Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  Last he heard, however, she’d settled down with some Russian who had previously worked with Leo Belkin. An ex-KGB major named Podulsk. Viktor Podulsk. That was after she helped nurse him back to health, having shot him by mistake in a Moscow hotel lobby. It seems that she and Bannerman were waiting in the lobby to nail some….wait.

  Wait a minute….never mind.

  He could spend all day recalling Carla stories, many of which he had trouble believing. And as for the story that she’d finally settled down, maybe she liked to test her skills now and then to make sure that she hasn’t gotten rusty. Whistler would let his father know that he’d figured out who had helped him. His father might not confirm it, but he won’t deny it either. Whistler would at least like to get their addresses. Send some flowers to both of them, maybe.

  Speaking of rust and the testing of skills, the sex issue finally came to a head. How it did and what happened was nobody’s business. Her mother knew. Somehow she could tell. Claudia might have given her a nod or a wink, but he didn’t think Claudia had gone into detail because he’d asked her not to and she’d promised. He certainly would not say a word to his father. If he did, he might never hear the end of it.

  They had taken a train from Geneva to Cologne, a six-hour ride into Germany. At Cologne he had rented a car and he drove her down the east bank of the Rhine. It’s the best side for viewing all the castles. They drove south as far as Wiesbaden, turned the car in, and boarded another train home.

  Because it was late, a long ride to Geneva, he had booked a first-class sleeping roomette so that she could catch up on her rest. They took their supper in the roomette and had ordered a bottle of a decent French wine. The wine, combined with her prescription medication, made Claudia more assertive than usual. After the steward came and cleared the supper trays, she reached to lock the door, snuggled against him, and murmured, “Are you ready to give it a shot?”

  “Claudia, listen…you’re a little bit smashed.”

  “No, I’m not. Well, a little. Anyway, let’s just see.”

  She proceeded to unbutton his shirt and to lightly tickle his chest. She said, “This is where you put your hand on my thigh. Maybe even brush a hand across my boob.”

  “Claudia…I remember. It has not been that long.”

  “Then, Adam, let’s do it. No more stalling.”

  This did not set the most romantic of moods, but she might have been nervous as well. He responded by starting to caress her cheek. Most of what he felt was her collar. She said, “Oh yeah, wait. Let me take this thing off,” and she reached for the Velcro that fastened it.

  “No, no, leave that on.” He tried to stop her.

  “Uh-uh. I like to be nuzzled.”

  He didn’t know where he was expected to nuzzle. Bandages covered

  her entire throat and neck. The entry wound’s padding was half an inch thick. The exit wound’s padding was twice that.

  But the collar came off and so did her sweater. She turned so that he could unhook her bra. When he didn’t, she reached to undo it herself. “You can jump in whenever you’re ready.”

  “Claudia…look, with the lurching of a train…”

  “I can handle it, Adam. Now get with the program. Aren’t you dying to find out?”

  “At least keep the collar. I’d feel better if you do.”

  She reached for the light switch. “On or off?”

  Looking back on that night, he could only hope that a crowd hadn’t gathered in the hallway, listening. It would have heard gasps and low, throaty moans and it would have heard shouts of “Do you see it? Do your hear it?” followed by a few primal screams.

  The first “it” in question was the flashing of lights that she thought had their origin within her. She thought they erupted from deep within her being and were strobing all over their compartment. The second “it” in question was the symphony of bells that seemed to go off in her brain.

  “Yes, yes, I was right. Yes, yes, it’s fantastic. Adam, can you believe this?”

  That was another thing people would have heard as Claudia reached her most unearlthy height and as he tried to keep her from hurting herself. The flashing lights were real but they were coming through the window. They happened to have been passing through Stuttgart at the time and the lights were more commercial than celestial. The bells were the bells that went off at every crossing. The motion of the train must have been the biggest factor. That and three glasses of Merlot.

  She’d gone limp. She melted and lay snuggled against him. “Adam?” she murmured. “What did you think?”

  “It’s like…nothing I’ve ever experienced.”

  “I told you. Did I tell you?”

  “Yes, you did. Those heightened senses.”

  “Oh, rats. Including pain. Now my neck hurts.”

  “Stay still. I’ll get your collar. And I’ll fold down the beds.”

  “Don’t you move. Holy smoke. You were fantastic.”

  Actually, he knew, all he’d done was hold on.

  She said, “There were bells. There were actually bells. I thought ringing your chimes was just an expression.”

  “I know. First time for me, too.”

  “You could hear them?”

  “Uh-huh. I couId. But I’m not sure we’re going to hear bells every time. It’s better if it’s always…you know…different.”

  She managed an “Mmm-hmm.” She fell asleep in his arms.

