The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (36 page)

He drove back to the Stamford Marriott. .

In his room, his message light was blinking. He
called the operator. The message was the private num
ber, no name, of his friend at State. He dialed it.

“They've clipped your wings, Paul
.
Your passport's
lifted.”

“How is it tabbed?” Paul was asking what action was
to be taken when he tried to use it.

“Security risk
—
yellow.”
That meant apprehend
with caution and detain. Reid, Paul assumed, must have
learned about that morning's withdrawal in Zurich. He
would have ordered that Molly be picked up as well.
Paul checked his watch. She should be in the air by now. There was a good chance Reid would know it if she used
her own passport.

“Is Reid in Westport?”

“Last I heard.”

“I'll see him soon.”

“You watch yourself.”

“I owe you.” Paul broke the connection and dialed the number of Greenfield Hill Clinic.

Palmer Reid, demanding to know where Paul was,
and told close by, insisted upon an immediate meeting.
Paul said he'd be there at six. He arrived on time, was checked for weapons, and escorted to an office appar
ently belonging to the facility's administrator. The office
had a window overlooking the broad sloping lawn. The
building's shadow was lengthening over it.

When he entered on the floor below, Paul caught a
glimpse of a woman in a blue jumpsuit being led away by a male nurse. She seemed wooden, docile; probably
drugged. Now, below his window, Paul saw that a
groundskeeper, a legitimate one, was planting ma
ri
golds in a flower bed. As he moved on to another section
a stocky middle-aged man, also in a blue jumpsuit, knelt
at each fresh planting and began tearing it up. He'd
done that to half a row before two more male nurses
stopped him and brought him inside.

Reid entered the room, offering no greeting. Paul
read his expression. He was angry. But he also seemed
pleased with himself.

“You kill a lot of them, don't you, Palmer?” Paul asked quietly.

”A lot of whom?” The question startled Reid.

Paul gestured where the man had been. “These agents. The blue jumpsuits. Here and in your other
towns.”

“What other towns? There are no other. . . .” He
didn't bother to finish. “In any case, the answer is no. That is a despicable suggestion.”

“I see.”

“Your tone suggests doubt.”

“Of course I doubt you, Palmer. You almost never
tell the truth.”

Reid studied him. “What is the truth, Paul?”

“I think some do get new lives and new paper. But I
think they go right on working for you. Not the govern
ment. Just you.”

Reid was silent for a long moment, then, “They say
you were a good man, Paul, until you turned against your country.”

Bannerman turned from the window. “How's that
again?”

Reid used his fingers to tick off the particulars. “You
have consistently refused to take an oath of service, though I presume you've at least recited the Pledge of
Allegiance at some time in your youth. You have stolen a
great sum of money from your country. You have allied
yourself with a dangerous Soviet agent who, inciden
tally,
has
taken such an oath, except that his is eternally
hostile to your country's interests. You have probably brought him into this country illegally and you will
doubtless attempt to
blackmail your country into grant
ing him unconditional asylum. How am I not to regard
such behavior as treasonous?”

Paul had to smile. “I suppose it's useless to point
out that
Palmer Reid and my country are not one and the
same.”

Reid matched his smile. He folded his arms. “I have
your Dr. Russo. He was taken two hours ago at Ken
nedy.”

“I thought I saw a twinkle in your eye.”

“He will be released, you will both be released,
when you surrender Colonel Zivic.”

“That's easy,” Paul shrugged. “Bring me a written
guarantee of asylum from the Secretary of State. He
must also guarantee in writing that Zivic will not be
asked to compromise his country's interests because Zivic, as it happens, is not a traitor to his country ei
ther.”

“What, pray, would you call him?”

“Retired.”

“Then so are you.”

Paul spent the night under close guard. Supper,
brought to his room, was a steam-table lasagna and a
half-pint container of milk. He flushed them both down
the toilet In the morning, he was escorted back to the
office where Reid was already
breakfasting. Paul helped
himself to Reid's coffee and half a croissant. Reid
seemed to be controlling himself with effort.

Munching his croissant, Paul stepped to the window.
The morning sun warmed him.

“In view of past service,” he heard Reid clear his
throat, “I'm considering meeting you halfway.”

“I'm listening.”

“Bring the Colonel here for one week of interroga
tion. You may witness it if you like.”

“Why would he trust you? I certainly don't.”

“I rise above the insult.” Reid's jaw tightened. “The fact is, the Colonel's primary usefulness has come and
gone. The Soviets believe he's been in our hands for
almost a week now and they've surely made adjust
ments to offset anything he might have told us. Still, he
might have some value to me. And of course you'll re
turn the money.”

Paul ignored the last. As for the rest of it, the words
some value to me
were the essential ones. Reid, at some
level, had accepted the fact that he'd get little of real
importance
out of Zivic. Anton
was a man who loved his
country just as much as Reid pretended to love his. He
would not betray his homeland and even now he was
probably very anxious to get word to them that he had not. What Zivic might do, however, was throw Reid a
few bones to facilitate a grant of asylum. He might give
Reid the names of Americans and Western Europeans who had sold information for money because Anton
detested such people. But they would be minor players.
Compromised homosexuals, drug addicts, compulsive
gamblers, misfits. Men and women who were no longer
used because they were by definition unreliable. But at
least they'd be something. And it would be Palmer Reid
who got the information. Enough to perpetuate the
fiction that it was he, Palmer Reid, who had turned in
Colonel Anton Zivic.

A horn honked down on the road. Three short beeps.
Paul could not see the car but he knew that its driver
saw him. That had just been acknowledged. He pre
tended to stretch and yawn. Three more beeps. Paul
nodded once.

“Stand away from there, please.” Reid heard the
sound as well.

“Relax, Palmer.” His back still to Reid, Paul cupped a
hand to his ear, then made a circular motion with his
index finger.

“What do you think you're doing?” Reid pushed to
his feet, more annoyed than alarmed.

“Waiting for a phone call.” He crossed to Reid's desk
where he spread marmalade on the other half of his
croissant. The phone rang. “That will be for me. Molly
Farrell's calling.”

Reid snatched up the phone. His color rose when he
heard her voice. “He is not available,” he said into the
mouthpiece.

“Ask her why you should let her speak to me,” Paul
suggested.

Reid hesitated, then asked. Now his color drained.
He looked at Paul, his eyes blazing. “You son of a bitch.”

“Trouble at home, Palmer?”

“If you harm one hair . . .”

“Your relatives are in good hands. Ask Molly whose
hands.”

He did, and the answer caused him to blink rapidly.
His lips tried to form the name but he could only sput
ter.

“Billy McHugh.” Paul helped him.

“You son of a bitch,” Reid repeated.

A loud sneeze came from the hall outside. “And that
would be John Waldo.” With a gesture, Bannerman in
vited Reid to see for himself.

Still blinking, Reid stepped to the door and opened
it. The guard he'd posted was on his knees, hands
clasped behind his head, staring up at him helplessly.
Reid didn't bother to look for Waldo. He closed the
door.