The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (63 page)

Reid could feel his breath. God, how he detested this
man. Nothing in Fuller's background, in Reid's view,
qualified him for the position of Secretary of State. At
tended Kansas State University, of all places¿ on a
bas
ket
ball scholarship. Traded upon a gold medal, won at
the 1960 Rome Olympics, to gain entrance into Har
vard Law School. Made the Law Review, went into
investment banking, took time off to manage two of the
president's campaigns for lesser office
,
ultimately left
Wall Street to head the Agency for International Devel
opment, finally worming his way into this job. All from a
stupid game that no gentleman ever played. “You have,
I hope, a specific question?” Reid asked. The gall of the man.

“Sure.” Fuller smiled pleasantly. “Why is Buzz Don
ovan dead? Is that specific enough for you?”

Reid sucked air through his teeth. “How dare you
talk to me lik
e…”

But Fuller turned away from him. He walked to his
desk where he pressed a button. “What say we skip the
bullshit, Palmer?” The smile was gone. “One day Dono
van's calling all over Washington asking questions about
you and Paul Bannerman. The next day you clear your calendar and fly to New York. That same man, mean
while, has disappeared. The following day, he's found dead of a heart attack that the New York City Police
Department is now calling murder.”

A side door opened before Reid could speak. Roger
Clew stepped into the room. He offered no greeting.

“You two know each other,” Fuller said. “Roger
seems to think you've been doing bad things, Palmer.”

The sarcasm was too much. “You will change your
tone,” Reid said icily, “or I will leave at once.”

“Do what you want. But you walk out of here and I
call the Attorney General. I'll have the FBI offering all
assistance to the NYPD within the hour. I will also have
them looking into the apparent disappearance of one of
your men.” He turned to Roger Clew. “What's his
name?”

“Burdick.”

“And Burdick is one of your special nasties, isn't he Palmer? What am I to conclude from his disappearance
right on top of Buzz Donovan's death? What am I to
conclude from the fact that you spent most of the week
end holed up in Fort Meade?”

“I will account for my actions, as always,”' Reid
hissed, “to appropriate and competent authority in the
proper circumstances.”

“That authority, Palmer, is the National Security
Council, of which I, need I remind you, am the ranking
Cabinet member.”

Reid looked at the ceiling.

“Let me ask you another question.” Fuller sat on the
edge of his desk. “If I had time, I'd work on a more
polite way to phrase this. But do you imagine that I'm the only person in this administration who knows what
a dangerous old fool you really are?”

Reid's eye developed a violent tic. His lips tried to move but he was momentarily struck dumb by the ap
palling gracelessness of this prairie bumpkin, this party
hack. And to be so insulted in the presence of Ban
nerman's. . . .

“Why is this man here?” he asked hoarsely.

“For the purpose of checks and balances, Palmer.
You've heard of the concept. I'm going to ask you some questions. You will lie to me. He will tell me the truth.”

Reid stared at Fuller and then at Roger Clew with
undisguised loathing. He knew perfectly well the under
secretary's role and why he was there. It was Clew, he'd
long known, who'd caused Bannerman's passport to be
reinstated over his own violent objections. It was Clew
who engineered that the State Department take a pol
icy of expressed disinterest in Colonel Anton Zivic,
even ignoring the fact that he was, at
the very least, an
illegal alien. It was surely Clew who'd told
B
annerman
about Westport three years ago and was therefore just as
much a traitor to his country.

“You dare,” he curled his lip, “the two of you, to call
yourselves Americans.”

“Oh, Christ, Reid.” Fuller was smiling again, sadly.

“When one realizes that the United States Senate,’* his voice had found its strength, “has confirmed a man
who would condone and protect the most heinous of
criminal acts. . . .”

“Ah,” Fuller clapped his hands. “We're ready to talk
criminal acts. Tell me about them, Palmer.”

“Treason,” Reid sputtered. “Murder. Theft of gov
ernment property. Arson.”

“Arson?” Fuller turned questioningly to Roger
Clew.

“I suspect he's talking about his yacht. There's been
talk that Bannerman may have taken some retaliatory action a couple of years ago.”

“Retaliation,” Fuller repeated. “But against what?
Certainly not against any action Mr. Reid here might
have taken on United States soil because Mr. Reid, as we
all know, is specifically constrained by law against any
domestic activity.”

“There may have been a lapse or two in that re
gard.”

“I see.” Fuller stepped close to Reid again. He fin
gered the smaller man's lapels. “I know you're busy,
Palmer, so we'll cut this short. It seems clear to me that
the way to
avoid having your boats burned in the future
is to leave Paul Bannerman the hell alone. Do that, Palmer, and whatever else might be happening right
now might just possibly die down without anyone get
ting indicted. Is that clear or shall I express it another
way?”

“You, sir,” Reid tried to brush his hand away, “would
do well to reread your oath of office.”

“Okay,” Fuller said wearily, “how about this?” He
took a firmer hold on both lapels as he considered
whether to lift Reid to eye level. “Go near Westport again, go near Bannerman again, interfere with him in any way, and I will personally have your ass.”

”A bad meeting, sir?” In the backseat of Reid's lim
ousine, Whitlow switched on an harmonic device, that
thwarted most forms of electronic eavesdropping.

Palmer Reid had the look of a man who'd been
slapped. Eyes closed, he waggled his fingers as if to say;
Let me get my thoughts together.

“That man's a pig,” he said finally.

''Yes, sir.”

“I'll want to see a file on him, Charles. I'll want it
today.”

“I've seen it, sir. I'm afraid you won't find much
that's useful. Fuller's personal history has been very
closely examined.”

”A nigger sport,” Reid muttered.

“Sir?”

“Basketball. It's a nigger sport.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suits him. He was probably a drug user just like the
rest of them.”

“Urn . . . I'm afraid there's no indication of that in
his file, sir.”

“What is his relationship with Bannerman?”

“None at all, sir. There's no indication that they've
even met.”

“What is Fuller's interest in him then? Why would
he protect him?”

“I'm sure I don't know, sir. Unless. . . .”

“Unless what?”

“One protects those who are useful, sir.”

Reid stared at his shoes. “Of course,” he whispered.
“Of course.”

“But how would he use Bannerman, sir? More to the
point, would Bannerman permit himself to be used?”

“Think, Charles. What do assassins do?”

“They assassinate, sir.”

“And what do trained operatives do?”

Whitlow's lips moved to say
operate
but he didn't say it. It would have risked a scowl. “Sir, I really don't imag
ine that Barton Fuller is putting together his own death
squad. But an occasional exchange of favors might not
be out of the question.”

Reid nodded slowly, still staring at nothing.
“Charles, until I get to the bottom of this I want all
operations against Paul Bannerman put on hold.”

“That may be difficult, sir. I'm not sure if we can
recall. . . .”

“Do it, Charles.”

“Sir,” he said firmly . . . must he explain again
about the layers? “You must understand this. All I've
done is provide Ortirez with the girl's itinerary, sug
gested that punishment of the father is overdue, and
that Elena's wishes with regard to the daughter are no longer of concern to us. We are not involved in any
arrangements Ortirez might choose to make although I
did suggest a method that is classically Bolivian. When
they take the girl they will. . . .”