The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “It's not really that clean. Basically we're talking CIA, but it's the old-line CIA, the guys who are used to making their own rules. Several of their operations have been folded into the National Security Agency, where it's easy to get lost.”

  “And who gets all this money? The CIA or dirty agents?”

  “You're drawing conclusions, Lesko. Try not to do that.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “No matter how much manpower this country puts up to stop drug traffic, the best they're going to do is slow it down. The DEA does its best and those guys are mostly all straight. The CIA works with them. The CIA people, no matter what you might think of them, are mostly straight, too, but you have to understand they have different priorities. They have their own activities, having nothing to do with drugs, that have to be funded. The days are long gone when the CIA didn't have to account for the money it spent. So for certain activities that are too sensitive to tell a bunch of Congressmen about, it looks for other ways to fund them.”

  No shit, thought Lesko. He felt a yawn coming on.

  “Now, almost none of this is spy-novel stuff,” Loftus continued. “I'm talking activities that are necessary but politically dicey. The best example would be domestic activity, which is forbidden by law even though you and I know there's no way an intelligence service can operate without at least some of its activities coming back across the borders of this country. One source of the funding, the major source lately, comes from protecting some of the more reliable drug traffickers in return for a slice of the pie. Like I said, we're not ever going to stop them. The thinking was that we might as well get some use out of them.”

  “All in the name of patriotism, right?”

  Loftus's face hardened. “Let's not talk morals, Lesko. We all make hard choices. You want to talk morals, we'll talk about where your cop oath says you can take personal revenge.”

  He had a point, Lesko supposed. But at least Lesko hadn't taken any money. “Are you going to tell me, with all this drug money around, none of you guys lined your own pockets?”

  Loftus looked at him evenly. “There might have been some spill. I wasn't going to flush it down the toilet.”

  Lesko said nothing. Busting balls was not the way to keep Loftus talking. “The guy at the head of this is Palmer Reid, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Donovan found out?”

  “No. Don't get ahead of me, Lesko.”

  “Then back to the reliable drug-traffickers: That was Elena?”

  “She was one of them.”

  “I want to know about her.”

  Lesko listened without interrupting for the next five minutes.

  Her full name, Loftus told him, was Elena Betancourt although she also used the name Elena Brugg. Both were legitimate. She was born in Zurich during the war to a Bolivian mother who'd been sent to school there. The mother got pregnant by a Swiss national named Karl Brugg and married him. After the Nazi surrender, mother and daughter returned to La Paz for a visit. The Betancourts, old-line Spanish blood, kept her there and got the marriage annulled. The Betancourts were landowner Catholics, the Bruggs were financial wheeler-dealers and the nearest thing, in their eyes, to Jews.

  Elena was raised as Elena Betancourt, but her mother always told her that she had a whole other family in Switzerland. Elena grew up, got sent to Wellesley for her education but promptly transferred herself to her mother's school in Zurich . . . “I told you she was ballsy” . . . and renewed ties with her Swiss father and his family. After graduating, she returned to La Paz but she spent her vacations in Switzerland.

  The Betancourts grew coffee and corn. They also grew coca leaves and allowed their tenants to grow crops of their own just as they'd been doing for hundreds of years. The production of coca was and still is perfectly legal. It was also their most reliable cash crop. The end uses of coca were also legal right up until cocaine fell into disuse as a medication/anesthetic and gradually became the drug of fashion, with no law against its use. Then several things happened in the mid-sixties. One was a near-collapse of the Bolivian economy after a series of coups in which Palmer Reid was very much involved. Next, the bottom fell out of coffee and corn prices so the Betancourts had to greatly increase their production of coca paste for export. They were still not getting rich. What really made the profits start rolling in was the classification of cocaine as a controlled substance under the Harrison Narcotics Act. Cocaine was now both hip and hard to get. Supply-and-demand took over. Prices quintupled almost overnight.

  When Bolivia's best cash crop was declared illegal by the U. S. government, growers throughout South America were hardly in a position to abandon that source of income. If one grower did, his neighbors would not. The transition from the legal to the criminal was a gradual process. By their own lights, and in fact by their own laws, the Bolivian growers were never criminals at all. America's drug epidemic was America's problem. No one was forcing Americans to snort cocaine.

  Elena, by this time, being sophisticated, educated and multilingual, was a natural choice to become the connection between her family's interests and the international marketplace. She dealt with the Colombians who bought the raw paste, refined it and distributed it. She also handled the family's banking and investment interests through the Bruggs, who were not at all involved in drug trafficking but who could hide assets and launder cash with the best of the Bahnhofstrasse gnomes.

