She was asleep, on their living-room couch, not ten minutes after squeezing off her boots and leaving them where they tumbled. She'd needed both hands to lift her legs to the cushions. A glass of wine remained untouched at her side. Paul fetched the bedroom quilt and gently draped it over the woman he had deliberately exhausted. He needed time to be alone with his thoughts and the deep, gnawing anger that he'd fought all day to control.
He'd lied, of course, about the effect of Anton's call. What bothered him most about it was not the news of Palmer Reid's people, the Scarsdale killings, the grant of sanctuary to two of Reid's agents. It was not even, though he hated to think of it, that Anton had gone against his wishes and dispatched Carla Benedict and Gary Russo to Davos. He knew he would have done the same in Anton's place. It was the insanity of it all that he despised. People were dying because of a plot that did not exist—between himself, Susan's father, whom he'd never met, and some woman in Zurich whom he hadn't even known existed before this morning.
Palmer Reid.
In Paul's dark mood he almost wished he'd listened to the others and let them finish Reid at the outset. They'd all urged it except Anton. Most of them volunteered. Even Molly. But Paul knew, as Anton knew, that Reid would soon have been replaced by someone very much like him. Perhaps by someone younger, more clever, more stable, whose powerful friends had not all died or had not yet been betrayed. Better the devil you know.
And in Paul's heart, though he never spoke of it to anyone but Anton, he could not help feeling a certain sympathy for Reid. There had been a time when Reid and others like him probably served their country well. During the war years. Then the Cold War years. But, like Hoover, he'd stayed too long. Too many moves and countermoves. Too many lies. A conspiratorial mentality taking permanent hold. Then, inevitably, a growing contempt for any elected official who embraced a world view other than his own. They'd tried to get rid of him, retire him, and in doing so they marked themselves as dangerously naive at best, or communist tools at worst. Like Hoover, Reid began to gather files on them. As with Hoover, his files, real or imagined, kept him in service long after his time had passed. Like Hoover, the actions of his later years blotted out all else that might have been admired. But sympathy, like love, has its limits.
Susan.
What to do about Susan?
He was so proud of her today. Staying with him. Not complaining. Even during that last stretch through the trees when he himself had almost panicked. When an hour of brooding over Anton's call left him wondering whether Reid might actually make an attempt against him here. When his mind ruled out all the ways in which it might be done except for on a narrow, lonely ski trail during a snowstorm where he and anyone with him could be quietly and quickly killed and their bodies pulled off the trail, and many days might pass before they were found.
It was not a reasonable fear. He knew that. If he'd been alone it would have been a fleeting thought at most. Nor would he have stuck to marked trails. But he was with Susan. So he’d raced on, straining to keep no less than twenty yards between them in open stretches and shielding her body with his own in places of possible ambush. But Susan didn't know the game. She thought she was being tested. She would stay with him if it killed her. And that was the problem, he thought sadly. Sooner or later, it very well might.
At Windermere, and again on the train from London, he'd almost managed to make himself believe that a future with Susan was possible. Even a future measured in months. But each time, something had happened to slap him back into reality. At Windermere, it was Reid's visit. Here it was Anton's phone call.
There would be other women. But from now on he'd pick them more carefully. They'd be closer to his own age. Women who've been around the track a few times. Less trusting. Less vulnerable. Easier to let go when they began to ask questions. Or will he and Molly Farrell, God bless her, look at each other one day and say, ”We might as well face it. You and me. Like it or not. We're all we're going to get.”
Apologies to Molly, the thought made him sick.
“Ask me,” yawned Caroline Bass, “those two have called it a day.”She passed the binoculars to her husband who slouched behind the wheel of the black Saab sedan. They'd rented it at Zurich that morning after slipping off the train. A blue plastic ski pod, empty, was mounted on its roof.
“Which shows they got more sense than us,” he sighed. Ray Bass raised the glasses and focused them, through Caroline's side window, upon the outline of Paul Bannerman. The better part of an hour had passed since they watched him gently drape a quilt over Susan. Now Paul was outside, on his second-floor terrace, sometimes pacing, mostly sitting, oblivious to the snow-flakes swirling around him, staring into the night. “Old Paul looks like he has a thing or two on his mind.”
Caroline nodded. “I still have a funny feeling about him. Just can't put my finger on it.”
“Well,” Ray Bass shrugged, “as far as I can tell, he's exactly what he says he is.” He'd placed a call to Westport, mostly to satisfy Caroline, getting the number of Paul's travel agency and asking to talk to the head man. The lady who answered was real talkative, real friendly. If Mr. Paul Bannerman and his travel agency were anything but the genuine article, no question it was news to her. “Anyhow, look at him.” Ray gestured toward the terrace, “sittin’ up there all wide open and back-lit like he is. Where are those ‘careful moves' of yours now?”
