The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (29 page)

“Would you promise me something?” she asked him.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Stick around here. Don't take any trips. Not for a while.”

”I wasn't planning any.” A short pause. “Like where?” he asked.

“Like to Europe. No unfinished business. What happened over there, I'd like you to just let it lie for now.”

Bannerman frowned. His mind drifted to his answering machine. He had locked it back in the cabinet. Had he forgotten to turn the volume down?

“Susan,” he asked, “have I had a call?”

She nodded. “From your office. A half hour before you called. I thought it might have been you.”

“What was the message?”

“That someone was trying to reach you. He had the same last name as Elena.”

”Urs Brugg.”

”I guess. It's not about Elena. Part of the message said she was doing well. But he wants you to call. He said it's urgent.”

Those eyes, she thought. Those beautiful eyes. They were flat now. Lifeless. As if a switch had been thrown. But only for a moment. Here was that gentleness again.

“Will you promise?” she asked.

“It's probably nothing.”

“Come on, Bannerman.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “How about if I promise that I won't do anything foolish, or dangerous, or anything that would keep me away from you one minute longer than it must. And that includes not even going to New York again if I can help it.”

“How about,” she closed one eye, “if you don't do anything at all, except be with me, for a solid week. I'll go rip out the phone. Also the one you think I don't know about.”

He grimaced as if stung. But privately, he was pleased. “I'd like that.” He said, bringing her fingers to his lips. ”I want that. But you know I can't. Don't you.”

“Obligations?”

He nodded.

She said nothing.

”I appreciate that,” he said.

“What?”

“You not asking, what about my obligations to you?”

“Oh yeah. Right. What about them, Bannerman?”

Bannerman groaned inwardly. Another checkmark.

“It's okay.” She patted his rump. “Go make your call.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“He said it was urgent.”

“He's not here with you. I am. And there's nothing in the world I'd rather be doing. No place I'd rather be.”

He kissed her. Lightly. Tenderly. His lips tasting her.

“Which reminds me,” she said, trembling, ”I made spaghetti.”

He kissed her again.

“But no garlic bread. You mind?”

“It doesn't matter,” he murmured. “All I'll taste is you.”

Oh, brother.

All I'll taste is you.

Silver-tongued devil.

But she liked it. Good move, Bannerman.

And then he'll go to his office. Maybe he'll call Urs Brugg from there. Probably not. Because the way to bet is that as soon as she's asleep he will quietly slip out of bed and close the door behind him.

She won't ask if he did that, she decided.

She won't make him lie to her.

_-
19-

In the communications center of the Soviet Embassy in Bern, Colonel Leonid Belkin stood at the shoulder of a younger man, burly, twice his size, watching as a series of cryptic English phrases scrolled up the computer screen.

“Stop there, Yuri,” he said.

The screen read:

ENMITY: BANNERMAN/POSSE 100.0

ENMITY: BANNERMAN/JIBRIL 100.0

ENMITY: BANNERMAN/TRE GROUP 0.6

“What might that mean?” he asked.

“It is...an assessment of some kind.”

“Have those names appeared before this?” he asked.

The younger man shook his head. “On these disks? Only Bannerman. But perhaps on the others.”

“What of those letters?
TRE”

“Ah, yes. They refer to ‘the Ripper Effect.’ That is the designator for this program.”

“Who is Ripper?”

”A code name, I think.”

“Of Roger Clew?”

“They are terrorists, Yuri, dogma notwithstanding. Try the other name. ‘Posse.’ ”

“Nothing.” Rykov grunted. “No file.”

Although not always with the same result,
Belkin sighed. “Can you not ask this Ripper program?”

Belkin motioned him back to the other machine. “If this is an assessment,” he gestured toward the screen, “it probably refers to the consequences of a specific activity. Might that activity involve this business in Spain?”

”I find no reference to Spain. No match of any kind. Ask my opinion, I will say that the two are unrelated.”

“Might it interfere, then?”

”I may guess?”

Belkin nodded.

”A prediction of enmity, if one hundred percent certain, would seem to require a first priority. Those three in Spain are insects. They can be squashed at any time.”

“And yet Bannerman has promised my friend Urs that he will see to them at once.”

“If he is not distracted by new enemies.”

Leo Ðelkin folded his arms, bringing one hand to his mouth. ”I need him there, Yuri,” he said quietly. ”I need him in Europe, I need him vulnerable, and I need no distraction that would cause him to send others in his place.”

The younger man said nothing.

“Hagler. Clew. They are up to something. Whatever it is, we must assume that it is not in our interest.”

Rykov motioned to his attache case. A chain and handcuff dangled from it. “We have only begun to review these disks. There are twelve others. Also more than nine hours of voice tapes.”

“Teach me, Yuri. Then go back to Washington. Go today.”

“To sit with earphones? We have reliable people who can—”

”I want you to create a distraction of your own.” Belkin placed his finger on one of the dossiers. “This man.”

“If . . . that is your wish.”

“Yuri. . . .” Belkin squeezed his shoulder.

“This word
distraction.
It is not a euphemism.”

The large man let out a breath. “It is good you told me.”

“
Hey. Lesko. Rise and shine. ”

Lesko's body twitched. He snorted. But still he slept.

“
Let's go, will ya? We got roll call. ”

He heard a slamming of cabinets from his kitchen. Katz. Any second now he'd start bitching about—
“What a fuck
ing pig sty. Don't you ever wash out cups?”
Lesko opened one eye. Then closed it.

“
Come on. I got prune Danish. We'll pick up some coffee
on the way.
^”

Now he saw what was making the noise. A man in an orderly's uniform came into view. He was dragging two laundry bins. Their plastic wheels clattered over the macadam. He stopped at the rear of the truck, opened the door, and lifted one of the bins inside. It was empty. The other contained the sheets and blankets they'd borrowed from Covington's. They had been washed of blood stains and folded. Another man appeared. Lesko recognized the slender build and blond hair of Glenn Cook. Guy who ran the local ski shop. Bannerman's long-distance shooter. He was carrying a case that was about four feet long, a foot wide. The first man lifted the folded blankets. Cook placed the case inside the bin, then covered it. That, Lesko assumed, was the present that Bannerman had promised Wesley Covington. He could guess what it was.

“
Hey, David?
^”
he called softly.

No answer. Just a feeling.

“
Are you back?
^”

Still nothing.

”I could use you, you putz,” he said aloud. Then he felt stupid. He picked up his topcoat and hurried from the room.

Making his way to the basement, Lesko stopped first at the door to the operating room. The Jamaican was gone. He tried several other doors including that of a second surgery where the body of the other Jamaican, Ruby, had been kept. He was gone as well. Nothing left to show that he'd been there but Lesko could see him in his mind. His jaw shattered. Neck broken, no question. No blue lips or any of the other physical signs of asphyxiation. The Russian had told the truth. Bannerman had not suffocated him. Which still didn't say he wouldn't have, Lesko told himself, if the cash register hadn't killed him first.

Okay. So it wasn't just the cash register. It was still an accident. Mostly.

Lesko returned to the stairwell and climbed toward the main entrance hall where the clinic had its administrative offices. He stopped at a pair of mahogany doors that had once opened onto a parlor. He heard voices inside. Bannerman and the Russian. He thought he heard the name Urs Brugg. He leaned closer. There was only silence.

“You may join us, Mr. Lesko.” Zivic's voice. Lesko grunted and turned the knob.