Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online

Authors: John R. Maxim

The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (34 page)

BOOK: The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

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He passed through a knot of waiting relatives, scanning their faces out of habit. No one looked at him.

He paused at a bank of public telephones. Too early to call. He didn't know what he'd say to her anyway. Or whether he'd even make the call. But the phones reminded him that he needed to change dollars into Swiss francs.

Near the currency exchange he saw signs, in English, pointing to a train that ran directly to downtown Zurich. He followed them. It would kill some time.

But only ten minutes' worth. He found himself in a cav-

ernous main terminal, track announcements blaring in German, in the middle of rush hour, clusters of vacationers pushing baggage carts with ski bags through the crowd. He found a coffee shop. He used its bathroom to wipe some of the shine from his face and to brush his teeth. He sat down with a pot of coffee. He wished he had something to read.

“
Can you think of anything else?
^”He heard Katz's voice in his head. He ignored it.

”
I mean, maybe you could take a bus tour. That'll take
care of the morning.
^”

“
Leave me alone,
^”he muttered.

“
Then there's lunch. Maybe after that a museum until whatever time the bars open around here and you can get sloshed enough to go ring her doorbell
^”

“
David . .
. ” He chewed his lip. Never mind. He wasn't even sure it was Katz. Not wide awake. It was probably himself. All 240 pounds of him. Needing a shave. Probably stinks. Wondering if she'll even open the door when she sees him. But Katz, or whoever, was right. Either get it over with or climb back on the train. With a sigh, he pushed to his feet.

“Elena?”

No. Another woman's voice. Speaking German. Probably a maid. He said his name. She said **Jah, something, something, bitte” and was gone. Too late to hang up. He waited.

“Lesko?”

His stomach flipped.

“Lesko, is it you?”

“Yeah. It's me. How are you, Elena?”

“It is—it is good to hear your voice. You are well?”

“I'm fine. And you?”
Schmuck. You just asked her that.

”I have been thinking about you.”

His stomach turned again. ”I would have called. Things got a little busy back home.”

“Back home?”

“Where I live.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Back in the states.”

“Lesko, where are you now?” She seemed alarmed. “You are not in Spain.”

“Spain?” Why would he be in Spain. Then he understood. “No. No, I'm not.”

“Where are you, Lesko? This minute.”

“I'm here. Zurich. I wondered . . . maybe we could
get
some lunch.”

She gasped. “Where, precisely?”

He told her.

”I will come for you,” she said. “Ten minutes.”

On the sidewalk outside his apartment building on Vermont Avenue, not far from the White House, Harry Hagler watched as a tow truck dragged the last of four badly damaged automobiles up the ramp from his basement garage. This one was charred. All its windows shattered. Several dents and scars made by flying metal. Hagler held a rolled-up newspaper in one hand. He slammed it against his open palm.

His own car was still down there. What was left of it. Being picked over by a crew from the FBI forensics laboratory. A bomb had done it, no question. Radio controlled. Fragments of the receiver had already been identified, although not its type or origin. It had gone off midmorning, probably accidentally, triggered by someone's inadvertent use of the radio frequency chosen by whoever had planted it. The timing of the blast had been fortunate. No injuries. No one had been in the garage. The assassin had intended, the FBI assumed, to wait for Hagler to drive out, follow him in another car, and detonate the charge at a predetermined time and place.

But, if so, the killing had been carelessly planned. Hagler rarely used that car because he seldom left the District except by air. It had collected two weeks' worth of light basement dust since it was last driven. A professional should have noticed that, thought the federal agent in charge.

Hagler turned away. He walked northward along Vermont Avenue to the intersection of L Street where a Lincoln Town Car waited at the curb, its engine running. Roger Clew's chauffeur climbed from the car as he approached and stepped to a nearby doorway, arms folded. Hagler entered the Lincoln.

“Well?” he asked Roger Clew.

“I've tried all over Westport. I don't think he's there.”

“Of course, he's not there, for Christ's sake. He's down here.”

“We don't know that.”

Hagler hooked a thumb back in the direction of his building. “That was a bomb, Roger. A car bomb. You don't see a hint in there someplace?”

“Terrorists plant bombs, too, Harry. And some of them don't like you.”

“You mean Jibril? He's got a whole school for how to blow people up. He wouldn't have missed.”

“Neither would Bannerman.” Unless he meant to. “Anyway, why would he single you out? As far as I know, he's probably never heard of you unless you left a trail up there.”

”I didn't.” Not to me.

Hagler began to unfurl the newspaper he was carrying. He stopped abruptly. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was in another car. Eyes widening, he jabbed a finger toward the floor.

“It's clean,” Clew assured him. “So is Kaplan's.”

“You talked to him? What does he say about this?”

Clew shook his head. “He wouldn't take my call. He's been ducking me for two weeks. He won't even meet me at Fuller's house.”

