The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (31 page)

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Authors: John R. Maxim

BOOK: The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

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“What's”—he turned visibly pale—“What's the point?”

“To get her settled in your mind, one way or the other. You won't be useful to me until you do.”

”I don't believe this.”

“Is that an argument?”

“It's a suggestion,” he said, his color rising again. “You want another one? Go f—”

“Make your choice, Lesko.” Bannerman sat back.

They watched him leave, slamming the door behind him. Zivic winced at the single shouted obscenity that echoed through the center hall and again at the tortured grinding of Wesley Covington's gears. Then silence. He said nothing for several moments. Finally, he threw up in hands.

”I myself do not believe this,” he said
to Bannerman.

“What part?” A look of innocence.

“Are you going on a mission or are you matchmaking?”

Bannerman tried to shrug off the question. Zivic would not let him. “Okay,” he said finally, his manner a trifle sheepish. “No one else seems to have much control over Lesko. Elena might keep him out of trouble.”

“And out of your way?”

“That would be nice.”

“Let me test my grasp of your scheme,” Zivic said wryly. “Lesko sees his born-again drug queen. He meets the family. They do not run screaming from the room. Perhaps he is now not so anxious to dash off to Spain.”

“It was more of an improvisation. But yes. That's the idea.”

“Perhaps he will even stay with Elena. Live happily ever after in Zurich while you and Susan live here in blessed relief from his constant disapproval.”

Bannerman smiled. “God should be so good.”

“God should also not be such a practical joker. But he is.”

“What do you mean?”

”A man such as Lesko could never live in Zurich as a princeling of the Bruggs. A woman such as Elena does not become a hausfrau in Queens. A compromise is Westport.”

The thought of* Lesko as a permanent neighbor brought a glaze to Bannerman's eyes.

“Anton?”

“Yes.”

“What stake might the KGB have in this?”

“My guess? Nothing sinister. The Bruggs are useful people to know. Even more so to have them in ones' debt.”

“They'll know I'm coming. They'll be watching.”

“As interested observers. Colonel Belkin knows that he has more to lose than to gain if he interferes.”

“You know the man. What is he like?”

”A good mind. Pragmatic, not at all doctrinaire. Not even especially political, but a Russian first and last.”

“Any chance he'd try to take me and then trade me for you?”

Zivic smiled. “If not before, why now? Besides, I am old news, especially since Gorbachev. And you are presumed to be under the protection of the State Department. But what could protect their people here if our friend Billy McHugh should vanish into the night and begin passing amongst them.”

Bannerman nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Could it be chance that so much seems to be happening at one time?”

“An epigram comes to mind: When it rains, it pours.”

“You think it's coincidence.”

”I think you know perfectly well what it is. Even Lesko knows.”

”A setup?” Bannerman made a face. “No. Certainly not all of it. Too many ways for it to backfire.”

“Not all of it taken together,” Zivic agreed. “But break it down into its parts. Put Urs Brugg aside for the moment. What are you left with?”

“This car bomb business?” A sigh. A hint of sadness. ”I know. It sounds like Roger, doesn't it.”

Zivic nodded. “The tape of a Drug Enforcement Administration wiretap just happens,
accidentally,
to fall into the hands of—”

“One of the four New York cops.” Bannerman finished his thought. “Four out of thirty thousand, who were brought up here by Lesko, who were seen by Roger Clew, and whose names he could easily have learned.”

“His motive?”

“Lesko said it. Make us think we're under massive attack. Put us back to work killing drug dealers and terrorists. That wouldn't surprise me as far as it goes. The problem with it is that this plan, for Roger, is so transparent.”

“Unlike, for example,” Zivic asked, “his causing Palmer Reid to wonder about your recent visit to Switzerland?”

Bannerman said nothing. He appeared not to have heard.

Zivic understood. Paul, he knew, had not asked Roger Clew about the telephone call, cited by Palmer Reid, that had probably, ultimately, led to at least six deaths with more to come. He had chosen not to believe it. Or to believe that the call, if made, was innocent, although careless in the extreme. Or, at worst, that Roger's intention was merely to nettle Reid, never dreaming that an act of mischief could go so terribly out of control. This last would certainly explain why Roger's famously dormant sweat glands have so recently begun to function. Further than that, Zivic realized, Paul was unwilling to go. Not without evidence. Anything more could not be forgiven. Nor could it be overlooked.

“The other problem with it,” Bannerman said, as if he'd been lost in thought, “is one of scale. How could Roger seriously think that a dozen or so of us could make an important dent in so many of them?”

“He told you, did he not,” Zivic asked, “that he was working on something that would—”

“Knock my socks off,” Bannerman nodded. “But I've heard him say that about his recipe for chili.”

