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Authors: John R. Maxim

The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (38 page)

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“She's really something, isn't she?” Lesko mused, the smile widening.

It was pride.

_-_23-

Bannerman's connecting flight, Lisbon to Malaga, landed shortly after ten that evening. The night sky was clear, the moon full and so bright that Bannerman had been able to make out the silvery wakes of cargo ships sailing the Mediterranean. Even, in the distance, the lights of the African coast.

From the airport at Malaga, where Bannerman rented a large and powerful BMW, he and Billy proceeded to the old Cadiz road, traveling west in the direction of Marbella.

Bannerman knew the way. He'd taken this road several times during his years in Europe. When first he saw it, not long after his mother's death, it was only two lanes wide. It followed the coastline, never more than a quarter mile from the sea. Modern hotels had just begun to appear. High-rises were few. The countryside, in large measure, still clung to its Andalusian character although it was clear that it would be a losing battle.

Now the road, four lanes in places, being widened to six in others, passed an almost unbroken chain of beachfront hotels and apartments from Torremolinos to Fuengirola. Bannerman hated to see that. Miami Beach on steroids. Crowded April through September with overweight German tourists and hopeful American secretaries.

Marbella, some thirty kilometers farther to the west and, its offspring, the marina at Puerto Banus, looked into its own future and enacted laws limiting the erection of high-rises before more damage could be done. The result was that those places now expanded horizontally rather than vertically. The hills, once cooled by forests of pine and ash, were now covered with whitewashed condominiums. Half as many more were under construction. The architectural styles were only vaguely Spanish or Moorish. The place had little to do with Spain or with its culture. It had to do with money.

Drug money, certainly. Arms dealer money. Oil money. King Fahd of Saudi Arabia had built a walled palace there. Even a mosque. The streets, in season, were filled with Bent-leys and Rolls-Royces. Swarthy little men from Lebanon and Kuwait walked with tall fashion models who spoke French or with prostitutes who spoke with British accents. Smug, uncouth-looking Americans, dressed by Benetton and Gucci, Rolex watches on their wrists, brittle hard-eyed women on their arms, strutted along the breakwater or held court in one of its open-faced restaurants. Many came by yacht, some nearly the size of destroyers, some nearly as well armed.

But Marbella was not now in season. There would be no throngs of tourists, no noise, no confusion. In one sense, thought Bannerman, that was good. In another, it was not. He would have preferred a crowd. Traffic jams. Even more, he would have preferred a different place. A large city. Marbella was too much like Klosters in that it had only one road leading in or out, the coast road to Cadiz, plus a second that ran north into the mountains and was, therefore, of no value. There was no airstrip. Escape by sea was a possibility. A night run by fast boat down the coast, then across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco. That would, Bannerman guessed, be among the choices that John Waldo was exploring. But if all went well, there would be no need to escape or hide. He and Billy would leave as they came, leaving a trail no one could miss.

To that end, he had reserved a suite at the Puente Romano, one of the more visible of Marbella's hotels. Its grounds, stretching from the main road to the water's edge, were laid out as a miniature village, lushly landscaped with tropical plantings, waterfalls, and running pools. Its centerpiece was an old Roman bridge from which it took its name. Billy was less than comfortable with Bannerman's choice. Left to himself, he would have broken into a vacant house or even slept in his car for the sake of anonymity. But anonymity, Bannerman reminded him, was not the point this time. And if they were going to draw attention at all, it was better to know that now.

He had signaled a left tum, the Puente Romano just ahead. In the lights of the lobby entrance he could see the hotel's airport shuttle bus, recently arrived, unloading passengers and baggage. Beyond it were two cars, their trunks open. A small knot of people, four men and a woman, stood exchanging greetings. Bannerman hesitated. Billy tapped his arm.

“How about we drive a little more,” he said.

Bannerman nodded. He flipped off the signal.

“Up ahead''—Billy had his finger on a map—“take the next right.”

“The house?” The address Urs Brugg had given.

“Yeah. Let's just see.”

He continued on, no more than a hundred yards, then turned. The car began climbing a shallow grade lined on either side with small white villas, modest by the standards of Marbella. Most were vacation or retirement homes, owned largely by British pensioners, built when land was cheap. All but a few were shuttered for the winter season although the temperature, even now, was well into the seventies and flowers bloomed everywhere. Every villa seemed to have a swimming pool. Some were covered with tarpaulins, others reflected the stars.

“Up to your left,” Billy said. ”I think that's them.”

Bannerman saw. A two-story house. A terrace of wrought iron running the width of the upper floor. Two figures on it, clearly visible by moonlight. One of them, a
man, light hair,
was seated. The other, a woman, stood close to the railing. A pair of binoculars hung from her neck. Bannerman maintained his speed. The hill climbed more sharply here, then curved to the left. He saw their car. It was a van, a camper, parked facing out, garage door open. More wrought iron covered every window.

“Is there another way down?” he asked.

Billy shook his head. “It dead ends against the mountain.” He pointed. “See that house that's lit up? Stop there, I'll climb in the back.”

Bannerman understood. Make it look as if he's giving someone a ride home. No good stopping at a darkened house. Anyone watching from the house down below would wonder why no lights went on.

He stopped. Billy struggled into the backseat. Once there, he opened the rear door and slammed it shut. One person, one door slam. He squeezed down into the well.

“What's it look like from here?” Billy asked.

“The approach from the north isn't bad. Reasonable cover. Not good at all from the south. That house has a clear view of the entire road and a quarter mile of the coast road in each direction. Also the main entrance of the Puente Romano.”

