Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online
Authors: John R. Maxim
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (54 page)
“How can you be sure?”
“Just a feeling.”
There was that, Bannerman thought. His capacity to judge character. But there was also the transmitter that he'd given to Wesley Covington, courtesy of Molly Farrell. And there were also the gray snakeskin boots whose hollowed-out heels were packed with a microreceiver and just enough Semtex to blow off both his feet should he reconsider.
Bannerman's apartment complex was just ahead.
“Let's go up and make a fire,” he said.
“Can we unplug the phone?”
He nodded. “And no Vivaldi this time.”
“But no Bolero, either. I should have picked up a copy in Spain.”
I’ll hum it,” he said.
-33-
In Lesko’s Queens apartment, Elena watched, sipping tea, as he filled the second of the two large suitcases he’d purchased. His daughter stood at the suitcase, opened on his bed, removing certain of the items he’s packed, stuffing them into a plastic trash bag and replacing them with others. Lesko had stopped arguing.
Bannerman was in the kitchen with Harry Greenwald. They were packing cardboard boxes, adding them to the those already stacked by Lesko's door. The detective had agreed to store some, dispose of others. No one spoke much. Not since Elena had sat Paul and Susan down in Lesko's living room and told them, as gently as possible, of the death of her uncle, Urs Brugg.
Lesko had argued against her making the trip with him. It could still be dangerous, he said. Unfinished business. But she'd insisted. Bad news, she said, should be given face-to-face, where people could touch and give comfort through more than words. And, too, she wished to know this Mama's Boy as her uncle had.
Not the least of her reasons, although she denied it when Lesko asked, was to make certain that he, once home, did not change his mind. She went with him to Rockefeller Center where he obtained an emergency passport. A legitimate one. Bannerman had arranged it. Next, to the Beckwith Regency Hotel where he resigned the position he'd held. She returned with him to Queens where he saw his landlord, settled his lease, and arranged for his furnishings to be given to charity. He did all these things in her sight and in her hearing. It was a burning of bridges. An act of faith.
One bridge remained, still unburned. It involved the partner whose death she had ordered in a different time, a different life. The ghost of that man, Detective Katz, still remained. Susan had told her about him during their first long talk as they flew from Zurich to Malaga. Later, she spoke of it to Lesko.
“Susan's got a big mouth,” he had growled.
But it was not the betrayal of a confidence. Merely an explanation of her father's occasional odd behavior, his protracted mutterings, interspersed with attentive silences. The partner, Susan told her, had remained his partner, like it or not. Until now, the ghost of this Detective Katz was nearly all he had. But perhaps, thought Elena, that need will soon fade. As had his memory of her past. As had that day in Brooklyn.
Perhaps.
But perhaps it should not.
One could argue, she thought, in favor of keeping all such ghosts alive. This Detective Katz had become a part of him. That was not a bad thing, necessarily. To have such a ghost, and to not deny him, was to have an extra brain, an extra pair of eyes and ears. Even Mama's Boy, she felt sure, might agree with that. If it keeps you alert, he might say, if it gives you an edge, it is a friend. If Lesko is to honor his covenant with Uncle Urs, which he will and must, he will need such an edge.
Nor, thought Elena, her eyes on Lesko, should the ghost of her past be allowed to recede entirely. She will cook for him, make him smile, give herself to him, love him. But she is still Elena. The family now looks to her. It must not surprise him if this woman who shares his life and his bed, who teases him, pampers him, needs him, and who even now, God willing, may be carrying his child in her belly, will be, when she must, no less ruthless than he. For she too has made a covenant. And it will be honored.
“Will there be a service?” he asked.
“Soon. Yes. Within two weeks, I think.”
“May I come? With Susan?”
“Uncle Urs would be pleased. And I will insist.”
“Thank you.”
“It is not yet finished here, is it, Mr. Bannerman?”
“Soon,” he answered. ”I will end this on Sunday. With your permission, I would like to borrow Lesko for the day.”
She frowned. “Come to Zurich now, Mr. Bannerman. Make a new life there, as I have.”
“This
is
my new life,” he said gently. “And it's my home. But if we may come visit you—”
”I will insist on that as well.”
“Thank you. When will you be leaving?”
“You say you will end this on Sunday?”
”I think so, yes.”
“Then that is when we will leave.”
4-
Saturday afternoon. Georgetown.
Roger Clew, unshowered, unshaven, stared at the screen of his Toshiba. He'd been at it, unable to sleep, since before dawn that day and for all of Friday. Trying to salvage something.
Anything.
