The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Talk to me, Robert.”

  Another long pause. “According to Doug Poole, you already met a few.”

  “Would two of them be bartenders? One a woman?”

  “They're a lot of things, Lesko.”

  “But we're not talking about the local Rotary Club, are we, Robert? We're talking about an organization of some kind and it includes shooters.”

  “It's not like you think.” Lesko had said organization like he'd say Mafia. “The fact is, Bannerman's friends have offered Doug Poole sanctuary. Why they did it is a long story. The offer includes me. If Poole can arrange it, you might’ be safer up there, too.”

  “Did you take the offer?”

  “I told Poole to take it. Me I've got a family, remember? Anyway, I want to be able to move around.”

  “Yeah, well, don't get smart, Robert. A Fed who didn't like Burdick much either and who also knew how to get around that Scarsdale security system makes just as good a suspect as I did.”

  “Yeah. Listen, I have to go.”

  “Loftus? Don't hang up. I want to know more about…”

  “I'll be in touch. You sit tight, damn it.”

  “Loftus,” he shouted. “Do not fucking hang up. . . .”

  Loftus broke the connection.

  Loftus stood thoughtfully at the open-air phone outside a Mobil gas station on Scarsdale's Main Street. He'd considered telling Lesko that the sniper from this morning was one of Bannerman's Westport friends and therefore one of his. But then Lesko would know both too little and too much about Bannerman and was likely to go charging off to Europe like a wild man. Let him stew, he'd decided. It would make Lesko crazier when Loftus needed him crazier.

  Off to one side, away from the lights and the traffic flow of the pumps, his car waited with its lights on and motor running. Another car was behind it. Doug Poole waited in the second car, his face toward Loftus, his expression pained. Loftus walked over to him.

  “You better get back to Westport,” Loftus told him. “Find a motel room and stay there; the closer to the middle of town, the better.”

  “They said you can come, too,” Poole looked up at him, the agony of what he'd done showing in his eyes. “Colonel Zivic said we can even keep our weapons.”

  “You go,” Loftus shook his head. “Anyone ever asks, I told you to maintain the surveillance there. You don't even know about Burdick.”

  “Mr. Loftus…I'm really sorry.”

  “Don't lose any sleep over Burdick. We don't need people like that.”

  “I mean about telling them. I don't know how to explain it. They were like really good friends. Even now, except for you, I feel like they're the only friends I have.”

  “Get going,” Loftus ordered gently. “Check in with me when you're settled. Let Zivic know where you are at all times. If you get lonely, they'll probably let you hang out at Mario's.”

  Loftus watched him go. He watched for any sign that Poole was being followed. There was no one.

  He didn't blame Poole. He wasn't even sorry Poole talked to them. Poole was young, not much hard experience, involved in his first killing. Even a good killing would have been rough on him, but Donovan's was murder, pure and simple. The result of a slap to an old man's ego as much as anything. Knowing that had torn Poole apart. Zivic had seen that. The fear. The vulnerability of just sitting there outside Zivic's shop all day. Add a dose of hero-worship, some patient questioning, a touch, maybe even a hug, from Molly Farrell. A sandwich made by Billy McHugh himself. Three of the best operatives in the world treating him as an equal. Believing him. Offering their friendship if he wanted it. Their protection because he needed it. The funny thing was, Loftus thought to himself, they'll probably keep their word. Crazy world. The good guys are the bad guys. The bad guys are the good guys. Except what the hell did all this make him?

  Seventy-five yards away, in the parking lot of an all-night supermarket, the man named Gorby stripped off his earphones and disconnected the shoulder stock of a parabolic microphone. There was a large, open briefcase on the backseat at his side. A tape recorder, red eye glowing, lay inside. Gorby shut it off, then snapped the microphone parts into felt-covered spring clips and closed the lid.

  “That little creep, Whitlow, was right,” said the man at the wheel, half-turning. “This is bad shit.”

  The driver's name was Walter Burns, the other half of a team called in to dispose of Burdick's body, remove all evidence, and restore the ambassador's bathroom to its prior condition. They'd done this many times.

  “It's worse than bad,” Gorby muttered. “Sounds like old Bob has been working both sides right along.”

  “Hard to believe.’^

  “We just heard it.”

  “So? What's first?”

  “Loftus, but not here. He's probably headed back to the Pollard house. We'll give him a few minutes.”

  “Do me a favor, okay?” Walter Burns said. “No more bathrooms. It took me three hours to replace the tiles after Burdick. Not on Pollard's rugs, either.”

  “Why don't we just lay down some newspapers? Loftus asks what we're doing, we'll say we want to work the puzzle.”

  “I don't need sarcasm,” Burns told him. “Just a little consideration.”

  “Shit,” Gorby grumbled. “Come on, let's go.”

  “And no head shots. Not unless it's near a hose.”

