The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (76 page)

“It's just Lesko,” he murmured.

“Please?”

“You don't have to call me Mister. It's Ray or it's
Lesko. Unless it's me who's impolite calling you Elena.”

“Elena is fine. Which do you prefer?”

“Lesko's okay.”

“Lesko, then.”

The pulse at his temples eased a bit. “Elena, I want
you to know I appreciate this.”

“You are entitled. I owe you a debt.”

He turned to look at her. “How do you figure?”

“Two years ago I bargained for my life. You did not
take it, nor did you take payment. I consider that the
debt remains.”

“Oh, for
…
”

“Please?”

“Will you stop with that? You and that weird logic of
yours? I didn't shoot you back then because I didn't feel
like it. I didn't feel like it because . . . Ah, the hell with it.”

“Lesko?”

“What?”

“I admire you as well.”

“Ahhh . . .” Shit!

He never said he admired her. He said
…
kind of
…
that he liked her. A little. Mostly she just made him
crazy. What he should be feeling is hating her guts be
cause if there wasn't any Elena, there probably
wouldn't be any Susan lying in a coma up in those
mountains there.

“I take it,” Elena searched for a change of subject,
“that you have dreams of Detective Katz.”

“Forget it.”

“If his death still troubles you, if you want to talk, I
don't mind.”

“It's nothing like that.” Lesko shifted uncomfort
ably. “It's not like regular dreams. Sometimes, even
when I'm awake, I catch myself arguing with him like I
did when we were partners. It's more like a habit.”

“I understand, I think.”

“What? That I'm nuts?”

“It sounds like the behavior of a lonely man.”

“Hey. I'm not so lonely.”

His reply carried not much conviction and he knew
it. He raised a hand before she could say more. Next
she'd ask him how he spent his time and she'd start
sounding like Susan. He wasn't so lonely. He went to
ball games. He still had friends. He went to Gallagher's.

“How much further?” he asked.

“Ninety minutes. Perhaps less.”

“Elena
…
my daughter's all I got.”

She didn't answer.

“Elena, what's going on here?”

“I am
…
I am not sure.”

“Yeah, but that should have been an easy question,
shouldn't it. I killed some Bolivians and blew away their
shit. My daughter gets found with the same shit stuffed
down her throat. Then you get a call from some
grease ball
, no offense, who says you and me are next.”

Elena understood him. That much, however un
pleasant, was reasonably straightforward. “But you
know there are others involved.”

“Bannerman and Reid,” he nodded. “Bad conclu
sions. Connections that don't connect. Bad blood be
tween Reid and
Bannerman. But if that's where the
answer is, why is the victim still Susan? Could Reid hate
Bannerman so much that he'd kill his lady friend out of
meanness? And if the answer is yes, why make it look
like something else?”

“Lesko, may I give you some advice?”

“Go ahead.”

“You are a very direct man.” She reached to touch
him as she said this. “You will never understand a man
like Palmer Reid because he does nothing except circu
itously. Also, you are trained as a policeman. You think
in terms of gathering evidence and making arrests. It is
true you have killed, but only, I think, when your blood
was hot. You are not a killer.”

“What's your point?”

She gestured toward the car behind her. “Those
people are killers. Go see your daughter, Lesko, but
stand back from this. Leave it to those whose heads are
clear and who are not encumbered by a policeman's
rules.”

“That's good advice. Thank you.”

Elena screwed up her face. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean it. When you're right, you're right.”

Makes a lot of sense, he thought. It was more their
style. Let them kill each other off. As many as possible.
Then he'd go clean up whoever was left.

CHAPTER
25     

On the second floor of Palmer Reid's home, shortly after
two in the morning, Charles Whitlow tapped on the
door of his superior's bedroom. He was fully dressed
having seen it as his duty to remain in control of events while Palmer Reid slept. He tapped again, more loudly,
then entered at the sound of Reid's voice. He carried a
cup of steaming tea that he placed on the bedside table,
then sat primly in a straight-backed chair as he waited ¯
for the older man to signal that he was sufficiently
awake.

“The girl?” Reid rubbed one eye.

“Still alive,” Whitlow answered dismissively. “We
have several more urgent concerns. Some may be op
portunities as well.”

“Just report, Charles.” Reid sipped from the cup
without acknowledging its source. “I will evaluate.”

Very well, Whitlow sniffed inwardly. See what you
make of these. He produced a note pad, folded open.
“Raymond Lesko has arrived in Zurich in the company
of two of Bannerman's top agents. They were met by
one more, plus some young hoodlum who apparently
left after bringing them a car. They were also met by
Elena Betancourt herself, accompanied by two body
guards. As we speak, this entire retinue is probably just
arriving in Davos.”

Reid blinked. “For heaven's sake.”

“Your suspicions would appear to be vindicated. A
conspiracy,
if
l
dare offer an opinion, has clearly existed
all along.”

“Elena knew them? All of them?” Reid straightened.

“So it would appear. Her greeting of Raymond
Lesko was characterized as guardedly affectionate. As
for the others, we had asked that any of Bannerman's
people be detained for questioning. Elena waltzed
them right through. They proceeded to the parking lot
and departed in three cars as a group.”

“Impossible.”

Whitlow, smugly, tapped the notebook with his in
dex finger.

“Bannerman doesn't know Elena. He assured me of
that himself. He'd never even heard the name until I mentioned it.”

“Bannerman's ‘assurance,’ you say. You don't sup
pose he might have been fibbing.”

“I know the truth when I hear it, Charles.”

