The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Josef has called from Klosters,” he told her. “The Lesko girl and this Bannerman have arrived. Josef pointed them out to two of our friends with the police of that canton. They will watch out for the girl as best they can. Josef has taken a room from which he can see both the station and their apartment.”

  Elena frowned. “So much trouble, Uncle Urs? I asked Josef only to. . . .'*

  “This man, Bannerman,” he interrupted her. “You asked me to make inquiries. You say you know nothing of him?”

  “Only what the girl's father said. That this man is his daughter's friend and Palmer Reid's enemy. What have you learned?”

  “Would it surprise you that this young man, also known to me as Mama's Boy, has for more than ten years directed an elite mercenary group that was employed by various European governments as well as by American counter-intelligence?”

  Elena was stunned. “You know him?”

  “Only by reputation. I've heard stories of Mama's Boy over the years but I never knew his true name until today. My information is that his entire group scattered three years ago and then reassembled in a community near New York where they are said to live in peace. Make of that what you will.”

  “You say he worked for the Americans.” Elena was becoming alarmed, “That means he worked for Palmer Reid.”

  “He did, but only in a broad, organizational sense. When I asked whether Bannerman might now be allied with Palmer Reid, the question was met with laughter. Lesko was right. They are clearly enemies.”

  Elena remained troubled. “You have confidence in your sources, Uncle Urs?”

  “One is German Intelligence, one is Interpol, the third is KGB. All say the same. All say that Bannerman is a man to be feared, and yet they speak of him with respect.”

  “What of the Lesko girl? How is it that she is involved with such a man?”

  Urs Brugg let out a breath, the equivalent of a shrug. “She cannot be involved in Bannerman's past because she is so young. But it's difficult to imagine that she knows nothing about it. Is she a stupid girl, Elena?”

  “Lesko's daughter? I would not think so.”

  “All these names.” Urs Brugg sounded puzzled. “Raymond Lesko, Susan Lesko, Elena Brugg, Palmer Reid, and now this Mama's Boy, Paul Bannerman. They float in the air bumping against each other. It seems that they should connect and yet I am assured that they do not.”

  They connect, thought Elena. It is only a question of how. It would be reckless to believe otherwise. But it would be equally reckless to act upon so little information.

  “Elena?”

  “Yes, Uncle Urs.”

  “You will tell me someday why this girl is our concern?”

  “Someday, yes.” When I understand it myself.

  “This Lesko must be a man of great charm. He is handsome as well?”

  “He is…a man.”

  “Aha. Not so handsome. Then he is a romantic?”

  “Good-bye, Uncle Urs.”

  “Of course it is none of my business but…”

  “Uncle Urs…” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye, Elena.”

  For a long moment, Elena's fingers stayed on the receiver as she thought about Lesko and the wisdom of dialing his number. She should tell him, perhaps, what Uncle Urs had learned about the man who was with his daughter. Or she could tell him simply that his daughter had arrived and was well. But the first would only alarm him, possibly to no purpose. As for the second, a simple report, what would she say next? What more could they say to each other? An exchange of banalities at best.

  Perhaps, someday, she would write him a letter.

  Perhaps he would answer.

  Susan had just finished unpacking, hanging out wrinkled clothing, and was about to take a quick, hot shower before dressing for the mountain, there having been no shower aboard the overnight train, when the phone rang. She picked it up and heard her father's voice.

  “Hi, daddy,” she said brightly. Then, suddenly conscious that her breasts were exposed by the traveling robe she'd thrown on loosely, she covered herself. It was silly, she realized, but she closed the robe anyway.

  “Hey, sweetheart. You got there okay?” His voice echoed through the cable.

  “We got in two hours ago. Daddy, it was wonderful.”

  She listened as he assured her that he had no particular reason for calling, just to see you're okay, didn't lose your luggage or anything like that. . . ,” A long pause. “How's it going with your friend?”

  “His name is Paul, daddy.”

  “Yeah, right. Paul.”

  “I'd let you say hello but he's down stowing our skis and checking in with the lady who manages the building. The fact is, I'm sorry you missed him.”

  “He, um, still reminds you of me?”

  Susan thought she heard a certain pregnancy behind the question but she chose to skip past it. “More than ever. Listen. While I'm over here, you get out and see people, okay? And I don't mean just boozing every other night with Mr. Donovan. If I ever get a few dollars together I'm going to take you on the Orient Express and introduce you to a countess.”

  “I could picture it. I'd hold out my pinkie drinking tea and I'd probably poke her in the eye.”

  “Come on, daddy,” she scolded mildly. “I told you not to talk about yourself that way.”

