The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (22 page)

Anton Zivic accepted the cue and dismissed the sub
ject with a wave of his glass. Perhaps over a quiet drink
one day he would tell Paul that his government—his
former government—had knowledge of at least two.
One was certainly Wilmette, Illinois, a Westport-like
suburb just northeast of Chicago. Another was Palo Alto
in California. Suspected were Framingham in Massa
chusetts, and Fort Worth in Texas.

It would not be very difficult, were Zivic so inclined,
to compile a list of towns that were likely candidates.
Paul had long ago told him how Westport was chosen. It
followed that the same criteria would apply to all. They
would be upper-middle-class communities. Not con
spicuously affluent, but comfortable, offering a lifestyle
that was at least the equal of what the agents had en
joyed in the field. Like Westport, they would all be com
muter towns, towns with more or less transient popula
tions where newcomers attracted little notice.  No
company towns. No one-industry towns such as those in Silicon Valley. No socially competitive towns such as
nearby Greenwich or Darien. A primary consideration would be finding places in which people tended to re
spect the privacy of their neighbors. Westport had that
reputation, and for that reason it had attracted many
celebrities over the years, particularly those in the arts.
People left them alone.

A computer would narrow the list further. First
there were all the ordinary quality-of-life consider
ations. Recreation, cultural activities, affordable hous
ing and so on. Schools were not a factor. Agents were
not supposed to have been there long enough to con
ceive, let alone raise, children. Romantic relationships with the locals were, in any case, forbidden. The com
puter would also exclude any towns that had
career
intelligence officers or retired State Department per
sonnel in residence. It would not do to encounter a
former case officer while standing in line at the super
market.

The concept, Zivic supposed, was sound enough in
theory. It was like the halfway house, but on a grander scale. Halfway towns. A way to depressurize and reha
bilitate certain agents who were being retired from the
field. A year or so of learning to live, under close super
vision and tutoring, like normal citizens. Then reloca
tion elsewhere under more relaxed supervision but
with continued counseling. Then eventually, a more
complete reabsorption into ordinary American life. A
sound enough concept. It might even be called benevo
lent. It gave some of these people a chance to save their
lives.

The halfway towns were not intended, Zivic knew,
for the ordinary CIA or NSA or military intelligence
field agent. Not even for those Operations Branch
agents of whom so much cloak-and-dagger nonsense is
written. Such personnel usually retired to become au
thors, lecturers, local police chiefs, registered foreign
agents or lobbyists, private corporate spies
and, occa
sionally,
whistle-blowers. Those meant for the halfway
towns were different. Nearly all were contract agents,
free-lancers who were bound by no official constraint or
code of conduct. Nor were they, like career agents,
immune to criminal prosecution by informal conven
tion among NATO countries. Many were operatives who had spent half their lifetimes in deep cover and
high-stress situations. These were assassins, kidnappers,
expert interrogators, even torturers. These were people
who would think nothing of robbing a bank or
traffick
ing in arms in order to finance an operation too sensitive
to be funded through identifiable channels. Most were
living, breathing weapons. Cocked weapons. Some
were borderline psychotics, likely to choose an enemy
of their own if one were not regularly provided for
them. A few, like Billy, could never be allowed to retire
to any environment short of a maximum-security
mental institution.

The halfway town concept, first envisioned by A
ll
en
Dulles and later expanded under President Jimmy
Carter, provided some with at least the chance of being
salvaged. But the rehabilitative process was also an eval
uative process. Though President Carter was unlikely to have known it, fully one third did not survive the reloca
tion. They simply vanished en route to their promised
new locations. Nor was there ever a need to explain
their disappearance. They had, after all, been relocated with new identities. It could truthfully be said, to any
one who might inquire, that they no longer existed. Of those who did survive, few of any value were left in
peace.

Anton Zivic sipped his cognac, his expression
thoughtful as he studied the faces now standing about
Paul's conference table. Not one of them, he was cer
tain, would be allowed to retire to private life.

Dr. Gary Russo. An interesting case. Here is a tor
turer who looks into a mirror and sees an apostle looking
back. He steadfastly refuses to regard himself as an as
sassin. He will acknowledge that he's killed. Many
times. But he regards this as a quibble. He is, after all, primarily an interrogator. His way of dealing with the
taking of lives is to persuade himself that those he kills
were doomed in any case. It's their fault, not his, that
they lay strapped to his table. Now, if they will only
answer his questions,
fully and truthfully, there need be no more pain, no more blood, and he will assist them to
their peaceful release. Otherwise, quite a decent sort,
actually. But he'd heard the answers to too many ques
tions. Without Paul's protection, he'd have been a dead man years ago.

Carla Benedict. Once one of the very best, although still quite definitely world-class. Tiresome at times, oc
casionally shrewish, and yet utterly reliable and unques
tionably loyal. In recent years, however, she'd devel
oped a habit of toying with her targets. She could take a
man to her bed, laugh with him, enjoy him, give plea
sure in return, and then, the next morning, cheerily
bring him a breakfast laced with strychnine if she hadn't
cut his throat while he slept. Perhaps it came of spend
ing too much time with Dr. Russo. He'd taught her to
linger. He had not taught her to control her tongue.
Nevertheless, as Paul had observed, if one must live
near a volcano, it's best to be near one that smokes.

And Molly. Dear, sweet-natured Molly. Had there
ever been a nicer, more loving, more generous young
lady on the KGB's list of Most Wanted?

“I'd better think about locking up,” said Paul, drain
ing his glass. “Molly, I wish you'd join me for dinner. You
could probably do with a change of menu.”

He held Molly's eyes to show that it was more than a
casual invitation. Zivic saw that as well. He also saw that
Carla was making no move to accept the coat being urged on her by Gary Russo.

“What about your reporter friend?” The question
was blurted more than asked.

“What about her, Carla?” Paul asked evenly.

“Is that under control or isn't it?”

Paul's voice took a hard edge. “It was until three
days ago. We'll just have to hope that two fresh Westport
suicides do not rekindle her interest.”

“You're taking her to Switzerland, aren't you?”

“Yes, Carla. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Why?”

His eyes flashed. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you're getting serious about her, we don't like it.”

”Umm!”
Anton and Molly made the
sound in unison
.

“Okay,
I
don't like it.” Carla took a breath and
plunged. “It was one thing, cozying up to her to find out
what she knew. That turned out to be nothing. Why are
you still seeing this kid?”

“All right, now listen. . . .”

Molly Farrell stepped in quickly. “What Carla
means,”
she shot a warning glance at the other woman,
“is that you have a perfect right to see anyone you
please. I think we just wish it could have been someone
other than an investigative reporter who is also the daughter of a dangerous New York cop.”

“For openers,” Paul checked his temper, “the fa
ther's not a cop anymore and Susan is a long way from
being an investigative reporter. Secondly, the father
doesn't even know I exist because Susan—
like me
—
prefers to keep her relationships private. Which brings
up a third point. . . .”

“Don't say it's none of our business, Paul,” Molly said
quietly. “You'd be just as concerned if one of us hit on a
combination like that.”

“All the same,
what I do with . . .” Paul lost
his train of thought because Anton Zivic had affected a
pained expression and was rapidly shaking his head.

“Molly,” Zivic touched her shoulder, “to the heart of
the matter, please.”

Molly fidgeted, shrugged, and finally spread her
hands. “We're a little sort of jealous.” She
shrugged again, embarrassed.