The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (40 page)

“Do you think, Mr. Grassi,” Bannerman asked pleasantly, “that we might take a walk?”

The dealer beamed, pleased with himself.
“Mr.
Grassi,” he repeated for the benefit of the man named Tucker. “Did I tell you? Always polite. Always a class guy.”

“And usually discreet,” Bannerman added. “Can we talk, please. Alone.”

Grassi picked up a bottle of cognac and poured a waiting glass for Bannerman, another for Billy. “Whatever you like,” he said, “but I don't know what I can tell you that everyone here doesn't know already.”

“Such as?”

“That you're here to pop those three turkeys up the hill. We're all here to catch your act.”

“Hey look,” Grassi said, winding down, ”I never saw anything like this either. What's the harm if I enjoy it a little?”

“Well,*’ Bannerman answered reasonably, “the word
un
confidential
comes to mind.”

“Yeah, but you're among friends. You know who located those three, don't you? The KGB up in Bern.”

“Leo Belkin. I know.”

“That didn't make you wonder a little why they'd care? And whether they'd be down here waiting for you?”

“It did.”

“So it figures you planned for it. Forget them. Except for Belkin, we told them to get lost.”

“How did you come to be here?”

”Urs Brugg. We go back a ways. He called in a favor.”

Bannerman waited.

He had not, but Bannerman nodded. “Go on.”

“Anyway, friend or not, with the KGB you never know so Brugg asked me to keep an eye on things. Also to make sure the hitters stuck around until you got here.”

“How did you do that?”

“Easy.” A smug grin. ”I hired them. Sent Kurt, here, over with some money. Told them to sit tight until I tell them what the job is.”

Grassi reached inside his jacket. He produced a small stack of photographs, which he dealt out like playing cards in front of Bannerman, making three piles. He held up the last of these to show that it had information written on the back in longhand.

“News you can use,” he said. “Background stuff. What jobs they did, references, how they like to work, how they're armed right now. Ask me, Reid scraped the bottom of the barrel for these three. Word is you iced him for it. Word is Molly Farrell rigged his phones.”

Bannerman grunted. He leaned over the photographs.

“Lady from Mossad”—Grassi gestured with his thumb— “hasn't stopped bragging about her.”

The photographs were recent. Marbella backgrounds. All taken from a distance but with excellent detail. Two each were head and shoulder shots. One showed them all together, full length, walking up a dock from a large motor yacht that, Bannerman supposed, belonged to Grassi.

He was glad to have them. He'd had only physical descriptions and capsule profiles, third hand. But he did not linger over them. Better not to show that he was less than prepared. Enough that the descriptions were accurate. The Englishman, their leader, was one Martin Thomas Selly. Blond hair, worn long, combed back, receding chin, features vaguely aristocratic. Rejected by Sandhurst after psychological testing but claims to have graduated. Joined the South African Security Forces, deserted to avoid court martial on unspecified morals charges. The shorter man, Algerian, named Amal Hamsho, peasant face, crooked teeth, hooked nose, looked rather like one of the camels with which he was probably raised. The woman, Erna Katerina Dietz, born in Danzig but had a West German passport, bad skin, stretched tight, expressionless eyes dulled by drugs, a prostitute, $20 tops, probably how she met Amal. Altogether an unlikely trio. The Englishman must have scraped the barrel as well.

“Watch out for the Brit, by the way.” Grassi pointed. “Kurt thinks he's nuts.”

So is all this, thought Bannerman. Or is it?

“That explains you.” Bannerman cocked his head toward the other tables. “Why is everyone else here?”

Tucker sniffed.

“Why the bodyguards, Mr. Grassi? Here of all places.”

A look of innocence. “Kurt is my driver. Also my friend.”

”I meant this one. The one with bad manners.”

The nearest tables went quiet. Billy seemed to be dozing. Grassi put a hand on Tucker's arm.

Bannerman shook his head, but said nothing.

Grassi squeezed the arm, gesturing with his free hand toward the bar in general. “This is your competition,” he said to Tucker. “What do you think?”

“Wait a second.” Tucker straightened. “Don't do what?”

Grassi tossed his head. ”I wasn't sure about stupid.”

Clutching his hand, gasping, Tucker stared at him, first in disbelief, then in rage. He exploded. Snarling, he whipped his forearm toward Bannerman's face. Again, Bannerman ducked, toppling backward over his chair and rolling into a crouch. Grassi had scrambled away. Billy remained seated, arms folded, within Tucker's reach. Tucker roared. He lunged again, grasping Billy's lapels, heaving him to his feet. He cocked a knee, aimed at Billy's crotch. It was never thrown. Just in time, he felt a hard coldness beneath his chin. A knife, a broken glass, he didn't know which. He'd seen nothing in Billy's hands. He went rigid. Then, still gripping Billy, afraid to release him, afraid not to, he felt himself being eased backward against the edge of the table, and then across it. He was looking up now, hearing no sound, feeling Billy's breath against his face, seeing those dead eyes, the hardness still at his throat. But it was moving now. He felt it tracing upward, over his cheek, pausing at the corner of his eye.
No. No . . . no, don't/
But it was moving again, away from his eye, down his cheek toward the table's surface. He felt a tug against his ear. And a wetness. Eyes wide with fear, he tried to speak. Billy shushed him.

“This is my good suit,” Billy said quietly, his face an inch from Tucker's. “Would you let go now?”

Tucker nodded, blinking. He opened his hands. They'd gone stiff.

“You want to stand up now? Nice and slow.”

“Look down,” Billy said.

Tucker obeyed. He saw the knife. It had a wide curving blade in the shape of a bird's wing. A skinning knife. Beyond it, at his feet, were the buttons of his shirt. Tucker had felt nothing.

Billy's free hand groped for something on the table's surface. He found it. He brought it slowly up to Tucker's face. It was small and pink and smeared with blood. Billy waited until he saw in Tucker's eyes that he knew what it must be. Then he brought it to his own mouth. He chewed it, deliberately, slowly, and swallowed. Tucker's stomach bucked, his chest heaved. Billy forced him to his knees and stepped back.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked quietly.

“What will be done with Tucker?” Bannerman asked.

“Have a nice night, Mr. Grassi.”

Bannerman rolled his eyes, mentally. Tucker's ear had not mixed well with the paella. ”I have some Rolaids. And some toothpaste.”