The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “By the Swiss police, you mean?” Anton sounded doubtful. “I suppose it's possible. Policemen around the world do favors for each other, but. . . .”

  “Is there a way you can ask him without alarming him?”

  Anton sighed meaningfully. Unless Lesko was in fact having her watched, the answer was clearly no. “In any case, he's asleep. We agreed it was best to keep him here. I had to use chemical means.”

  Paul sucked in a breath. He knew that he was reaching. And that Anton could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. “Anton, see if you can bring him around. Ask him. Just be ready to put him back under if you have to.”

  “You'll stay by your phone?”

  “I'll be right here.”

  Elena, too, was pacing. First the call from Uncle Urs telling her of the attack on Josef—that he had been bested by a small woman, to say nothing of being belabored by the umbrella of a Swiss grandmother—then another, telling her that Raymond Lesko had called, asking about a man seen following his daughter. Was this, he asked, the man Elena said she would send to watch over Susan?

  Uncle Urs had assured him that this was the case. But he thought it wise to say nothing of the attack on Josef. Or of the woman who attacked him even though she too seemed more intent on protecting the daughter than on harming her. Very possibly, thought Uncle Urs, this woman is a member of Bannerman's group. But Lesko was in far too agitated a state to deal with conjecture. Moreover, said Uncle Urs, his speech was slurred and his head did not seem clear. He may have been intoxicated. No cause for alarm, Uncle Urs promised, as he took down the number where Lesko could be reached.

  Elena was in her kitchen, helping her cook prepare the evening meal, when the phone rang again.

  “Elena?”

  His voice seemed pained. “Uncle Urs. What has happened?”

  “Terrible news. Someone has tried to kill the girl. They may have succeeded. Josef saw the ambulance and went to investigate. She has been taken to Davos Hospital.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “She was found….beaten. Then someone threw her off the footpath that leads down from the Schatzalp. Do you know the place?”

  “I know it. Yes.” The mountain restaurant, reached by cog rail or hiking path. “Could that woman have done this?”

  He hesitated. “Perhaps. I don't think so.”

  Elena heard the hesitation, and the other before he had said beaten. What was he holding back? Surely she had not been raped. Not on a hiking trail during a snowstorm. “Uncle Urs, what are you not telling me?”

  A silence. Then, “It was done with cocaine, Elena.”

  She couldn't speak.

  “Cocaine was forced into her mouth. She was made to swallow it.”

  Elena closed her eyes, placing one hand against her kitchen doorjamb as if for support. “Trafficantes” she whispered. She knew two others whom they had killed in this manner. She had heard of a half-dozen others. She'd heard of none who survived.

  Elena stepped through the door, closing it behind her so the cook could not hear.

  It was always done for vengeance. But it was seldom the guilty who were murdered in this way. First came family. Loved ones. Wives and even children. This was vengeance against Lesko? After two years? Did they wait for the daughter to be in Switzerland where her death would touch Elena Betancourt as well? She gathered herself.

  “Uncle Urs, listen to me. Call Davos Hospital. Tell them they must carefully examine the girl's vagina for evidence of a suppository. If they find one it is also cocaine. It is there to kill her if the other does not.”

  “I understand.”

  “The man, Bannerman. Does he know?”

  “By now, I think. Josef gave the Klosters address to one of our friends on the police.”

  “The father. We must tell the father.” How she dreaded the thought.

  “I will do it, Elena. He gave me his number.”

  “Tell him…whatever I can do, whatever he needs…”

  “I will see to it.”

  Urs Brugg promised to report all developments, then broke the connection. He would call the father now. And he too would offer assistance. He had an idea, however, that this Mama's Boy and his associates would be providing more than enough.

  By the time the last direct sunlight began creeping up the eastern slopes, Paul Bannerman was becoming more angry than worried. Angry at Carla for losing Susan. Angry at Susan herself. In the end, he was sure, it would turn out that his whole day of pacing and waiting had been for nothing. She'd show up laden with shopping bags. Saying she had lost track of time. He would point out that all she had to do was look out a window to know the sun was going down. And the Swiss public phones were not so mysterious that an American college graduate couldn't at least reach an operator.

  He rehearsed these and a dozen other things that he would say to her. He knew that he'd probably say none of them. Or get a chance to. Women never follow the script.

  He found himself watching the cars that came down the street in his direction. Watching for a taxi from Davos. Or any car that slowed and stopped outside his building. Maybe she'd met another American shopper. Maybe she got a lift.