Zivic said nothing.

Bannerman rose to his feet. ”I know,” he said softly, not looking at Zivic.

I
know you know,
thought his friend.

Bannerman stepped to the bank of monitors and threw a switch. Hector Manley appeared on one of the screens. He sat on a bed, cross-legged, dressed only in a hospital gown, staring back into the camera lens. A chain, coated with white plastic, ran from his right ankle to a bolt in the far wall.

“You'll find no more answers there, Paul,” Zivic said gently. “The man is wrung dry.”

“Take good care of him, Anton.” Bannerman flicked off the screen.

Bannerman punched out the numbers that released the electric lock to the room in which Manley was held. He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. He had brought a chair with him. He placed it, deliberately, well within the range of movement permitted by the chain. He straddled it, the slats facing Manley, his arms folded across the back.

“Have you been fed?” Bannerman asked.

Manley nodded. He did not look up.

Except for the metal bed, bolted to the floor, a sink and a toilet with no lid, the room was bare. “You'll get some furniture this morning. A comfortable chair. A lamp. A radio. If you'd like some books or magazines, tell the men who bring them what you prefer.”

Manley's expression had been sullen, subdued, a man without hope. A flicker of it, only that, now appeared in his eyes.

“When will I be killed?” he asked.

“You'll be here for several days. I'll decide after that. In the meantime, no one is going to hurt you.”

“No . . . operation?”

“You didn't force my hand. I'm glad that you didn't.”

The Jamaican seemed to wilt. He closed his eyes. “How,” he asked hesitantly, “might I
not
be killed?”

“I'll decide whether you are a danger to me or not. But I'm afraid you're definitely a danger to Mr. Covington and his family.”

Manley considered this for several moments. “If you want the truth,” he said, ”I respect the man. But he challenged me. Many people know it. If I retum, I will be a danger to him as he will be to me.” He looked up. ”I could have lied to you, Bannerman. But you would have known it.”

“No chance of reaching some sort of truce?”

Manley stared at him curiously. “If there is a point to it, I will try to think of a way.”

“Let me know what you come up with.”

The Jamaican nodded slowly. He straightened his legs, easing them onto the white tile floor. “Who are you, Mr. Bannerman?”

“You claim you were never told? By the Arab?”

“Never.”

“Or by the Cubans?”

The question seemed to surprise him. “How are they involved in this?”

“You take direction from them, don't you?”

Manley shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Were you not trained in Cuba?”

“In urban guerrilla tactics, yes. And in Marxist theory. The evils of the capitalist system. But we were also trained in the distribution and sale of cocaine. Sitting through all that political nonsense was the price we paid for what was useful.”

“Then what did they get in return?”

“American dollars. Hard currency,” he answered. “Cuba is a conduit from the suppliers in Colombia. They also, of course, cherish the hope that the blacks of your rotting inner cities will rise in revolution. We are expected to organize them. We will not. We will take what we can and run as fast as the rest.” Manley looked at him curiously. “How is it you don't know this?”

“Know what?”

“About drugs. About me.”

”I have no interest in the drug trade. Except when it affects me. And except that I detest the people who use them.”

“Then we have something in common.”

Bannerman raised an eyebrow.

“It's true,” Manley assured him. “Drug use is forbidden to anyone who works for me. Break that rule and you will be stretched across the hood of a car as a quarter-inch hole is drilled through your knee.”

Bannerman pursed his lips. He found that interesting. “An electric drill?” he asked. “Not a bullet?”

“Progress, Mr. Bannerman. It is a refinement developed by the Belfast Irish, not by me. It is slower, more terrible to endure but”—Manley hesitated; his hands dropped to his own knees as if to protect them.

”I wouldn't dream of it,” Bannerman shook his head. “Please go on.”

The Jamaican made a gesture that said there was little to add. “Only that, terrible as it is, there is a certain practicality to it. The damage is far more easily repaired than that done by a bullet. Those so punished eventually walk more or less normally, much the wiser for their experience.” Manley looked at his hands. “Mr. Bannerman?”

“Yes?”

“Will you ever tell me who you are?”

“It's too long a story.”

“It seems that I have time.”

“I'm afraid I don't.” Bannerman rose from the chair. “But you might say that I am to Westport what Mr. Covington is to One hundred fifty-third Street.”

A rueful smile. “Mr. Covington does not leave the bodies of dealers in the trunks of cars just outside his borders. There have been such stories about Westport. This was you?”

“Among others. Yes.”

“And you are left in peace? The authorities do not trouble you?”

“On the whole, no.”

“This town. Westport.” He did something with his face to show that he was aware of the absurdity of what he was about to ask. “Can a black man buy a home here?”