  “What do you want from me? A Good Housekeeping seal? Start the fucking car.”

  Amid the wine-fueled gaiety of the bar-salon car after dinner, as the train hummed on toward the Swiss frontier, the inner voice that had often caused Susan to wonder about Paul became stilled.

  They'd dined by themselves, having declined an invitation from the Basses to share a table. This time it was Susan who begged off. She more than enjoyed their company but this was a special night and she wanted at least this part of it to themselves. During the meal, and during the fashion parade that preceded it through each of the dining cars, Paul pointed out a countess, an arms dealer and an Italian film actress. It was not until he identified a fallen-away mullah and a Russian KGB agent in drag that she realized he was making it all up. She would have thrown a roll at him if so many people were not eyeing them as well.

  “What do you think they're saying about us?” she asked him.

  “The men are thinking how lucky I am and the wives are threatening to pour wine in their laps if they don't quit staring at you.”

  Silver-tongued devil.

  But it brought a smile to her face that lasted through dinner.

  Now, taking coffee and liqueurs in the bar car, a group of passengers had gathered around the baby grand singing show tunes. Somewhere in the mix, louder than the rest, Susan could hear the unmistakable baritone of Ray Bass. They picked up their liqueurs and moved closer, acknowledging smiles and greetings as they passed. The Italian pianist was standing at the bar, a Campari in his hand, smiling down on Ray Bass, who had bought him a drink as the price of taking over the keyboard.

  “Hey there, Paul,” Caroline Bass waved them on. “You play this thing?”

  ”A little,” he shrugged, smiling.

  “Well, slide in and take a turn. Ray here thinks if it aint foot-stompin', it ain't music.”

  Paul wavered but Susan pushed him forward. Ray Bass making room, Paul sat, thought for a moment, and then with his right hand picked out the first four bars of Cole Porter's “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

  “The very thing.” Ray Bass clapped his hands and burst into song, making Paul rush to catch up. From that song he swung into a Cole Porter medley, playing tunes straight through if the passengers knew the words, stopping at sixteen bars if they didn't, giving Susan a solo of “Night and Day,” which Susan sang without hesitation in a confident glee-club alto.

  Susan hadn't known that Paul could play. Another new dimension. On the other hand, he hadn't known that she could sing, either. Or know that she could play a fairly decent guitar. Someday she'd surprise him with that.

&nbs
p; Later, after a nightcap with the Basses and a British couple celebrating an anniversary, everyone said they hoped they'd meet again soon, and she and Paul retired to their cabin. Susan would have liked the magic of the train to have gone on forever, but their stop in the morning would come early. And it would still be a while, Susan hoped, before they let the train rock them to sleep.

  “Susan.” He turned her and held her as she began to undress. “I do love you, you know.”

  “Me, too.” She loosened his tie.

  “And I want you to trust me.”

  “Shush.” She touched her fingers to his lips.

  “I mean, I know you wonder about me sometimes.”

  “Paul, dearest . . .” she began on the studs of his shirt.

  “But please don't wonder if I'd ever hurt you.”

  She leaned her cheek against his chest. “Will you shut up now?”

  He'd told her, several weeks earlier, about the up-and-down motion of the train's aging springs. For two tired people, the springs were everything they could hope for.

  “Head games,” Billy McHugh muttered to himself as he crouched invisibly within the spread of one of Ambassador Pollard's juniper trees.

  He did not like head games. Not that Anton wasn't smart. And not that Billy didn't understand about confusing the enemy, giving him other things to worry about. But shooting half his people did that, too.

  Instead, now we have pretend shootings. Glenn Cook thinks that's great because it gives him a chance to show off. Carla wouldn't have pretended. She'd have popped Reid the first time he took out the garbage. Which is probably why Zivic wants her and Russo out of the country.

  The only one doing anything useful was Molly. That's if she's doing what he thought she was doing.

  Billy liked Anton. Except maybe for the head games. Which he knew Anton couldn't help because he was still a Russian. Basically. The Russians are good at games. The Israeli's aren't bad, either. The British are lousy because they always get too cute, probably because they're mostly fags. The only time they were good was against the Germans because the Germans always used logic and they thought everybody else did, which is why nothing they ever figured out was ever right.

  Paul plays head games sometimes. But his are different and he probably doesn't even know he does it. What he does, he tells the truth and he never bluffs. Nobody ever believes him so they go and get ready for him to do something besides what he said. Which explains Reid. Reid always loses to Paul. Reid even knows it. But he thinks as soon as he starts believing Paul, Paul will pick then to start lying to him, and then Mama's Boy will have him by the balls again.

  A shadow moved.

  Waldo. Down by the house.

  He'd never seen anybody who could move as quiet as Waldo. Janet Herzog was close. And he wasn't too bad himself. But nobody was like John.