  He saw a police, cruiser approaching. Slowing. He willed it not to stop. If they were coming to see him, if it's about Susan. . . .

  The slow-moving cruiser disappeared around the side of his building. Bannerman held his breath and counted to twenty. More than enough time if they were coming.

  The door buzzer. Its sound cut through him like an electric shock. His mouth went dry and a lead weight dropped into his stomach. The buzz sounded a second time and then a third before he could make himself move toward the door.

  CHAPTER 23

  She was alive. There was that at least. The police had tried to prepare him, to encourage him, during the ride to Davos. Still, the sight of her was devastating. He found her in the intensive-care unit, on a respirator. Her lungs had ceased to function on their own. A crusted tube ran from her nose, held in place by tape. There were others in each of her arms. The right side of her face was badly bruised. One eye was blackened and swollen shut, the other, partly open but seeing nothing. There were fresh sutures through her eyebrow. On the cheek below it, near her mouth, Paul could see the imprint of fingers.

  “Are you the husband?” A doctor appeared at his elbow. The two uniformed policemen waited beyond a glass partition.

  Paul moved his head vaguely. “How is she?”

  “It's not very good, I'm afraid.” His accent was faintly British, a Swiss who'd studied abroad. “Have the police told you?”

  “Cocaine overdose,” he nodded. His lips drew back over his teeth. “That girl has never taken a drug in her life.”

  “This drug was forced upon her.” The doctor laid his hand gently over the imprint of fingers much smaller than his own. “She was beaten first. Probably knocked unconscious. Then thrown into deep snow off a hiking path. A dog found her. Two boys with the dog climbed down to see where the dog could have gotten a plastic shopping bag with a wooden carving in it. But for that dog, and those boys. . . .”

  “How is she?” Paul repeated.

  “She's in a coma. A comatose patient's condition is always listed as grave, but there is more hope here than with many. We've pumped her stomach, her breathing is being assisted, we're monitoring her vital signs and I'm awaiting a laboratory report on her blood and gastric contents so we may know how much she ingested. The next twenty-four hours will tell.”

  “Tell what, exactly?” Paul closed his eyes.

  “Whether she wakes up at all. Whether there is brain damage.” The doctor, being Swiss, made no effort to hedge or evade. “There is some good news. Her convulsions have ceased and her pupils are responding to light, although not as much as I'd like at this point. But the cocaine also brought on a type of pneumonia. It's called aspiration pneumonia. It deprives the brain of oxygen, and that may be the greatest danger at this point. We must wait and see.”

  “Brain
damage,” Paul said numbly.

  The doctor stepped to a plastic IV pouch and adjusted the drip rate. “There were no suppositories, incidentally. Neither vaginal nor anal.”

  “Suppos . . . what?” He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

  “Ah, yes. You're not the man who called, are you?”

  “Doctor, what are you talking about?”

  “We received an anonymous call that the person who did this might have inserted a cocaine suppository as added insurance. But there was none.”

  Paul stared at him, his mind spinning. Who could have known to make that call? Someone who knew about cocaine, about killing with it. But why cocaine? And why Susan? Killings like that are meant to leave a message, like the dead bird stuffed in the mouth of an informer, and yet he would bet his life that Susan had no connection with drugs. Who was the message for?

  A barrage of thoughts, like random rocket bursts, fired off in his head. Cocaine. Susan's father was involved in cocaine. The woman in Zurich. He had forgotten her name. Did Anton say she was involved in it too? Is it possible that Susan is dying for their sins? If that turns out to be the case, they will both damned well die for their own. And yet, who called? Who tried to save her?

  “This call,” Paul asked, “did you take it yourself?”

  “The switchboard took it. Then there was a second call to the nurses' station to make sure the message was delivered.”

  “Where is the switchboard?”

  *It was the first door on your left as you entered.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor.” He squeezed Susan's hand and left the room.

  Down the corridor, Bannerman found a young, plain-faced woman seated at a metal desk with a call director and card file. He explained his relationship to the patient Susan Lesko in Intensive Care, then asked if she had taken the call that warned about a suppository.

  “I did. Yes.”

  “Who made that call?”

  ”A man. Just a man. He would not give his name.”

  “Was he Swiss?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “What sort of voice?”

  ”A mature man. A deep voice. A kindly voice.”

  “Kindly?”

