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Authors: John R. Maxim

The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (51 page)

BOOK: The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

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“And from you?”

“I'll teach you nicer things. I’m a nice man, remember?”

There were more questions she wanted to ask. Like,
Those three you went to Marbella for
—
does this mean you have to
go back? Try again? Or did I miss something.

And why did you, while speaking of Carla, cock your head in the direction of Marbella, not Westport?

Probably just tired. Disoriented.

But she didn't think so.

And what about us? The old one-day-at-a-time seems to
have gone by the boards. Do we give some thought to
—
you
know
—
or do we keep it unofficial? Or am I supposed to make
my bones first.

Whatever.

Or how about an easy one. Like,
My new Russian diplo
matic passport, even now being forged, which I'll need to slip
back into the country tomorrow. My new name. Katya
Khakov. Which has to be Colonel Belkin 's idea of a joke. And
do I get to keep it for a souvenir.

The phone rang.

“Good,” she said. “Now take your pills.”

_—_32—

Wednesday. Kennedy Airport.

The TWA flight from Lisbon touched down shortly after noon, waking Bannerman, jarring his arm. As it taxied toward the terminal he could see the black stretch limousine, windows smoked, waiting near the gate as Leo Belkin had promised. An immigrations officer stood near it, clipboard in hand, waiting to record and clear their diplomatic passports.

He and Susan stayed in their seats until the last passenger had cleared the aisle of the first-class section and a wheelchair could be brought aboard. The wheelchair, and a feigned sedation, made it all the more unlikely that he would be questioned.

The officer's face showed nothing. No sign of recognition or interest. Perhaps the Soviet credentials were unnecessary. But better safe than sorry. They were cleared in less than a minute. The limousine, its driver a burly young Russian, huge hands, followed the signs to the terminal exit. Once there, Bannerman asked that he return to the entry ramp for departing passengers. At the far end of the ramp, Bannerman directed him to the curb. They waited. Seconds later, Anton Zivic approached the door and, waving the driver forward, quickly stepped inside.

“Can you take us to Westport in Connecticut?” he asked in Russian.

The driver nodded. ”I am to give every assistance.”

“Are we being recorded?”

“No,” the driver answered. But he shrugged and lifted one hand, palm up. Who knows? “There is vodka,” he said. “Also there is tea in a thermos.”

Zivic thanked him, then found the switch that raised the glass partition between them. He snapped open a briefcase, taking a plastic device from it. He turned a dial. A pulsating light showed that it was working, flooding the limousine's interior with inaudible harmonics. “Speak freely,” he said to Susan, “but softly.”

He reached for her hand, kissed it, and held it for a moment looking into her eyes. Perhaps appraisingly, she thought. But apparently satisfied. His gaze shifted to the cast on Bannerman's arm. He frowned. Bannerman waved dismissively.

“Colonel Belkin sends his regards,” he said.

Zivic nodded an acknowledgment. “How is Billy?”

“Not so bad. John Waldo showed up at the embassy this morning. He'll stay with him. I saw Carla on the street outside and Janet at the Lisbon airport. They'll stick around a while as insurance.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. She'd seen no one.

“Roger is in Westport,” Zivic told him, “with perhaps two dozen men. Most of them are positioned as surveillance teams. The rest, with Roger, have occupied the clinic. They have found none of our people but they have Hector Manley. They are holding him, possibly for use as a witness against you.”

”A witness? To what?”

“Kidnapping. My information is that he carries federal warrants on that charge, another concerning the theft of government property, and a third concerning a conspiracy to commit murder.”

“That's not a federal crime.”

Zivic waggled a hand. “It is alleged that you deprived Palmer Reid of his civil rights. It is all the same.”

Bannerman sighed audibly. “What would have been wrong with a simple phone call asking if we could talk this over?”

Zivic's eyes flicked toward Susan.

“It's okay,” Bannerman said.

“He tried. But he is now certain that you suspect him of that car bomb business. When he saw that you were gone, that nearly all of us were gone, he concluded that we were about to move against him. In his place, would you sit and do nothing?”

“He might still be innocent,” Bannerman told him. “It could have been done by an associate of his named Harry Hagler. I have some computer disks to show you when we get a minute. In any case, that wiretap of Manley and Buster Bang came to us through a third associate, a DEA official named Irwin Kaplan who also happens to be an old friend of Lesko's. He had no role in it but when he heard the tape he suspected his friends of working a sting. There was also the chance that the plot could be genuine. Third, because he'd had a falling out with Clew and Hagler, and since the recording was done by DEA agents, it crossed his mind that they might be setting him up as well. The course he chose was to leak the tape to a narcotics cop who he knew, via Roger, to have been in Westport and who was very likely to go to Lesko with it.”

“Roger is not innocent,” Zivic answered. ”I saw his evidence. And I saw his eyes.”

Bannerman looked away, his expression uncertain.

“You have doubts,” Zivic said. “What are they?”