Hagler fell silent. Through Clew's window he saw the tow truck, dragging the car with the blown out windows, heading up toward Thomas Circle, leaving a sprinkling of glass each time it hit a bump.

That bomb, he thought.

For it to go off, accidentally, someone has to
happen
to be transmitting on that frequency—odds maybe 500 to 1 against—and they must
happen
to be passing the garage entrance at the time so a strong enough signal can get in and at a time when there
happens
to be no one else in the garage, not even the security guard who works there.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “It was a message. Bannerman has to be on to us.”

Not us, damn you. You.
“How, Harry?” he asked wearily.

“Maybe he's got us wired.”

“We're swept three times a week, Harry. All of us. There's no wire.”

“Then maybe the Jamaican. Maybe he sold us out.”

“Harry . . . does he know who we are?”

“No. He couldn't.”

“Does he know who Bannerman is?”

“No.”

“Then it's not the Jamaican.”

Hagler fell silent again for several moments. Then, “Do you read
The New York Times,
Roger?” He indicated the newspaper he was holding, now opened to the “Metropolitan” section.

Clew's eye dropped to the page. It followed Hagler's finger to a two-column article. Its headline: “Five Die In Drug War.” Clew snatched it from him.

The report chronicled a weekend of violence on Manhattan's Upper West Side. A bombing and a machine gunning on Saturday evening, thought to be an encounter between rival factions. One dead. Fire bombed in his car. Bumed beyond recognition. Then, on Sunday, four more street killings in three separate incidents. Two of the dead were members of a Jamaican drug gang known as the Jungle Posse. The other two, members of a rival Dominican gang. A photo was shown of the man who led the Jamaicans. The police were seeking him for questioning. Clew read the caption under the photo. He wilted visibly. The caption identified Hector “Dandy” Manley.

“Did you notice,” Hagler asked quietly, “that another car got bombed?”

Clew couldn't speak.

“The charred body. Unidentified. What'll you bet it's Manley?”

Still nothing.

“While I've got your attention”—Hagler closed one eye— “let me ask you another question. Could Bannerman have gotten his hands on one of our computers?”

“No. No way.”

“This doesn't look to you like the Ripper Effect put to work? First he cooks Manley, then he sits back as the Jamaicans and the Dominicans run around killing each other? Not to mention blasting my car by way of a thank-you note.”

“No,” Clew said firmly. “There's no way he could have it”

“Yes, there is, Roger. From Irwin.”

Clew stared. Then he shook his head. “You know him better than that.”

“Maybe. But if he did, I'll blow his fucking head off.”

Clew sat back, hugging himself. Asking himself. Is it possible? And if Bannerman did have the program, look what else he was doing with it. Setting them against each other just like the drug gangs. Making them paranoid.

“I’ll go see him,” he whispered. “Today. I’ll go to Westport.”

“And what? Ask him? You can't even find him.”

“Let me think, Harry.”

“You walk in there, with all this, you better damned well bring some backup/’

“That's the
worst
thing I could do,” he snapped.

Or maybe it isn't.
Wouldn't I do that,
Clew wondered,
if I
were worried about him? If I'd tried to reach him and
couldn't? If I'd heard about a plot to bomb Westport?

Maybe.

And maybe I just go. Find him. Feel him out. Look into his eyes. Then, if there's nothing there, play it by ear. Maybe give
him the Jibrils after all Or maybe give him Harry Hagler.
Damn you, Harry.

“I'll make one more call,” he said. Maybe two. Maybe he'd try Lesko first. See what he knows, if anything.

“Don't just call. Go.”

“Harry,” Clew hissed. “I'll handle it.”

Damn you.

The messages on Paul's machine, which he no longer locked away, were all from Roger Clew. He left no name but Susan knew his voice. It was the man from the State Department who had brought her from Switzerland. Except he was calmer then. A bit nervous but in control. Now he was breathing deeply. Swallowing often.

“
Listen
. . .
Paul, ”
went the first message.
“We have to
talk. Did you . . . ? Never mind. Just call me. ” Click.

The message had been recorded shortly after noon. A second message, apparently, followed a call to Paul's office. Clew seemed to have learned that he had gone someplace. He had also tried to reach Anton Zivic. For some reason, Zivic's absence from his Main Street shop was cause for concern.

“
Where is everybody?”
he asked.
“What the hell's going
on?’
⁹

Between the second and third calls he had obviously tried to reach her father. He was now even more upset. But there was something different about his voice. It had, she thought, a certain coldness to it.

“
Something is happening, ”
he said into the machine.
”I
can't tell you over the phone but it's big and it involves a
major threat to the security of your base. If I can 't reach you,
if I can't even reach Leskofor Christ's sake, if you're unable
to reach me, I may have to move some people in there for
your own good. ”

Paul's base?

That, she assumed, could only mean Westport. But what major threat? And—good question—where was everybody. And what's this about moving people into Westport? Who? The Green Berets?