  Big profits led to greed and greed led to a numbingly brutal war of attrition between rival factions. Under attack, Elena fought fire with fire, hiring guns of her own as guards, avenging hijackings and murders whenever the attackers could be identified, but it was a losing battle because her position was essentially defensive. Palmer Reid, meanwhile, saw that some of these enormous profits could be used to fund his own activities. Elena was approached, in part because of her overseas connections, and offered protection in return for fronting certain of their transactions and channeling funds back to them through Switzerland. Palmer Reid ended up with an untraceable cash flow that was bigger than the total of U. S. foreign aid to Bolivia.

  “It was that neat?” Lesko asked doubtfully. “Palmer Reid to the rescue?”

  Loftus smiled. “Nothing with Palmer Reid ever goes in a straight line. Understanding that can keep you alive.”

  “So Reid probably set up the hits on Elena.”

  “Some of them,” Loftus nodded, “after she initially told him to fuck off. Reid had the Bolivian Army in his pocket, one colonel in particular. It was him who kept hitting her until she had to take Reid's offer.”

  Initially, Loftus explained, Palmer Reid's protection consisted of guaranteeing her shipments against seizure, providing protection when she traveled, and directing all antidrug activity away from her and against her competitors. The Betancourts prospered greatly for a while but the cocaine wars soon grew totally out of control. There were three warring factions; criminal, establishment and radical. The distributors were the criminals in that all their activities were illegal. The growers were the establishment in that their activities were not only legal but essential to their respective economies. But to complicate matters, a third faction arose. It was a Soviet-aligned left-wing insurgency called The Patriotic Union.

  The Patriotic Union, founded in Colombia, declared war on all traffickers, outlaw or otherwise. Bands of them, including many policemen and soldiers, began burning refineries, bombing cars and laboratories, and leaving dozens of trafficantes nailed to their own front doors or doused with gasoline and set ablaze in village squares. Since they were a left-wing group, Palmer Reid and the CIA found themselves firmly allied with the trafficantes, and began mounting paramilitary operations against the Patriotic Union. The outlaw trafficantes were more than happy to tell the CIA who was Patriotic Union and who was not. It took Reid the better part of two years to realize that almost everyone who was fingered as Patriotic Union, including judges, political leaders, journalists and clergy, also happened to be a
sworn enemy of the trafficantes.

  “Hold it.” Lesko raised a hand. He wasn't especially interested in what the greasers did to each other or whether the CIA had painted itself into another corner. All he'd asked about was Elena. “You're telling me Elena was just this nice lady who was only trying to keep the family farm from going under. She lives in a tough world, she had to protect herself, so she goes and shoots my partner in the head.”

  “It is a tough world, Lesko.”

  “It's also a very confusing world,” Lesko showed his teeth, “because now you're telling me a CIA guy killed Katz.”

  “His job was to protect her interests but you can't call it a CIA hit. Elena gave the order.”

  “So she told me.”

  Loftus studied him. It was Lesko's first clear admission that he'd ever actually spoken to her. “Lesko, how come you left her alive?”

  “I still don't know.”

  “Personally, I liked the lady. Maybe you did, too.”

  Lesko started to deny it. Why bother? “Where is she now? Do you know?”

  “My guess? Back in Zurich. After the barbershop, she had enough.”

  “So how do I still figure in this? And how did it lead to Donovan being dead?”

  “Elena kept you alive, Lesko.” Loftus said this with a shrug that said her motive was a mystery to him. “Her friends wanted to hit you. They might have even gone for your daughter first. Some of our people wanted you nailed for blasting one of ours and because we figured you had to be in it with Katz. But Elena told Reid, if you go, so does he.”

  Lesko's eyes glazed over. He was seeing Elena as Loftus spoke. Standing there with death all around her. Very scared. Her chin quivering a little. But brave. No begging. No apologies. We live by our wits and we accept the risks, Mr. Lesko. Then she tries to buy him off with cocaine. Not all of it. Some of it. Lady, why wouldn't I just shoot you and take it all?

  Because there would be no honor in that, Mr. Lesko.

  He blinked the scene away. So she protected him. He was supposed to be grateful? “The other night,” he said, “you told me word on the street says I've been seeing her since. Where'd that come from?”

  “No hard information,” Loftus admitted. “It's just that the way she warned people off you and your family, it was hard to believe there wasn't more between you.”

  “You said people drew bad conclusions. That was one of them?”

  Loftus nodded.

  “So I ask Donovan to check on you, that check leads to Palmer Reid, Donovan talks to him and the next day he's dead. Why did that happen, Robert?”

  “More bad conclusions.”

  “Reid killed Donovan?”

  “He ordered it. An agent named Frank Burdick did it. You just heard me say that for the first and last time.”

  “You won't testify?”