  “He seemed very concerned. He called again to confirm that the message was acted upon.”

  Bannerman pulled two hundred francs from his pocket. He held up half of it.

  “All you must do to earn this,” he told her, “is to pay close attention whenever anyone calls to inquire about her condition. Ask if they would care to leave their names. Otherwise, make a note of what time they call and write down a description of their accents and voices.”

  “This is a matter for the police, no?” she asked, uncertainly.

  “It is a personal matter. But you may tell the police anything you feel they should know.” He held up the second hundred. “This is for the person who relieves you. You will give her the same instructions?”

  “I will do it. Yes.”

  “Thank you.” He handed the money to her. “Where can I make a private call?”

  She pointed him to a visitors' waiting-room halfway up the corridor. He shut the door behind him and dialed Anton Zivic. This time Paul tried the clinic first. Anton came to the phone at once.

  “Paul? Anton. How is Susan?”

  “She's…how did you hear about it?”

  ”A man named Urs Brugg called to tell Lesko. He is the uncle of Elena Brugg. Lesko was asleep. He told me what had happened. I am so terribly sorry, Paul.”

  “Urs Brugg. Describe his voice.”

  ”A deep baritone. A gentle manner. Cultivated. Why do you ask?”

  Paul told him about the anonymous call. It could well have been the same man. “Did you find out if Lesko had someone watching Susan?”

  “If you mean the man who tangled with Carla, Urs Brugg volunteered that as well. The man was his nephew. Herr Brugg was concerned that Carla might have been the one who attacked Susan until I in turn confirmed that she is one of us.”

  “One of us? He knows about us?”

  “He knows of Mama's Boy. He's heard rumors about the rest.”

  Bannerman gritted his teeth. This was turning into a Chinese fire drill. Two bodyguards cancelling each other out. Goddamned Carla. And goddamned Lesko for giving out their address. And now here's Anton comparing notes with…“Who the hell is this Urs Brugg anyway? And when did you start trusting a voice on the phone?”

  The line went quiet, then, “He made inquiries, Paul. So did I. Urs Brugg is a formidable man, head of a powerful family, but he is a fair man by all accounts. If you are looking for an enemy, I suggest you look closer to home.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Paul erupted. “You're talking about Reid?”

  “The man hates you, Paul,” Zivic kept his voice measured. “You are an obsession with him.”

  “So you think the attack on Susan was an elaborate act of spite? So he can go home tonight feeling smug? That's bullshit, Anton. This is about drugs, it's about her father and it's probably, about your new friend in Zurich.”

  “Paul . . . listen to me.”

  “And the only powerful families these days are ass-deep in the drug trade. Urs Brugg called this hospital because he…I don't know. Maybe because he found out who I was and got cold feet.”

  “Paul, this is nonsense.”

  “I'll tell you what's nonsense. Nonsense is. . . .”

  “Paul . . . shut up. ”

  Zivic's words came like a slap. Bannerman blinked rapidly. He also heard the echo of his own words. He hadn't realized he'd been shouting.

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah. Yes, Anton.”

  “I've just heard more profane language from you than in the entire time of our acquaintance. Also less self-command. I understand why this is. Do you?”

  “Yeah. I do.” Susan. One eye staring at nothing. He'd put her there.

  “Susan is still alive. You must assume that the killers are paid for results and will try again. Your first concern is to protect her.”

  Protect her, he thought bitterly.

  “I suggest…I order, that you post Carla and Gary wherever they can help you. I am sending Molly Farrell and Billy McHugh on the first available flight. The father is also entitled to be there.”

  “No, wait a second….” He rubbed his eyes. “Lesko will just….he probably doesn't even have a passport.”

  Zivic ignored the objection. The concern over a passport was frivolous. “They will be there by morning. See that Susan is guarded. You get some rest. If you stay the night with her you will be more than useless tomorrow. You will be a danger to the rest of us.”

  “Okay,” he said meekly. “Look, Anton, I know I was…”

  “Get some rest, Paul. Clear your head.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bannerman returned to the Intensive Care Unit. He stood at Susan's bed but would not look at her. At the foot of the bed was a bulging plastic bag with the hospital's logo on it. Someone had packed up Susan's personal belongings. He picked it up. The doctor entered. “You have notified her family?” he asked.

  Bannerman nodded. He glanced toward the two policemen. “Will they be here all night?”

  “Only until they question you, I think.”

  “Is it possible to hire a security guard?”