Lesko knew he was right.
This wasn't his element. That's what angered him as much as anything. Even Katz knew it. He said so this morning. Somehow he knew about New York cops. “What do you think this is, Lesko? Fort Apache? You think a bunch of Feds are going to come in here blasting? Hoping the locals won't notice the bodies all over their lawns? That's your trouble, Lesko. For ten years I try to teach you finesse but all you know is blasting.”
Lesko bit his lip. His expression softened. “I have to be in on this,” he said earnestly. “Are you going to make me say please?”
Bannerman studied him for a long moment. Then he reached for his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“I'm going to find out what Reid is up to.”
“How do you do that?”
“I'm going to ask him.” He motioned Lesko to the extension at one end of his office sofa.
“Paul ... is that you? . . . Where are you calling from?”
Bannerman could almost see, in the pauses, Reid urgently gesturing for someone on his end to listen in. Probably Whitlow. Reid had already tried to call him twice.
“I'm in Westport, Palmer.” Paul kept his voice downcast and preoccupied. “I'm sorry I didn't get back to you. I've been spending most of my time at Susan's bedside.”
“How is she, Paul?”
“Somewhat better, but she's sleeping a great deal. She has no memory of what happened to her. I'm concerned about brain damage.” He saw Lesko's eyebrows go up and he touched a finger to his lips. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way. That was very thoughtful.”
“The least I could do.” A long pause. Bannerman thought he heard whispering. “Paul, I called your Klosters apartment two days ago. Did I talk to you or someone pretending to be you?”
“It was probably Lesko, his daughter gave him a key so he could collect her things. Do you know where he is, by the way?”
“He's not with you?”
“Hardly. He blames me for what happened to the girl. He's threatened to kill me for it. At the moment, he's probably in Switzerland with Elena. You were right about him, Palmer. He's a bad one.”
Another silence. Paul knew that Reid would be trying to remember what he said to Lesko. And now his mind would be sorting out all manner of promising new equations.
“Paul,” he asked finally, “did you find the people who assaulted Susan?”
“They sank right out of sight.”
“Probably shot your man Russo as well, don't you think?”
“It wouldn't surprise me. But they're only hired hands. I want who sent them. Tell me who that is.”
“Paul, I've just about pieced it together. But I'm reluctant to tell you until I have evidence that will stand up in a court of law. Moral certainty is not enough.”
“Tell me, Palmer.”
“You don't go off half-cocked? It's vital that we work together, because I'm afraid we have a conspiracy that reaches to a very high level.”
“We need each other. I won't make a move without you.”
“I'm pleased, Paul. Very pleased. We never should have been adversaries, you and I. We should have been. . . .”
“Palmer… who?”
“It shames me to admit that I've been fooled. Betrayed. By two of my own people. One is Robert Loftus. The other is Douglas Poole. Both have vanished? Loftus's family has vanished as well. It wouldn't surprise me if they've all been murdered, possibly by Lesko, more likely by the man behind all this.”
“I want his name.”
“I hope you're sitting down, Paul.” Reid dropped his voice. “Because the ringleader is none other than our Secretary of State. Your friend, Roger Clew, is involved as well, though I'm trying to believe that he's an unwitting dupe.”
“Barton Fuller?” Paul hushed. “And Roger?”
“I'm sorry, Paul.”
“Palmer, I just can't believe it.”
“You will when you see the evidence. Not enough for a jury, perhaps, but. . . .”
“The bastards.”
“We'll have to move quickly, Paul. And well coordinated. Your people and mine.”
“Palmer, I'm going to call an immediate council meeting here. Then in, say, two hours, let's have a conference call. Will you be there?”
“Depend on it.”
“The bastards.”
Lesko put down his extension. He stared disbelievingly at Paul Bannerman. “What the hell was all that?” he asked.
“I think he wants me to kill the Secretary of State.”
“I heard. You believe any of that shit?”
“No.”
“Why'd you tell him you and me are on the outs?”
“Because now Palmer will look for you, show you evidence that I ordered the attacks on Susan and Elena to frame him, and recruit you to kill me. You wanted a way to get at Reid, there's your opening. All you have to do is go home and wait for your doorbell to ring.”
Lesko pondered this. “Let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“You two do this all the time? In that whole conversation, neither one of you said a word that was true.”
“Except that I know when I'm lying and when I'm not. I'm not sure Reid knows the difference.”