Bannerman passed the house a second time, now to his right. From the corner of his eye he could see that the man had moved. He was standing now, arms raised, elbows out. Bannerman knew that he had taken the binoculars from the woman. Bannerman kept his eyes on the road. He passed two more houses, both shuttered, swimming pools in back, one of them surrounded by a six-foot hedge, which gave it a measure of privacy, but the pool itself sat in full view of that terrace.

Bannerman reached the stop sign at the coast road. Billy stayed low. “Don't go to the hotel yet,” he said.

“I'm not.” He swung the BMW to the right, heading in the direction of Puerto Banus. “Billy? What do you think?”

“Something's funny here.”

“Can you say what? Other than that bunch at the Puente Romano?” He knew why Billy had stopped him from tuming in. And why he himself had hesitated. Too many for February. Especially arriving all at once, late at night, on a Monday.

”I knew one of those guys. Way back, he did a couple of jobs for your mother. Guy he was shaking hands with, I think I know him, too.”

Bannerman chewed his lip. “And suddenly they're here in Marbella. Off-season.”

“Yeah.”

“You don't suppose they could be here for us?”

“Wide open like that? Besides, they'd never take a contract on Mama's Boy.”

“Then why else are they here?”

”I don't know. We could ask.”

“First let's see who else is in town.”

A part of Lesko wished that Urs Brugg's proposition had never been made. All he wanted to do was be with Elena, get to know her, see if they really had a chance. Zurich was Zurich's problem.

Elena, the way she talked, was ready to walk away from it. Go to New York with him. But he knew that wouldn't last. Home is home. Blood is blood.

Then there was the question of money. Elena said she'd leave hers behind, live on his income. When she said it, she meant it. She'd give it a decent shot. But that wouldn't last either. Picture Elena standing in a supermarket line in Queens, or waiting at a Laundromat or sharing a pizza in front of the television set.

Her uncle, Lesko realized, couldn't picture it either. But he swore, and Lesko wanted to believe him, that he would have made this offer no matter what. He was also talking serious bucks: $1,000 a day plus expenses, a car and driver, and a minimum six-month commitment. After that, Lesko could sign a longer term contract or he could pick up his marbles.

The amount staggered Lesko. In six months he'd make more than he'd get from the Beckwith Hotels in six years. And Urs Brugg, once again, took pains to assure him that this was no gift. A thousand a day, he said, was actually close to the average for a consultancy. Less than the retainer he paid his lawyer. But a good deal more satisfying.

It would mean spending much of his time in Zurich. And elsewhere in Europe. He was quickly becoming more comfortable here. In two trips, so far, he'd hardly run into anyone who didn't speak English, drink Cokes, or eat at MacDonald's. It would mean being with Elena in her own world, buying a little more time against the day when she looked around her and looked at him and wondered what the hell she was doing.

Why not, he thought? In for a penny, in for a pound. But first—

“Let's talk about Spain,” Lesko said.

Urs Brugg raised one eyebrow. “Elena told you?”

“More or less. Those shooters. Where are they, exactly?”

“That situation is in good hands, Mr. Lesko.”

”I want it in my hands. Bannerman wouldn't tell me because he said I had no stake. When he said it, maybe he was right. He isn't now.”

“Trust me on this. You can only interfere.”

“You want me to do that other thing because it's important to you. This is important to me.”

“The Zurich situation falls within your area of expertise,” Urs Brugg said quietly, firmly. “The Spanish situation falls within Mr. Bannerman's. What would you do there? Give those murderers a good thrashing? I suspect that Mr. Bannerman has something more in mind.”

“As it happens, so do I.”

“What you have in mind is avenging Elena's pain. It is personal with you. It is not personal with me, or with Mr. Bannerman, or, in fact, with Elena.”

Lesko blinked. “Bannerman's going to kill them but we shouldn't think there are any hard feelings?”

Urs Brugg had to smile. American humor. Good. He will make Elena laugh.

“It is a question, not of vengeance,” he explained, “but of credibility. Normally, neither Bannerman nor myself would feel the need to track down a mere hireling. But once it became known that we had their names and knew where they could be found, we were left with no choice. Inaction would be perceived as weakness. A demonstration became necessary.”

Lesko had heard Bannerman say that. Don't bother with shooters. Dime a dozen. Go for whoever hands out the dimes. But Lesko did not share that view. You don't let killers walk. Even when it's not personal. Which this is. Wait a second—

“Two questions.” He leaned forward. “This job you want me to do in Zurich. If I'm working for you, and if inaction is weakness, what about my own credibility?”

“My credibility is yours. It will not be a problem. But the simple truth is that I do not want you risking your life, at this point, for so little purpose.” He gestured toward the kitchen. ”I would never hear the end of it.”

“Second question,” Lesko said. “Those three names and their address. Bannerman didn't have them. You gave them to him. Why didn't you just take care of this yourself?”

Something happened in the older man's eyes. A hesitation. His lips had begun to move, as if searching for a plausible reply, when the telephone chirped. He made no move to answer it but he seemed relieved by the distraction of the sound. The chirping ended abruptly. It was picked up elsewhere.

Lesko saw the reaction. It surprised him. He hadn't thought it was that big deal of a question. He decided to press a little.

“It's not just because Bannerman's a pro,” Lesko said. “You can hire all the shooters you need. That's not counting all your various nephews who carry Uzis under their raincoats. Why drag Bannerman all the way over to Spain?”