“No harm in wonderin', sweetheart.”
“About all he's got on his mind is how much it's going to snow and whether to wake her up and go to supper. See the way he keeps peekin' in at her? Be nice if he'd decide to go eat by himself. We could be done here and back up to Zurich before midnight.”
Ray Bass was silent for a moment, then he chuckled. “Might have been a real feather in our caps if we did her on that fancy train. Wasn't much chance, I realize, but it sure would have been fun to brag on doin' a real-life murder on the Orient Express.”
“It might be new but it wouldn't sound new, darlin'. You want to brag on somethin’,” she chuckled with him, “figure a way to do grand theft-auto on the Orient Express. Now that would be a whole new wrinkle.”
Ray made a face. “I'm not sure people would line up to hear about that one. Might as well do insider trading on the Orient Express.” He clapped his hands gleefully, “Or how ‘bout Revenge of the Nerds on the Orient Express? Wouldn't that be a stitch?”
“Steady, sweetheart.” She patted his thigh. “Let's think about how we're goin' to get the girl alone real soon. A town this little, one of them's like to spot us sooner or later.”
“That happens, we just whoop and holler and act like we been lookin' all over for ‘em. Say we lost the paper with their address but came down anyhow. Then, if we can't get 'em separate, we'll just have to get' em together.”
“Paul's not on the list, sweetie. Ain't no bonus money in him.”
“Well, don't you worry.” Ray Bass took her hand. “Tomorrow, next day for sure. Susan's going to go off to get her hair done, or to shop, or to go to the food store. We'll have her stretched out in that ski pod before she knows it.”
“Speakin’ of food . . .” Caroline held her wrist-watch up to a streetlight.
“Soon as Paul goes back inside, darlin'. ” He used his free hand to wipe the glass. “It wouldn't do to have him wonderin' why this car backs out without anyone walkin' up and gettin' in it.”
“I want a piece of fish, breaded and fried. Don't take me any more places where it comes all white and they make little vegetable doodles all over your dish.”
“We'll drive over to Davos. We ought to know the lay of it anyhow in case we want to leave through the back door.”
“That's if we don't get snowed in first.” She turned her head toward the terrace. “Go on, Paul. Go take a pee like a nice fella.”
“And there he goes,” Ray Bass grinned. “Shows what positive thinkin' will do, darlin.”
They watched as he stepped through the sliding door, paused to
look down at the girl, then walked the length of his living room and was lost from view. Ray Bass counted to ten, then started his engine.
Bannerman had seen the car. His eye, like his wandering mind, had passed over it several times but always, as if of its own accord, it found its way back. It was the window. The one on the front passenger side. The windows of all the other cars facing in the same direction were snow-covered. That one had no snow on its bottom half, as if the window had been partially lowered to clear it. And the bottom half was steamed. From the inside.
There were no recent tracks leading to it. No footprints. The tire marks were at least an hour old. And there…a hand wiping a circle in the condensation.
If he were anyone else, if he were normal, he realized, he would probably think nothing of it. Someone waiting for a train. A couple of young lovers. They'd shut off the engine, perhaps, because they were low on gas. Or because they were warming each other.
But he wasn't like everyone else. So here he sat, seeing shadows in the woods again. Wondering whether any of a thousand people who might wish him harm could be sitting in that black Saab with the blue ski pod on top. And here he sat, refusing to let that car make him go inside, yet ready to dive to the terrace floor if whoever was in it should roll down that window.
Another thought struck him. This one made him angry. What if the hand that wiped that window belonged to Carla Benedict or Gary Russo. Taking it upon themselves to check up on him, ignoring Anton's instructions to stay out of Klosters. Hard to imagine Carla being so obvious, and parking head-in like that, but Gary might.
Damn, he sighed.
To hell with this. If you want to know who's in that car, go look. See what they do when they see you walking toward them. And if it's Carla or Gary, by God, make them wish they'd never. . . .
Abruptly, he stood up. He stepped from the terrace and through his living room, pausing once to be sure Susan was asleep and again at his kitchen where he plucked a carving knife off its magnetic wall strip.
By the time he reached the street, the Saab was disappearing into the lights of Klosters’ shopping district.
Bannerman stood in the falling snow, the knife held hidden against his thigh. He felt foolish. A fat lot of good the knife would have been if he'd indeed had anything to fear from whoever was in that car. And if they turned out to be Carla and Gary, how tough could he really have been on people who wanted nothing more than to keep him safe and well? He walked on, following the Saab's tracks to no purpose. He reached the train station, then stood for a long moment staring at the public telephone mounted on the wall. He walked over to it and began to dial the number of Anton Zivic's shop. He broke the connection. Then he began again.