  Billy waited.

  “Two men.” He heard Waldo's voice before he saw him. “They got a third tied up and they're working him over.”

  “Could you see who?”

  “I just heard. They're in the kitchen. I think they're killing him.”

  “What'll you bet it's that guy Loftus?”

  “We're here. Let's go ask.”

  “Zivic says report first.”

  “We ask. Then we report.”

  Loftus knew he was dying.

  The voices, the lights, were becoming distant. He couldn't tell whether he'd stopped hurting so badly or whether the hurts had all come together into one throbbing mass. His face was wrecked.

  We're sorry about this, Gorby had said. If it was up to us, if we had anything with us, we'd have given you some pills to knock you out first.

  That told Loftus he was dead. This wasn't punishment. This was so it would look like Bannerman did it and Reid would have another photograph to show, probably in another car trunk just over the Westport line.

  Son of a bitch. His wife would have to identify him. She'd have to see what they did to his face before they pulled up the sheet. Then Reid at his funeraJ service. Giving a speech. His arm around Katherine. Telling the kids: Anything you need, you just call your Uncle Palmer. Son of a bitch.

  Burns, the bastard, isn't sorry. All Burns cares about is not making a mess. Use the kitchen. The kitchen floor. Then he sits down and laces on an old pair of work shoes. Kicking shoes. Each kick measured. Taking his time. Nothing personal, Mr. Loftus. Don't try to duck. It'll be over quicker.

  Hallucinations now. Shadows moving. Burns starts to throw another kick but a shadow falls across him and he freezes. His hands go up to his throat. Like he's choking himself. Blood squirting through his fingers, pouring down his shirt. Loftus knew it must be all in his head because now Burns is doing this tap-dance. This shuffle. And his feet are kicking out again but they're going every which way. Slipping, sliding, splashing in his own blood. Good, you prick. You're so worried about messes, how do you like that one?

  Another shadow. Another voice. Gorby down on the floor. A shadow on his back, too. That one's moving now. Getting up.

  “I'll ask you again.” John Waldo stepped away from Gorby's writhing body. He waited for Gorby's eyes to focus on Walter Burns, to watch his partner finish dying. “Why are you doing this?”

  Gorby's mouth was open in a silent scream, one hand on his knee, the other at his face. His left knee was ruined. His nose was crushed and torn. Two quick blows. He had barely sensed another presence in the room when they came. Now he looked up through wet eyes at the smallish man who had done this to him and the other one who had sliced Walter Burns’ head halfway off. Two layers of black stocking covered and flattened their features, but he knew they had to be Bannerman's people. He could guess, to his horror, which two they were.

  “This . . . this isn't about you,” he managed. “He's one of ours.”

  “My question was why.”

  Waldo made a motion to Billy, who nodded, then allowed Walter Burns to fall across Gorby. Pinning him. Soaking him. Then Waldo found the utensil drawer. He sorted through it until he found a corkscrew, then leaned over and showed it to Gorby. Satisfied that Gorby recognized it, he climbed astride Walter Burns and pressed the utensil into Gorby's ear. Gorby shrieked, more in terror than in pain.

  “One turn,” Waldo said quietly, “for every bad answer. One turn when you make me repeat myself.”

  “No,” Gorby choked. “No, wait, I’ll tell you.” He wanted to tell them. But a rush of panic seized at his insides as he realized that the truth would earn him no less than he had intended for Loftus. God damn Whitlow. Whitlow said it was Loftus who did Burdick. Only Loftus could get inside here. Or tell how to do it. They never would have come back to this house if they had any doubt it was Loftus. The drugs, he thought desperately. Maybe they would understand about the drugs. “Loftus…” He tried to point, feebly, “Loftus went free-lance. He was dealing cocaine with this cop . . . Lesko.”

  Waldo looked at Loftus, asking by way of a shrug if he could hear, and with a nod if it were true. Loftus tried to speak but could not. With effort, he shook his head. Waldo turned the corkscrew. Another soundless scream.

  “Try again,” Waldo rasped.

  Gorby's voice, when he could speak, sounded like escaping steam. “It's what they told me . . . them and a woman named Elena . . . maybe Bannerman, too. Don't hurt me for what they told me.”

  Billy turned to Loftus and knelt close to him. “Can you talk at all?” he asked.

  Loftus made a sick, wet sound. He shook his head again.

  “If we get you fixed up, can you straighten this out?”

  Loftus nodded. Billy gestured toward Gorby. “Do we need this guy?”

  Loftus hesitated. Another shake of his head, he was sure now, would mean that Gorby would die. A part of him almost wished that he could argue for sparing him. But in his mind he had seen Katherine looking down at his body as Gorby and Burns had left it. He had seen Palmer Reid showing snapshots of it. Along with his fucking boat. He had seen Palmer Reid with his children.