“You don't get tired of that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You made up your mind?”
“Yes. If Anton agrees.”
“I'm in, right?”
“If you do it my way. And you do as you're told.”
“You get first shot. You miss, it's my turn.”
“Fair enough. Be here in two hours.”
“What happens then?”
“Happy hour.”
General Oscar Ortirez glowered darkly from a leather wing chair in the study of Palmer Reid's Maryland home. The unaccustomed collar beneath his pinstriped suit was too tight and Reid's overheated house was making him perspire heavily.
“I would like something to drink,” he said to Charles Whitlow, who sat in a chair at the other end of Reid's memento-covered desk and who never seemed to perspire at all.
“The bar is there, sir,” Whitlow pointed. “I'm afraid we'll have to do our own fetching today.” The household staff had been furloughed for the duration.
“It is too much to ask of an assistant?” Ortirez said the word drippingly. “It would at least be a task you can manage,”
Whitlow rolled his eyes. The man hadn't stopped carping about the failed attempt on Elena since he arrived. What's more, he hadn't showered. And the man stank of garlic.
It was hardly Whitlow's fault, as he'd explained to Palmer Reid. Who would have expected a person like Russo to have shielded her with his body? And Ortirez is a fine one to talk. The Carmodys are the very best, he says. They never miss because they never quit, he says. Well, why is the girl still alive, then? And where are they, then?
“Enough bickering.” Palmer Reid rapped smartly on his desk. He glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes. He was supremely pleased with himself. Justifiably so. What a masterstroke. Before this weekend is out, Barton Fuller may well be a dead man and Paul Bannerman will be either dead or hunted by every government in the western world. Hunted by Lesko as well if it comes to that. And Bannerman's people will be in the field. Scattered. Vulnerable. Bannerman will want proof, of course, and he'll get it. Whitlow has already accessed over twelve hours of Barton Fuller's speeches. Give one good editor half a day and he'll produce tapes proving that Fuller is anything from a KGB mole to a child molester.
“Mr. Brugg? This is Paul Bannerman speaking.”
“How are you, Paul?”
“I'm well, sir. How is Elena?”
“Recovering nicely. A visit by your Mr. Lesko has greatly lifted her spirits. He must be a man of great charm.”
”Um . . . yes, sir.” Paul looked at the ceiling. “Mr. Brugg, I'm about to place a call to the man who caused your niece to be shot. Please stay on the line but say nothing at all. Just listen.”
> “Am I to hear a confession?”
“It will be more in the nature of a repentance, sir.”
“I will listen.”
Reid's only regret was that Fuller would never actually know who gave him his comeuppance. Strange, the way things work out. Whitlow's plan seems to have worked out in spite of all the bungling. The idea of the attack on the girl was not only to break the linkage if it existed or to keep it from connecting if it didn't. It was also designed to distract Bannerman, shatter his concentration, make him vulnerable, perhaps even give him cause to sue for peace. And, yes, to punish him.
The death of Elena was to shatter that linkage once and for all. If that attempt succeeded it would have been a simple matter to point the finger of guilt at Bannerman. He saw the cocaine in Susan Lesko's mouth, presumed Elena to be its source, and in a rage ordered her execution. Then the Bruggs would be hunting him as well. No corner of Europe could hide him.
But this, in its way, was even better.
Reid glared at Ortirez, who was now at the bar, petulantly pouring his own drink while offering none to himself or Whitlow. Disgusting person. He'll never know how close he came to being sacrificed to Bannerman had not Bannerman called practically begging for help. He'll be sacrificed in any case. It's merely a question of to whom and for what.
Paul's outer office, which he'd closed for the day, was filled. Lesko entered to see what he presumed to be Bannerman's entire group except for the shooter in Maryland. He recognized fewer than half. Nearly all were wearing headphones. Molly Farrell was seated at a call director. In one hand she held an instrument that had switches and meters on it with bright LED readouts. It looked homemade.
Billy McHugh was at another cleared-off desk, setting out champagne bottles and a row of plastic glasses. Paul was at the desk nearest Molly Farrell and sitting next to him was Robert Loftus, his jaw wired, the rest of his face a wreck. Loftus waved when he saw him. Bannerman looked up from his phone and motioned Lesko over.
“I told you,” Bannerman said, “that I might let you push the button but the vote was to give Loftus the honor. You've been bumped.”
