant to go for a ride on one. And he'd get a suntan. Once in a man's life he ought to get a suntan besides just on his face and hands. “I sure do like it here, Paul.”
“I know.”
“Mrs. DiBiasi says when it gets warmer we can. . . .” Again the thought faded. “You know who she reminds me of, Paul? Mrs. DiBiasi, I mean?”
“Who?”
“Your Ma. Cassie Bannerman.*'
Paul nodded slowly. They were nothing alike, at least in appearance. But he could see why Billy would feel that way. They were probably the only two women Billy had ever been with long enough to get to know them. Not counting Molly and the others. Up until Mrs. DiBiasi, Cassie Bannerman might have been all the kindness and gentleness he'd known in his life. She had been, in her way, what Susan was becoming in his own life. Until they killed her.
“You know,” Billy said dreamily, “more each year you look like your mother. And you got that same soft and easy way of talking. First time I laid eyes on you I knew you were like her. You remember that day?”
“I remember.”
Fifteen years. He was twenty-three. And he'd flown to Vienna to claim the body. They'd had it cremated. Who gave you the right, he asked? She'd expressed that wish, they insisted. Where are her things, he asked? Her belongings. We're sorry, they said. There was a fire. Faulty wiring. When she had her heart attack the oven was on. No one thought to turn it off when the ambulance came to take her away. What ambulance? What doctor? And what kind of a company is this anyway? What exactly did she do for you?
It was a reporter for the German Magazine, Stern, who told him. The company was a front. American Intelligence. What did she do for them? We have only rumors, the reporter answered, but she must have been an operative because she had had a code name. They called her “Mama.”
What kind of operative? Again, only rumors. Tell me some of them. That she was a coordinator of certain specialists, he answered. That she died of bullet wounds, not a heart attack. That others died in her house as well and the fire was set to conceal the damage done by machine-gun fire. I don't believe a word of that, Paul had told him. I know my mother. She was an art buyer. She bought and sold paintings. Perhaps, the reporter answered, you did not know her so well after all. I will show you where to look for the truth, who to start asking, who her bosses were. Why? Why would you help me? For the story, of course, the reporter answered.
But they would tell him nothing. Only lies upon lies. And then one day he returned for the fourth or fifth time to the burned-out shell of the house at 16 Gruenstrasse and he saw another man standing there, his eyes red, his shoes and pants covered with soot, a charred and sodden book in his hands. Perhaps he knew her. Perhaps he knew something about what had happened. Paul approached him.
“Did you know the lady who lived there?” he asked.
The man turned slowly toward him. Burning eyes. Terrible eyes. It was a full thirty seconds before they flickered in what seemed to be recognition.
“Are you Paul?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He held up the book. “She gave me this. It's stories and poems. I read some.”
“You were her friend?”
“Still am.”
“Do you know what happened here?”
“Not yet.” He turned to walk away. “Go back home, Paul.”
“I'm staying. So are you, until you talk to me.” Paul reached for his arm, jerked it backward, then danced nimbly aside as the older man's foot slashed out toward his knee. Paul was quick. He hooked the man's leg with a kick of his own and spun him. He moved in, expecting the older man to fall, but he was surprisingly nimble. The man used his own momentum to complete a graceful crouching turn, and as he rose out of it a knife had suddenly appeared in his hand. It was a skinning knife, short and ugly, designed for disemboweling. The man held it close against his chest. Paul backed off, stripping his jacket and wrapping it around one arm, and assumed a combat stance. The man frowned and straightened.
“Where'd you learn that?” he asked. “Army?”
Paul may have nodded.
“Don't do that. Use your feet against a knife. Kick or run. Running's better.”
Paul waited.
“You look like her. You got guts like her?”
“If someone killed her, I want him.”
“No police,'' he said.
“I've tried the police.”
“Let's go.” Billy turned once more and walked.
She was not, Paul soon learned, what the reporter from Stern thought she was. Not exactly. On the other hand, she wasn't what he'd grown up thinking she was, either. It was never quite clear to him whether she was an art buyer who had been recruited by American Intelligence or an agent who operated under that cover. Or how long she'd been involved with them. Orwhether she actually ran field-contract agents or simply operated a safe house at 16 Gruenstrasse. Her frequent trips to Europe had begun while he was in grade school. When his father died, and when he went off to college, she moved there and stayed, flying Paul over during school breaks, meeting him in London, Rome or Paris.
He did, of course, question Billy about her. But every question concerning what she did would be answered in terms of what she was. Kind, brave, smart, pretty, nice. Paul thought at first there might have been a love affair between them, hard as it was to imagine his mother and this silent, frightening man together. But bit by bit, the picture of another sort of relationship emerged. For whatever reason, Billy had come to regard her as a saint. He trusted no one else. No one else could locate him when he was between assignments and not at 16 Gruenstrasse. No one else could talk to him, much less control him. No one but the woman known as Mama.
Of the two men who died with her, one was American, the other a double agent, a traitor to the Eastern bloc who'd been spirited up the Danube from Budapest and was awaiting transport to Washington for interrogation. The killers had come down from Berlin, assisted by two Austrians, one of them a ranking policeman. The double agent was not tracked, he was betrayed. The men who had betrayed him, in favor of a prisoner swap they considered more beneficial, were Americans. There were three involved. Billy followed the rumors to the door of one of these, a deputy section chief in Salzburg. Billy questioned him, with the aid of his skinning knife, then burned down his house around him. The other two could wait.
The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) Page 15