“No, everything's okay,” he said upon hearing the concern in Anton's voice. “I'm just having a little trouble unwinding.”
“Who could blame you?” Anton sympathized. “However, things on this end seem to be quieting down nicely.” Roger Clew, Zivic told him, had reported on the meeting between Reid and Barton Fuller. Reid seemed chastened, even frightened. He was holed up at his home, apparently afraid even to risk a forty-minute drive back to the safety of Fort Meade. The Pollard house had been cleaned up, closed down, and all of Reid's people withdrawn. Reid's man, Loftus, was in stable condition but Dr. Russo's skills would be needed to rebuild his face. Molly and Janet Herzog picked up Loftus's family and then, in order to avoid possible interception, chartered a plane in Virginia that had just landed at Bridgeport, Connecticut. “And your Mr. Lesko is visiting Mr. Loftus even as we speak.”
“Susan's father? How did he find out about the clinic?”
“He appeared at Mario's this noon and announced to Billy McHugh that he would either be taken to Mr. Loftus or he would begin heaving furniture into the street. Billy's position regarding the latter was that he would feel obliged to prevent it. The choice forced upon me was either to rush down and claim a ringside seat—while it remained indoors—or to prevent the destruction of a Westport landmark. My intervention was roundly booed by the entire luncheon crowd.”
“You probably prevented the destruction of Raymond Lesko,” Paul grimaced.
Anton hesitated. “Have you seen this man?*’
“I’ve seen Billy. I've never seen anyone last ten seconds with him.”
“Envision the heavyweight wrestling champion of Transylvania and you have some idea of this Lesko. Your Susan is clearly adopted.”
Paul had to smile. “I take it he's quieted down nicely, too.”
“For the moment. There was murder in his eyes when he saw what was done to Loftus but his mood improved when Loftus described Billy's retaliation. I think, however, he'll go straight after Reid if we don't prevent it.”
“It's your call, Anton, but I'd keep him there.”
“My thought, as well. Incidentally, I have a report on that couple you met on the train.”
The Basses. He'd almost forgotten. “Yes?”
“They appear to be genuine. Solid citizens, well-known, well-liked, travel extensively. They're definitely on holiday in Europe.”
“Do you have a description?”
“Yes.” Paul heard a rustling of papers and then a rundown on their ages, coloring, physical dimensions and personality types. No distinctive markings or speech patterns other than a regional accent. “I'm waiting to hear from one other source but I expect no surprises.”
“That's them. Thanks. Anton. Have you heard from Carla?”
“I just phoned her.”
“In Davos? When was that?”
“Not twenty minutes ago. I had her paged in the dining room of the Des Alpes hotel. Why do you ask, Paul?”
“It's nothing. I thought I saw her in Klosters a few minutes ago.”
“Not possible. But if it were my call, as you say, I would give her more latitude. Let her come to Klosters. She will stay out of sight.”
“I don't know. . . .”
“She's professional, Paul. Give her something to do.”
What the heck, he thought. It was a foolish notion, anyway. Thinking that for three weeks he could live as if fifteen years of his life had never happened. Pretending that he lived in a little white world where the snow never got dirty and there weren't any people like Carla. Or Billy. Or even Anton. Trying to pretend that he wasn't just like them.
“She'll stay out of sight?” he asked.
“You'll never see her.”
“But not Gary. He might as well be carrying a sign.”
“We'll both rest easier, Paul.”
“Okay. Thanks, Anton.” He broke the connection.
Sure.
Why not? Let someone else look for the shadows.
He turned back toward his building, toward the lights that marked his apartment. A nightcap, a glass of wine, followed by a good night's sleep. That sounded just fine. He could relax now. Maybe even be decent company again. He'd get back to Susan, and he'd hug her and hold her, or maybe he'd save that until morning and let her sleep. Tomorrow they'd start fresh. Make a vacation out of this yet.
The carving knife, which he'd tucked out of sight inside his parka, jabbed into his hip. He drew it out and slid it, blade first, up into his sleeve. Susan might be awake when he returned. That's all she needs, to see him walking around with a. ...
“Paul?”
He hadn't seen her. She'd been standing there. How long, how much she'd heard, he couldn't ask. He couldn't even speak.
“It's time we had a talk,” she said.
CHAPTER 22
Tuesday morning, Klosters.
Susan Lesko slid her stiff legs from the couch on which she'd spent the night. She rose unsteadily, but quietly, and made her way to the bathroom where she closed and locked the door behind her. She sat on the bathtub's edge and turned the hot water tap on full, breathing deeply of the rising steam, waiting while the events of the night before sorted themselves out from the dreams that troubled her sleep.
The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) Page 37