The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (56 page)

He wasn't even sure why Bannerman wanted him to come. Except to put Kaplan at ease. For all the good it did. It sure as hell didn't put Fuller at ease. Still, it let him spend a little more time with Susan. Better than nothing.

Kaplan had kept on defending Fuller. Out in the driveway, before they left. He said Fuller would never have hurt Bannerman. Some weird thing going back to Bannerman's mother. Maybe that works both ways. Maybe it's why Bannerman pushed but didn't shove.

“For the record,” Bannerman said quietly, ”I think Barton Fuller is a decent man too. But so was Roger, once.”

No one spoke. Susan was staring at him, thoughtfully.

“Paul?” She took his hand. “Who was your father?”

Bannerman understood. He had to smile. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that. My father died when I was fourteen. Fuller never laid eyes on my mother until I was twenty-four or so.”

“About the time she was killed?”

Bannerman nodded. “According to Billy, and I just found this out, he was infatuated with her. Not long after she was killed, someone passed Billy a list of those involved. Billy thinks it was Fuller who gave him the list. I just heard that for the first time as well.”

“McHugh went after them?” Lesko asked.

“We both did. John Waldo and a few others pitched in.”

“How did Clew figure?”

“But ever since, it's really been Fuller, hasn't it. Fuller's been your godfather.”

“Fuller created me,” Bannerman said wistfully. “It's a heck of a time to realize it, but he created Mama's Boy.”

“So? He didn't create Paul Bannerman. What stops you from hanging 'em up?”

“You know better, Lesko. There isn't any more Paul Bannerman. Just like there isn't any Raymond Lesko who can stop being a cop.”

”I appreciate it.”

“Do you think you'll stay? In Zurich, I mean?”

“Nothing is forever. But it looks that way, yeah.”

“Good luck, Lesko. In everything.”

Lesko nodded. ”I might call you,” he said. “Any suggestions you might have about Zurich, who I should hire, maybe something out of that computer, I wouldn't say no to some help.”

“Kaplan will help you. But sure. I owe you one.”

Lesko looked at the arm he'd broken. “You don't owe me shit, except you take care of Susan.”

“Then I owe Urs Brugg. And one more to Leo Belkin. But as for Susan, I think I'm going to ask her what she wants me to do. Whatever that is, I'm going to try to do it.”

“If she says quit? Become a hairdresser?”

“Within reason.” Bannerman smiled.

Lesko relaxed his grip. Bannerman held on.

“What?” he asked.

“You won't get mad?”

”I was born mad. What?”

“What if we should think about—”

“Getting married? Forget it.”

“Just thought I'd ask. Good-bye, Lesko.”

Bannerman watched him go.

”A hairdresser?” Susan took his arm. “Or a mud wrestler. I haven't decided.” She smiled. A long silence, alone with her thoughts. They followed the signs to the Trump Shuttle.

“Or anything else I want?” she asked, at last.

“Within reason. And after I clear up a few things.”

“Would you quit if I asked? No more guns?”

“I'd try. Yes.”

“You'd do that for me?’’

“And for me. I think.”

“What would happen to Billy? And the others.”

“Anton is pretty much running things already.”

“All those people from Europe. Molly says some of them want to stay.”

“We'll have to deal with that. Get them settled in.”

“Then there's giving my father a hand in Zurich? And your debt to Leo Belkin?”

“As I said, a few loose ends.”

“You know what I think?”

“What's that?”

“You're never going to quit.”

“Oh yes, I will. I'm—” He fell silent.

They continued on, Susan waiting for the rest of his rebuttal. He said nothing more.

They arrived at the shuttle gate. Donald Trump's name and picture all over the place. Even a couple of posters promoting his book and some dumb board game about making deals. But that's okay, she thought. He's what he is and he's good at what he does. And so is Bannerman.

The departures board showed the next flight at half past twelve. They had almost forty minutes. Bannerman nodded in the direction of the Admiral's Club lounge.

Loose ends, she thought. Where do they stop? And all those new people in Westport. What does he think they're going to do there? Take up golf and tennis? No way. They like their own game too much.

Another loose end, she thought.

He returned with their cups, one at a time, and sat. She leaned toward him.

“You said that Mr. Fuller is a decent man. What if he—I don't know—tries to put this right?”

A shrug. Not a no.

See?

“You know what else I think?”

”Mmm?”

The camera panned over the fronts of tenement buildings. It showed one, all its windows blown out, even some of the rames. Tattered remnants of curtains. Bannerman knew that building. A week before, he'd taken Wesley Covington home to it. The pan continued down to the street in the other direction. A second car, blown to pieces, another burning. More police cars arriving, fire engines, having trouble getting through. More bodies, several of them moving, some as yet untended, some at least a block away.

_-37-

He nodded. He didn't speak.

Could he have anticipated that Manley might do something like this? Something, yes. That was the point of the Semtex in his boots. But this? A slaughter? Dead city officials, probably dead cops, dead reporters?

No.

Yes.

He remembered Hector's screams, strapped to that table, naked, terrorized, humiliated. He remembered him later, chained to the basement floor of the clinic, very calm now, resigned, docile, reasoning, showing no sign of the hatred he must have felt. Or which Bannerman had failed to see. No man ever forgives you for making him beg.

‘
We are not so different, you and me. ”
Manley had said that. And he was right.

Both were outlaws, fine distinctions aside. Both would fight, kill if necessary, to protect what is theirs. When threatened, hit first. When attacked, hit back. Fast and hard. Massive retaliation.

They were not so different.

Manley's act—if it was indeed Manley—was not so unlike his own against Palmer Reid. Except for the numbers involved. And the innocents who were killed.

Manley—if he did it—would probably deny it. But his eyes would smile. And his enemies would know. The Dandy Man did this. And yet a part of Bannerman still could not believe it. An act so terrible, on such a scale, was not likely to go unpunished. The police, the FBI, would never rest. They were not like the Arab terrorists, whom Bannerman now despised all the more, who had all of Syria and Iran in which to hide, protected by governments.

Someone had to have bought the explosives, made the bombs, driven the cars. Materials would be traced. Someone would talk. Only a madman would think that he could—

A news bulletin: Videotape, now, of the actual blast. Cameras had been recording the ceremony. There was Covington on the platform, his family, his neighbors, up there with him. Politicians. A band. Then a thunderclap and they were gone. Camera turnbling. Buildings, smoke, sky. The cameraman among the dead.

The movie flicked back on. The limousine was approaching Westport.

“We'll stop at Mario's,” he said to Susan. He had called from Washington. The others would be gathered there, watching this.