He had also, since Westport, gone through intelligence reports by the score, looking for some piece of information he could use. Some item for which Bannerman might thank him. There was one, the report of a rumor, that placed Bannerman in Spain. Obviously untrue. No help there. And there was another, from Lisbon, placing Billy McHugh in the Soviet Embassy there. Equally unlikely. On the other hand, Clew could not recall having seen him in Westport recently. Perhaps it was worth mentioning. But he needed more.
He went back to the Ripper program, not sure what it could tell him or even what to ask. He'd tried everything. Plotting out one scenario after another, punching in every relevant name he could think of, asking the computer for predictions, assessments, most of which were of no use at all.
It told him, for example, that Harry Hagler, missing for three days now, was dead. Or 80 percent dead. That was the probability. But Hagler, he knew, was holed up in Fort Meade, waiting for this to blow over. Waiting for him, Roger Clew, to mend fences. But Roger Clew, according to this machine, was 90 percent dead himself. On the other hand, so was goddamned Hector Manley. That piece of shit. Walks away from Westport, free and clear, practically with a pat on the back while he, Clew, watches fifteen years of work, fifteen years of friendship, go up in smoke.
But the greeting, Bannerman's taped voice, was friendly. More so, he knew, than a live voice might have been. Still, irrationally, he found encouragement in it. He cleared his throat and spoke.
like
—me to put some heat on, let me know.”
Silence.
”A few more things.” He read them off, the report from Spain among them.
More silence.
He was not going to mention Hagler. Or blame him again. He could not find a way to say it, especially into a machine, that did not sound puling. Nor was he going to mention the Jamaican whom Bannerman, God knows why, allowed to walk. Maybe Bannerman thinks he might be useful to him someday. Whose word Bannerman took. The word of a drug dealer.
Jesus Christ.
Clew changed his mind.
“Listen—about Manley.” He swallowed. “I've asked the computer about him. It says you can't trust him. If you like, I'll show you what else it says.”
He hesitated. Even to himself, his words had the ring of sour grapes. He tried strengthening his voice.
He stopped himself. Enough. Too much about too little.
“Look.” He took a breath. ”I guess you know why I'm really calling.”
Silence.
“You're going to see Fuller. Well—you don't have to. I'm out, Paul. He has my resignation.”
A sigh.
“So maybe you'll believe me when I say that all I want to do now is square this. Fifteen years, Paul. Maybe we can . . .” His voice trailed off.
He broke the connection.
-3
5-
Sunday morning. Arlington, Virginia
Bannerman crippled. No one seems to know how. Kaplan's game flaccid at best. And as for Lesko, if he should take it into his head to try the game, there would probably be no platform left either.
Kaplan was below, greeting him. And his daughter. Now, rather less comfortably, shaking hands with Bannerman.
Fuller shook his head.
Too young.
Still, he found himself envying Bannerman. Not least, for having a woman who loved him. But also for the world he lived in. One that relies on no outside agency, governs itself, polices itself. Defends itself, with finality, when necessary. And most of all, one free of moral ambiguity, at least by Bannerman's lights.
Nor, it seems, is it only Westport that aspires to that happy state. Zurich as well, by all reports. And parts of New York City. There seems to be a ground swell afoot. Communities, or at least neighborhoods, are taking shape throughout the country: neighbors banding together, choosing their own leaders, setting up their own patrols, having despaired of the capacity of the law and of politicians to protect them. Bannerman's new friend, this Covington fellow, was among these new leaders. And, oddly enough, with the blessing of some of those same politicians.
New York City's mayor, himself an advocate of community action groups, has called a press conference this very morning at which Mr. Covington is to be held up as an example to all. And, afterward, a block party at which the Manhattan Borough president is to award a citation to Mr. Covington and his 153rd Street Association. Speeches, refreshments, rap bands, and dancing in the streets, that sort of thing. Not the best weather for it, but timely nonetheless. The ray of hope that rotting city needs will hardly be found in a summer sky.
“You have your mother's eyes,” he said as Bannerman eased into a chair. “Are you aware that I knew her?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Now that we meet, I can see a great deal of her in you.”
“Thank you.” Bannerman passed the pastry tray to Susan. She declined.
Oddly enough, thought Fuller, he could see a trace of Cassie Bannerman in the Lesko girl as well. There was a certain . . . strength to her. Polite enough. Gracious. No hard edges yet. But not at all in awe of meeting the secretary of state. Perhaps Mama's Boy is a hard act to follow. To say nothing of the redoubtable Raymond Lesko.