Bannerman reached into his carry on bag and found an antimagnetic film pouch that contained the computer disks. He handed them to Zivic. “Hold on to these, by the way,” he said.

Zivic opened the pouch and saw what it contained.

“Leo Belkin got those,” Bannerman said slowly, “by tapping Roger's line. He told me that and I believe him. But how is it possible?”

“Technically, you mean?”

Bannerman shrugged. “Whatever the technology,” he asked, “how does a tap on the home telephone of a senior State Department official go undetected for a period of weeks, even months?”

“Did you ask Belkin?”

”I thought about it later. He wouldn't have told me anyway.”

“Would Molly know?” Susan asked.

“She might.” Bannerman reached for the tea. Susan helped him with it.

“What are we going to do now?” she asked.

“There are a few places in Westport they won't know about. We'll drop you off at one of them. You'll be safe.”

“No chance, Bannerman. Not this time.”

“Susan—”

“With that arm, I assume you're not going to walk in shooting.”

“No, I'm not. I'm going to try to defuse it. But Roger is a frightened man right now and he has a lot of guns with him. It's a dangerous situation.”

“If they see me with you, would they be as quick to shoot?”

He hesitated. “It's not worth the—”

“I'm staying with you.”

One hour later, the sun still high behind it, the limousine veered onto the exit ramp at Westport, pausing at a stoplight. Bannerman leaned forward in his seat.

“To your right,” said the driver. “Two men.”

“Thank you.” Bannerman had seen them. They were in a car, illegally parked. One held a camera and was peering through the lens. He could see nothing of the occupants but the diplomatic plates, Bannerman assumed, had caught their attention. He was not alarmed. Many diplomats lived in Fairfield County. Such plates were a common sight.

Bannerman watched as the light turned green. Neither man raised a microphone to his lips.

On directions from Zivic, the driver made his next left turn and continued on until they reached Westport's Main Street. Another car, two more men, were stationed not far from Zivic's antique shop. They went on. In a residential area just north of town, Susan saw two more such cars. She knew this street. Mrs. DiBiasi's house. The gray colonial. She'd once seen Billy McHugh raking her leaves. Billy rated two cars.

The limousine worked back to the south, coming out onto the busy Post Road. Turning right, it passed Compo Shopping Plaza. The parking lot, Susan noticed, was full. Several windows displayed banners announcing final winter clearance sales. Across Post Road, several dress shops, a restaurant, and Hermann's Sporting Goods store. Lots of shoppers on that side, too. Hard to spot a surveillance team. She saw that Paul's office was closed, the blinds drawn. He noticed it as well.

“What happened to—”

“Your staff? I furloughed them,” Zivic answered. ”I thought it best.”

“Did they ask why?”

“Two airline tickets to island of their choice were sufficient explanation. You are a generous employer.”

Bannerman grumbled. ”I notice you're still open for business.”

”Um”—Susan clapped her hands—“Children—”

“Never mind.”

The limousine turned onto South Compo Road. A mile or so down, on the right, Susan saw the small brownish Cape Cod belonging to Molly Farrell. An unremarkable house were it not for an adjoining tennis court twice its size and, on its roof, an unusually complex antenna. A bit farther, an unmarked van, no doubt equipped for electronic surveillance. She was sure of it when Zivic, catching her attention, brought a finger to his lips. No one spoke until the limousine turned onto Greens Farms Road.

“Have you seen enough?” Zivic asked.

”I guess.”

“What now?” Susan asked.

“Let's go get a beer.”

“At Mario's?”

“Mario's.”

Railroad Avenue is a short, one-way street running no more than the length of the Westport commuter platform. The station is at it's center, Mario's directly across.

The limousine pulled up outside, passing yet another surveillance car. Bannerman reached into his bag. He found the Belgian automatic pistol; he slipped it into his sling, the muzzle against his elbow. Susan showed no surprise. With their diplomatic passports, they had bypassed metal detectors when boarding the plane in Lisbon.

“Five minutes. No more,” He told the driver. “We'll let ourselves out.”

Inside, a light blinked. At the bar, he asked for two beers. Zivic walked toward the kitchen. Two men at a table picked up ski jackets and followed. Bannerman raised his beer, sipped at it, then left it untouched. “Why are we doing this?” Susan asked. “To let people know we're in town.”

“Won't they all come here? Block off that street?”

“Not in time, no.” He gazed at the overhead clock. “Drink your beer.”

In a room at the New Englander Motor Inn, Roger Clew snatched at the phone and said his name. He listened, frowning.

“At Mario's? Drinking beer?”

He listened further, incredulous.

“We're on our way. Stay with them.”

“Hi.” The man in the ski jacket rapped on the driver's side window of the surveillance car, parked near the newsstand at the foot of Railroad Avenue.

Two men looked up, startled. Instantly, the glass on the passenger side exploded inward, showering them with fragments. An Ingram machine pistol followed. The man holding it, another ski jacket, reached in and lifted the door lock.