  “Yeah, well, you just take care of yourself, all right? Ski slow.”

  “We're going up as soon as I change. They're forecasting heavy snow tonight and tomorrow so we're getting in a few runs today.”

  “Make sure you dress for it. Don't catch a cold.”

  “Love you, daddy. I'll send lots of postcards.”

  “Good-bye, sweetheart.”

  The phone rang again as she turned on the shower. A Mr. Zivic calling from Westport. She covered herself again. Nice-sounding man, very apologetic, spoke with an accent. Very reluctant to disturb either of them but he was unable to find some airline tickets Paul was to have left for him. No problem, said Susan. He has your number?

  She stepped into the bathtub, smiling over her father's call. Ski slow. Don't catch cold. He was sounding more and more like Uncle David these days. It would be early morning back there. A little after four. The time when daddy's gremlins came. That might explain it. Maybe Uncle David had dropped in on him again. She paused thoughtfully in the midst of lathering herself as it suddenly occurred to her that the other call had been made at around four in the morning as well. Her father she could understand. But a routine call about some airline tickets?

  Anton Zivic, Paul told her, was an antique dealer in Westport. A nice man, a valued client, but a chronic worrier. Sorry about getting a business call, he said, not twenty minutes after walking in the door. He hoped it would be the last.

  But, though Paul tried not to show it, the intrusion had noticeably soured his mood. During their walk to the gondola, skis slung over their shoulders, she did her best to pull him back up, to make his eyes, not just his mouth, go soft again. In the end, more than any playfulness or cajoling, it was her undisguised delight in virtually everything she saw that made the difference.

  Most breathtaking of all was the ride to the summit. The gondola was a two-stage lift that began just yards from the train station and ended less than ten minutes later five thousand feet above the village of Klosters. To the north she could see the low black clouds of the promised snow advancing rapidly behind darting strips of cirrus. In all other directions she could see nothing but wild, snow-covered mountains marching toward horizons nearly sixty miles away. Looking down, she strained to pick out their chalet in a village now shrunk to postcard size. She gasped and pointed as she suddenly noticed a hang glider soaring two thousand feet below them, riding the wind like a giant red seagull. Roads and the single-track railway had become thin black lines as if painted on with eyeliner.

  “How are your legs?” Paul asked as the gondola docked. He was gazing toward a still higher peak in the direction of Dav
os.

  ”A touch knock-kneed,” she looked up at him eagerly, “but I always thought if I wrapped them around one guy often enough…”'

  A woman standing near them made a choking sound, then turned and translated for her companion, who laughed aloud. Paul's color rose. He made a gesture meant to deny that he and Susan were together. But a grin split his face and remained until they followed the crowd onto the snowfield and prepared to step into their skis.

  “One sport at a time, okay?” he said, still with a trace of the blush that she enjoyed having caused. He spread his arms, one pointing toward the higher peak, the other in the opposite direction far up the valley floor. “From there to there,” he said, “you're looking at the longest single piste in the Alps. It's about eight miles, ending four towns away at a village called Kublis. Think you can handle it?”

  “Ah . . . for our first run?”

  “I guess you're right.'' He looked to the north. “If you have trouble keeping up, we might be in heavy snow by the time we're halfway down.”

  “Me being just a girl and all.”

  “I didn't mean. . . .”

  “Lead the way, hotshot.”

  He hesitated. She pushed off ahead of him.

  She realized within ten minutes that no trail map, no aerial photograph, could have prepared her for the scope of these mountains. Far above the tree line, a network of T-bars took them across vast snowfields to the distant peak Paul had pointed out to her. They paused at the highest point for a final tightening of their boots. The entire world seemed below them. The valleys and towns were no longer in sight. The clouds were getting closer. Paul looked to the north, his expression now doubtful. “Maybe that long run isn't such a hot idea,” he said. “There won't be many people on it.”

  “That way?” She pointed with her pole to a steep mogul run. Her pulse was already racing.

  “That way,” he sighed. “After you.”

  Almost at once, she began to regret her rashness. The first mogul run had the tops of her thighs burning. A snowfield with a gentler pitch gave some relief, but ahead she could see a series of long, fast chutes where other skiers tucked low for added speed. One, a woman, lost her nerve or her balance. She fell backward. Her momentum carried her onward, sprawling, bouncing, sliding for what must have been two hundred yards. She stopped at last, not badly hurt, but with her skis and poles scattered far behind her.

  “We can bypass the chutes,” Paul told her. He gestured toward a blue trail that wound to their right.

  “This way's fine.” She chewed her lip.

  “We have plenty of time. Don't push yourself if you don't feel ready.”

  “Let's go.”