“Of course, sir.” Whitlow kept his expression blank.

“Could it be possible, Charles, that Bannerman is
being duped by his own people? That they've begun a drug enterprise right under his nose? That the girl, un
der the direction of her father—you'll recall that I sug
gested this scenario—seduced Bannerman in order to distract him?”

Whitlow could hardly bear it. If it weren't for the
money, the power. . . .

“There is certainly some confusion here, sir. But
there is also the fact that four of Bannerman's key oper
atives are now with him in Switzerland.” He ticked
them off, including Dr. Russo who had been questioned
and released by the police, again in spite of his own
request to the contrary. “Whatever else may be afoot,
such a gathering would seem to seriously deplete
Westport's capacity for effective resistance.”

“My order stands, Charles.” More's the pity, he
thought, because Whitlow undeniably had a point.
“There can be no action against Bannerman or
Westport while that damned basketball player is breath
ing down our necks.”

Whitlow pursed his lips. “That brings up another
problem, sir. General Ortirez's people are
still
at
l
arge.
He claims he cannot withdraw them unless they contact
him and he does not expect them to do so.”

”A moot point, I think. Bannerman and the girl
would seem to be adequately protected for the mo
ment.”

“One would think so, sir. Ortirez, however, has de
manded the immediate execution of Elena Betancourt.
He insists that it be done within the next twenty-four
hours.”

“Ortirez
demands?
Ortirez
insists?”
Reid conjured
a vision of this beribboned and pomaded little spic and
then shook it away as too distasteful to contemplate at such an early hour. Still, the idea had its attractions. If
Paul Bannerman didn't know Elena
before, he was now
at the point of making her acquaintance. A cozy ex
change of information between them would not be to
his benefit.

“It seems, sir, that he made an ill-advised call to
Elena. He thought the girl was dead. He called Elena to
boast of it. The call was intended to unnerve her, but I'm afraid she got the better of the exchange. She re
sponded with a threat or two of her own and now Or
tirez wants her killed before she can put them into
effect.”

“Get Ortirez to Washington, Charles. It's time I clari
fied our relationship.”

“He's quite beside himself, sir. I'm not sure he'll
leave the protection of his compound.”

“Then redirect his concerns, Charles. Get him think
ing about his place in world affairs.”

“Sir?”

“In eighteen months his country will need a reliable
presidential candidate. Whisper to him, Charles, that the United States would consider its interests well-
served if he would accept the burdens of that office.
Promise him a secret meeting at the White House. Any
thing. Just get him here.”

“Yes, sir.” Whitlow liked that. Not only would it fetch
Ortirez, but he might even shave for the occasion.

“In the meantime, arrange whatever is necessary to
give him peace of mind.”

“I'm afraid nothing short of. . . .”

“You do follow my meaning, Charles.”

“Yes, sir.” Whitlow snapped his notebook shut.

“You're a very good man, Charles.”

Susan was dreaming. She was on the mountain. With Paul. But he was skiing too fast again. He wouldn't wait.
It was because they'd had an argument. She couldn't
remember about what.

But Caroline stayed with her. And Ray. Caroline tried to make her feel better. Saying life's too short to
fuss
over every little thing. Especially between two peo
ple who like each other so much. Plain as day. Written
all over both your faces.

Caroline tried to make her smile. Pushed her into a
snow bank. Threw snow in her face. Funny that Ray and
Caroline are skiing in their street clothes. Then sud
denly she couldn't see. Her cheek hurt. She was dizzy.
Now her eye hurt. And she couldn't breathe. Caroline?
Caroline, help me.

Better now. Feels good. Feels won-der-ful. Oh, wow.
Oops. Have to stop saying that. But it feels soooo good.

Not now, it doesn't. Hurts. Face, nose, chest. Every
thing. Caroline? Oh, you're here. Why are you staring?
Is something wrong with my face?

“Come on, Susan.” Caroline Bass leaned over the bed and kissed her forehead. “You're gonna make it.
You're gonna be just fine.” She turned to face Paul,
who'd
drawn up a chair to the opposite side of the bed.
“I believe she's comin' back, Paul,” she smiled warmly.

He nodded hopefully. The breakfast from the
Dolder Grand was balanced on his lap. He'd touched
none of it for all Ray Bass's repeated urgings that he get
something in his stomach. In truth he was ravenous.
He'd barely eaten since a late lunch Monday. He
couldn't take the chance that the rolls or coffee were
doctored. Nor would he leave the bedside though his
bladder had settled into a dull, crippling ache.

His last opportunity to relieve himself came an hour
earlier when a nurse came in to give Susan an alcohol
bath. But before he could stir, Caroline Bass asked if she could bathe Susan herself. She'd been, she said, a nurse's
aide in Mississippi. It would occupy her mind while
helping her to feel useful. The nurse had no objection.
Paul said, “Not yet. Let's wait a while.”

Now Caroline picked up the alcohol again. “Why
don't you two boys get a breath of air? Give the ladies a
few minutes* privacy.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ray Bass stood and stretched.
“Come on, Paul. Do you good.”

“Not just yet, if you don't mind,” he said. “Every
now and then I'm getting a little squeeze from her
hand.”

“That's sure a hopeful sign. But when that girl wakes
up and gives you a proper squeeze you'll faint dead
away, the rate you're goin
.
”
             
\

“Just a while longer. Please.”

Another forty minutes passed. A waving white-clad
arm caught his eye from the nurses station. The nurse was holding up a phone. He rose gingerly and walked
over to it, trying not to waddle.