The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (88 page)

“Mr. Brugg? This is Paul Bannerman speaking.”

“How are you, Paul?”

“I'm well, sir. How is Elena?”

“Recovering nicely. A visit by your Mr. Lesko has
greatly lifted her spirits. He must be a man of great charm.”

”Um . . . yes, sir.” Paul looked at the ceiling. “Mr.
Brugg, I'm about to place a call to the man who caused
your niece to be shot. Please stay on the line but say nothing at all. Just listen.”

“Am I to hear a confession?”

“It will be more in the nature of a repentance, sir.”

“I will listen.”

Reid's only regret was that Fuller would never actu
ally know who gave him his comeuppance. Strange, the
way things work out. Whitlow's plan seems to have worked out in spite of all the bungling. The idea of the
attack on the girl was not only to break the linkage if it
existed or to keep it from connecting if it didn't. It was
also designed to distract Bannerman, shatter his concentration, make him vulnerable, perhaps even give
him cause to sue for peace. And, yes, to punish him.

The death of Elena was to shatter that linkage once
and for all. If that attempt succeeded it would have
been a simple matter to point the finger of guilt at
Bannerman. He saw the cocaine in Susan Lesko's
mouth, presumed Elena to be its source, and in a rage
ordered her execution. Then the Bruggs would be hunt
ing him as well. No corner of Europe could hide him.

But this, in its way, was even better.

Reid glared at Ortirez, who was now at the bar,
petulantly pouring his own drink while offering none to
himself or Whitlow. Disgusting person. He'll never
know how close he came to being sacrificed to Banner
man had not Bannerman called practically begging for help. He'll be sacrificed in any case. It's merely a ques
tion of to whom and for what.

Paul's outer office, which he'd closed for the day, was
filled. Lesko entered to see what he presumed to be Bannerman's entire group except for the shooter in
Maryland. He recognized fewer than half. Nearly all
were wearing headphones. Molly Farrell was seated at a
call director. In one hand she held an instrument that
had switches and meters on it with bright LED read
outs. It looked homemade.

Billy McHugh was at another cleared-off desk, set
ting out champagne bottles and a row of plastic glasses.
Paul was at the desk nearest Molly Farrell and sitting
next to him was Robert Loftus, his jaw wired, the rest of
his face a wreck. Loftus waved when he saw him.
Bannerman looked up from his phone and motioned
Lesko over.

“I told you,” Bannerman said, “that I might let you
push the button but the vote was to give Loftus the
honor. You've been bumped.”

Lesko looked at him blankly. “What the hell is all
this?”

“I told you. Happy hour.”

“Happy hour,” he repeated
.

“Go find a chair.”

Ask a silly question.

Reid stared at his watch. The minute hand moved
slowly toward six and then past it. Twenty seconds.
Thirty seconds. Thirty. Stay composed, he told himself.
You're in control. Act the part.

It rang.

Reid forced a smile. He motioned Charles Whitlow
to the other extension. Whitlow scurried to the chair nearest it, a notepad on his lap, knees close together.

Four rings.

On a signal from Reid, they picked up their receivers
together.

At the call director in Paul's office, Molly peered at a
meter on the instrument she held as Reid answered.
The drop in amperage was twice what it should have been. She held up two fingers for Bannerman to see.

“Palmer? It's Paul. Is your phone secure?”

“It is. I had it swept an hour ago.”

Molly looked toward her audience, her expression
smug. Most of them broke into mimed applause. Lesko
scratched his head.

“Are we alone, Palmer?”

Reid considered telling the truth. After all, it was Bannerman who had proposed a conference call. But
the lie came out by reflex. “We're alone at this end.”

“At this end,” Paul told him, “we have Molly Farrell
monitoring for any cut-ins by listening devices. We also
have Anton Zivic, who shares our outrage at all that has
happened. You don't object, do you?”

Reid was less than comfortable but he could not ob
ject. He did not like working with women, even if they
were only technicians, and was appalled to discover that the communist Zivic appeared to have risen to a position of high trust. “Not at all,” he said.

As Reid spoke he saw Whitlow waving vigorously
and pointing toward Ortirez. Ortirez had found a third
extension and was quietly lifting the receiver. Reid ges
tured angrily. Ortirez ignored him.

Molly's hand waved. Her meter showed a sudden drop of 15
mill amperes
. The two fingers she'd been
holding aloft changed to three.

Paul looked at her questioningly. He'd presumed the second person to be Charles Whitlow, but who was the
third? Molly shrugged. He hesitated for a beat, then
shrugged in return.

“Palmer, our whole group is assembled here.” He
looked to his left where every available chair and desk
top held one or more of his agents. All were seated except
Billy, who'd begun pouring champagne. Janet Herzog had brought her knitting. Carla Benedict used the time to balance her checkbook, but her eyes were
shining. All the rest were eagerly attentive except John
Waldo, who'd had a sour expression since he arrived and
was idly leafing through a Bermuda brochure. “Every
one wanted to be part of this,” Bannerman told Reid.

“I understand
...
of course. . . .” Reid's voice
trailed off. Paul could almost read his thoughts. Reid was
envisioning them, all together, trapped in one place,
lightly armed at best. However, he would be thinking,
his day would come. Bannerman would soon divide his
forces, send them out, and they would be caught in the
act of murdering the Secretary of State. After that,
there would be a slaughter. Even if some stayed behind,
no one would hide them, protect them. Public outrage
would be such that
…

“Palmer,” Paul interrupted his reverie, “As long as
we're being truthful with each other
….
”

“At long last, Paul.”

”. . . I should tell you that Anton was pretty sure
you were behind all this a few days ago. That was before
we knew it's been Barton Fuller working with the co
caine traffickers all along. So he sent Molly Farrell down
to your house.”

A long silence. “To what purpose, Paul?”

“You'll see in a minute. I'm afraid I wasn't entirely
truthful about Lesko, either. He's here listening in.”

“Paul
…
”

“Bear with me, please.” Bannerman could hear an
exchange of frantic whispers. “Palmer, I have one more
person here who especially wants to say something to
you. I believe it's in the nature of a resignation.”

He waved Molly forward. Watching her meter, she
kept three fingers aloft to show that all three were still
listening. She placed the instrument before Loft
u
s,
guiding his hand to a plastic switch. Now Paul raised his
arm. The arms of all the others, except a confused Raymond Lesko and a sulking John Waldo, rose up in uni
son. Loftus took the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Reid,” he slurred through wired teeth.

A gasp through the line. “Robert?”

“I won't tie up the phone. I just wanted to say good
bye.”

“Robert! What are you. . . ?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Reid.”

Paul's arm came down. The others fell in unison.
Loftus hit the switch.

A sharp snapping sound. Then, instantly, a duller
thukk,
like an archer's arrow hitting a target pad. A
chorus of bird-like squawks, each at a different pitch. A
telephone clattered against a desk top. A glass smashed
against a hard surface. Now there were the sounds of
furniture toppling over and of bodies thumping against
a thickly carpeted floor.

Silence now. No sound at all. Loftus. stared at the
machine grimly. Lesko, his eyes wide and disbelieving,
clung to his earpiece. Molly listened for a few seconds
more, then broke the connection.