  Hitting the chute, she sucked in a breath and held it. Tuck low, lower, she told herself. Skis apart, elbows in. Legs supple, take the shocks, lean into it. Oh my God. She was doing it. She saw Paul now, wearing the parka she had picked out for him a hundred years ago, his weight giving him more speed, passing her. He was slowing now at the top of the chute, braking, waiting for her. She dug in her edges, spraying snow up to his waist.

  “Nice going,” he was grinning broadly, pleased with her. “You ever skied that fast before?”

  “I hardly even drive that fast,” she gasped.

  “That's just about true. Want to know how fast you were going?”

  “There's still another chute?”

  “Two more.”

  “Better tell me later.”

  The others were easier. Just as fast, but her confidence was building. Then, a much more gentle stretch over winding trails that must have been three miles long. Beautiful. Wonderful. Her legs were screaming now but they'd reached the tree line. Must be halfway down at least.

  Paul led the way most of the time but he wasn't pressing. He'd pause, stop and wait at a turn in the trail, then Susan would bring her skis together and boom on past him. She knew she was being foolish. She'd pay for it tomorrow. But she was not about to be the first to ease off.

  They'd entered the low clouds and the first flakes of snow. Paul was calling from behind, asking her to wait. He pointed down through the trees at what seemed to be a restaurant. A dozen skiers were sitting on its deck. Paul stopped at her side, breathing hard, looking exhausted. She had a sense that he was acting.

  “How about taking a break,” he said. “I can't keep up this pace.”

  He was barely perspiring while she was soaked through. She realized that he was being gallant. “If you like.” was what she said. Bless you, was what she thought.

  The restaurant, called a schwendi, was unlike any Susan had even seen, in that it was not near any lift. It could only be reached by skiers taking this trail or by hikers during the summer. Just ahead, a small knot of skiers paused on a bluff overlooking the schwendi as if preparing for their final approach. The faces on the deck below all seemed to be turned up toward them.

  “Watch.” He touched her arm and gestured toward the other skiers. “You'll see why they stop here first. It's the only place on the mountain where they're skiing in front of an audience.”

  What it was, he explained, was a sort of ritual. The skiers, most of them as tired as Susan, had been struggling down the mountain. With the schwendi in sight, and with all those eyes upon them, almost all would brace themselves for an approach in perfect form. It's the only time all day, Paul told her, that most of them try to parallel ski. For those already down and sipping a beer or hot wine, it provided an informal entertainment.

  She watched them go. Some did well. Others crossed their skis and tumbled, their humiliation almost palpable. Susan didn't laugh; she could feel her own body stiffening and her confidence draining. She took a breath and pushed off.

  Within seconds, Susan had cause to hate Paul for his lesson in human nature. She hadn't fallen since they started. She fell twice in full view of the schwendi's deck. Her second fall drew applause.

  “Paul, darling,” she smiled her father's smile as they stepped out of their skis at the restaurant's entrance, “I'm going to get you for that if it's the last thing I ever do.”

  She felt better after a bowl of goulash washed down with a beer. Susan, not herself exempt from the laws of human nature, joined the applause for some of the more spectacular tumbles of the skiers that followed, until the thickening snow obscured all but the nearest skiers, and Paul suggested that they'd better move on.

  The orange trail markers were by now barely visible. They were skiing almost blindly and yet, if Paul hadn't been pressing before, he was pressing now. When at last they reached a clearing in the pines and could see the town of Kublis taking shape, she was immensely relieved but no less exhilarated. In another ten minutes they had reached the Kublis train station. It was all she could do not to lie down on the platform.

  “Hang in there,” Paul told her, checking the train schedule, “we'll be home in half an hour.”

  “Tell me again about your advanced age,” she said darkly. “Tell me again how hard it is to keep up with me.”

  “Tree skiing is dangerous,” he said innocently. “I like to get it over with.”

  Her expression went blank. “That certainly makes sense.”

  He looked away. “I know we pushed too hard. But we might not get another chance for a few days. Tomorrow you can get a massage at one of the health clubs. You'll be good as new.”

  His eyes were becoming distant again. “Paul?” she asked. “What's on your mind? It's still that phone call you got, isn't it?”

  He shook his head.

  “What, then?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “You were terrific back there.”

  She studied him curiously. There was something else behind those eyes. Coming down the mountain he was skiing as if ... she wasn't sure what. At the start he seemed to be testing her. Then he'd changed his mind. Eased up. But on that last run he was attacking that mountain with all he had, taking foolish chances, plunging through those trees like a frightened de
er. She wanted to ask him about that. It seemed so unlike him. But all she said was, “Thank you.”