  “No way.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Because I want out of this. The only way I can walk is if Reid gives his blessing or he's dead.”

  ”You don't have enough on him? You can't leave affidavits with a lawyer and tell Reid they go to the press if he touches you?”

  “Come on, Lesko. You haven't heard a single thing about Reid that he couldn't deny or explain away. You couldn't even get him on a tax rap because he never personally profited. The man's untouchable.”

  “But on your word I'm supposed to run out and shoot him.” Lesko began pacing the laundry room. “Robert,” his eyes narrowed, “let's say I believe you. But if Reid is so untouchable, why would a little nosing around have gotten Buzz Donovan killed?”

  “If he'd just asked about Reid and me, or even about Elena, nothing would have happened.”

  Lesko waited, uncomprehending.

  Loftus saw the blank look. It was what he'd hoped for. “You really don't get it, do you?”

  A light went on. Slowly. Lesko's face grew slack.

  “Bannerman, Lesko. He asked about Bannerman.”

  The hair on Lesko's neck began to rise. He felt lightheaded. He took a step toward Loftus, who could see the rage building behind Lesko's eyes.

  “Take it easy. That's a mistake, too.”

  Bannerman. The name was screaming now in Lesko's mind. And he heard David Katz shouting at him from a distance, his voice an echo. “I told you. Didn 't I tell you? The guy's dirty.” And Donovan. He'd been sure Donovan had held something back about Bannerman. And here it was. Bannerman and Reid. Reid and Elena. Elena in Switzerland. Bannerman in Switzerland. With Susan. And this son of a bitch knew it all the time. He let them go.

  “Lesko! Schmuck! Listen to me.”

  Loftus was shouting at him through a red haze. Backing away. His hand reaching for his empty gun and holding it like a billy.

  “Lesko, don't. It's all a mistake.”

  Lesko charged him.

  The woman in the lobby of the Grosvenor watched them leave. She was in her late fifties, slender, expensively dressed, but there was an easy, earthy quality about her. She touched the hand of the man with her and spoke in a soft southern drawl.

  ”Hon, don't you think we should tag along? Keep an eye of them?”

  “Darlin’,” the man shook his head. “I think they've seen just about enough of us for one day.” He had quick, mirthful eyes, a ready smile. He was of medium height, with the sort of shape that used to be described as prosperous. “Ask me, that feller was just on the edge of walking over here until he decided he'd rather balance a bowl on his head.”

  “Good to know he has a sense of fun,” she smiled, “if we're going to be traveling with them. Though I wouldn't mind knowing a bit more about him. Anything strike you about the way he moves, sweetheart?”

  “He does seem a bit watchful, doesn't he. Could be a lot of things, though. Could be he has a wife someplace. Could be he's afraid she has detectives on him.”

  “Maybe we ought to call and ask for a profile?”

  “Then they'd know where we are, darlin.’ Best if they don't. Best if we can fade in and fade out as it suits us.”

  The woman squeezed his hand to signify that she agreed. “We'll find out tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll sit them both down and get them to tell us all about themselves.”

  “Well, just don't go gettin' too fond of them, darlin’ That talk-show feller last June in Dallas, you must of moped two whole weeks about it.”

  “Then like last June,” she picked up his hand and kissed it, “all you need do is keep buyin' me presents till you see I'm smilin' again.”

  “That's fine for you,” he pretended annoyance, “but it sure would be nice to turn a profit every now and then.”

  “Oh, hush.” She tugged at him. “How about us seein' if we can find a dish of ribs in this town?”

  Lesko was on his knees, dazed. A stream of blood ran down across one cheek and dripped onto the laundry-room floor. He could hear the sounds of brass cartridges being clicked into their cylinders and the cylinder clicking into place but he could do nothing to prevent it.

  Minutes ago, seconds ago, he wasn't sure which, both his hands were around Loftus's throat lifting him off his feet. He remembered the gun butt coming down across his temple. Once, twice, more times. He barely felt it. But he remembered Loftus's face retreating farther and farther away and then there was only the cement floor.

  “Lesko?” Loftus's voice.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It pushed him, not roughly, but enough to make him roll onto his back. He looked up, his eyes gradually coming into focus, first on Loftus's face and then on the revolver that was pointed at his forehead.

  “I could blow your thick head off, Lesko. Agreed?”

  Susan. The son of a bitch had involved Susan.

  “Come on, Lesko. Shake it off. Are we agreed I could kill you?”

  Lesko nodded slowly. He pushed to a sitting position as the fog receded and was replaced by a throbbing pain. Loftus stepped past him. He walked to the washing machine, opened its lid, and pulled out one of Lesko's wet bath towels. He he
ld it at arm's length until Lesko took it and pressed it against his head.