Lesko looked at him blankly. “What the hell is all this?”
“I told you. Happy hour.”
“Happy hour,” he repeated.
“Go find a chair.”
Ask a silly question.
Reid stared at his watch. The minute hand moved slowly toward six and then past it. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Thirty. Stay composed, he told himself. You're in control. Act the part.
It rang.
Reid forced a smile. He motioned Charles Whitlow to the other extension. Whitlow scurried to the chair nearest it, a notepad on his lap, knees close together.
Four rings.
On a signal from Reid, they picked up their receivers together.
At the call director in Paul's office, Molly peered at a meter on the instrument she held as Reid answered. The drop in amperage was twice what it should have been. She held up two fingers for Bannerman to see.
“Palmer? It's Paul. Is your phone secure?”
“It is. I had it swept an hour ago.”
Molly looked toward her audience, her expression smug. Most of them broke into mimed applause. Lesko scratched his head.
“Are we alone, Palmer?”
Reid considered telling the truth. After all, it was Bannerman who had proposed a conference call. But the lie came out by reflex. “We're alone at this end.”
“At this end,” Paul told him, “we have Molly Farrell monitoring for any cut-ins by listening devices. We also have Anton Zivic, who shares our outrage at all that has happened. You don't object, do you?”
Reid was less than comfortable but he could not object. He did not like working with women, even if they were only technicians, and was appalled to discover that the communist Zivic appeared to have risen to a position of high trust. “Not at all,” he said.
As Reid spoke he saw Whitlow waving vigorously and pointing toward Ortirez. Ortirez had found a third extension and was quietly lifting the receiver. Reid gestured angrily. Ortirez ignored him.
Molly's hand waved. Her meter showed a sudden drop of 15 mill amperes. The two fingers she'd been holding aloft changed to three.
Paul looked at her questioningly. He'd presumed the second person to be Charles Whitlow, but who was the third? Molly shrugged. He hesitated for a beat, then shrugged in return.
“Palmer, our whole group is assembled here.” He looked to his left where every available chair and desk top held one or more of his agents. All were seated except Billy, who'd begun pouring champagne. Janet Herzog had brought her knitting. Carla Benedict used the time to balance her checkbook, but her eyes were shining. All the rest were eagerly attentive except John Waldo, who'd had a sour expression since he arrived and was idly leafing through a Bermuda brochure. “Everyone wanted to be part of this,” Bannerman told Reid.
“I understand ... of course. . . .” Reid's voice trailed off. Paul could almost read his thoughts. Reid was envisioning them, all together, trapped in one place, lightly armed at best. However, he would be thinking, his day would come. Bannerman would soon divide his forces, send them out, and they would be caught in the act of murdering the Secretary of State. After that, there would be a slaughter. Even if some stayed behind, no one would hide them, protect them. Public outrage would be such that…
“Palmer,” Paul interrupted his reverie, “As long as we're being truthful with each other….”
“At long last, Paul.”
”. . . I should tell you that Anton was pretty sure you were behind all this a few days ago. That was before we knew it's been Barton Fuller working with the cocaine traffickers all along. So he sent Molly Farrell down to your house.”
A long silence. “To what purpose, Paul?”
“You'll see in a minute. I'm afraid I wasn't entirely truthful about Lesko, either. He's here listening in.”
“Paul…”
“Bear with me, please.” Bannerman could hear an exchange of frantic whispers. “Palmer, I have one more person here who especially wants to say something to you. I believe it's in the nature of a resignation.”
He waved Molly forward. Watching her meter, she kept three fingers aloft to show that all three were still listening. She placed the instrument before Loftus, guiding his hand to a plastic switch. Now Paul raised his arm. The arms of all the others, except a confused Raymond Lesko and a sulking John Waldo, rose up in unison. Loftus took the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Reid,” he slurred through wired teeth.
A gasp through the line. “Robert?”
“I won't tie up the phone. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Robert! What are you. . . ?”
“Good-bye, Mr. Reid.”
Paul's arm came down. The others fell in unison. Loftus hit the switch.
A sharp snapping sound. Then, instantly, a duller thukk, like an archer's arrow hitting a target pad. A chorus of bird-like squawks, each at a different pitch. A telephone clattered against a desk top. A glass smashed against a hard surface. Now there were the sounds of furniture toppling over and of bodies thumping against a thickly carpeted floor.
The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) Page 49