  It turned out that Whistler needn’t have worried. They made love just about every night after that. And each time they made love was different and thrilling because Claudia had decided that it must be. Part of that, he supposed, was that she was in Europe and every locale seemed romantic. If she didn’t hear bells, she would hear other things. One time she was sure that what she was hearing was the sound of distant applause. It would rise and fall the way it does in a theater when cast members take their final bows. That embarrassed her some. It was only the rustling of the wind in the trees, but she imagined it to be some otherworldly cheering section that had dropped by to check on her progress. For some time after that, she would pull up the sheets so that spirits weren’t able to watch.

  Claudia would still take some getting used to.

  ELEVEN

  At the end of a month they all said their goodbyes. Whistler and Claudia

  packed their bags; the two parents drove them to the airport. Whistler’s father

  had asked Kate Geller to stay and drive down to his lodge in Chamonix. She agreed, but only for another few days. She said she had a business to run. She told Claudia that she might miss her a little. Not much, just a little now and then. She said she was glad to have the house to herself and had intended to kick her out anyway.

  “And you call me a liar?” Whistler’s father said softly, after Claudia had moved out of earshot.

  “Harry…shut up. Let’s go. Get me drunk.”

  “Better not. You know me. I might take advantage.”

  “No, you won’t. So I’ll have to. Let’s go.”

  Whistler and Claudia flew to Puerto Rico and from there to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. That was where they took possession of the boat. He’d explained why they were doing this, and about the deal with Poole, and he’d given her every chance to protest that a year seemed a little extreme. After all, she wouldn’t see much of her mother in that time. And a boat, he pointed out, might prove too confining for an outdoorsy girl like herself. But she never hesitated. She agreed with his father. A year might be just what he needed.

  During their outings on Lake Geneva, she had learned how to handle a boat fairly comfortably. Real competence would come with experience. On her own, she read books, watched instructional videos, and learned how to read charts and plot courses. He was pleased, though not surprised that she had thrown herself into it. She had never been one for half measures.

  She no longer needed her cervical collar, but he asked her to bring it along just in case. They would hit rough weather sooner
or later and she would be glad of the support. Her neck was largely healed and the therapy had done wonders. But the injury left her neck a bit rigid and some of her movements seemed almost robotic. What she’d lost in fluidity of movement, however, she gained in terms of a chin-held-high elegance. Whereas before, she had an outdoorsy look, she could now have been a model or a princess.

  She fell in love with the Tartan on sight. She especially liked the name that he’d given it. He’d arranged to have the red scrollwork removed and the “Me & My Gal” sanded off. It was bad luck to change the name of a boat, but the old name and scrollwork made it stand out too much. The new name that he gave it was “Last Dollar.”

  “Last dollar?” she asked. She didn’t get it at first. “Did this boat cost you everything you had?”

  “Try again.”

  “Because you know I can work. There are plenty of florists. And I used to waitress in college.”

  “Claudia…Last Dollar. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”

  She thought for a moment, then brightened. “The ski trail?”

  “In Aspen,” He nodded. “And on top, by the lift, what happened up there?”

  She grinned. “It’s where we met. Oh, Adam, that’s sweet.”

  He supposed that he might have blushed a little.

  “And it’s so romantic.” She threw her arms around him. “It’s the nicest thing you could have done.”

  “This yacht, by the way, will be in your name as soon as you sign a few papers. Also two bank accounts, one Swiss, one Grand Cayman. You won’t have to work for some time.”

  “My name? Not our names?”

  “You earned it the hard way.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’ve got you to take care of me. Come on, let’s take a look down below.”

  She thought that he should carry her over the threshold, but that was hard to do on a yacht. He’d have to have slung her over his shoulder and struggled to back his way down. The mood of the moment might quickly have faded once she whacked her head against the topside. So he took her by the hand and led her down the several steps. She gasped at almost everything she saw.

  The interior was solid mahogany throughout, polished to a mirror-like sheen. Lalique crystal windows were set into the bulkheads; the upholstery was cream-colored leather. The main salon was a miniature of a well-designed luxury living room. Sliding panels concealed a built-in TV that ran off a satellite dish. There was a VCR and a CD player and speakers wired throughout. The walk-through galley had a smaller scale version of every modern kitchen appliance. The pantry and bar had already been stocked.

  Whistler had noticed what sort of books she liked as she’d browsed his father’s shelves in Geneva. He already knew what sort of music she enjoyed. He’d had purchased and shipped a sampling of each. She had learned a smattering of German in their travels and she’d already had some inadequate French of the type taught in American schools. He bought her some tapes and texts from Berlitz. If she wished…and she did wish…he would have her nearly as fluent as he was well before their year had gone by.

  Whistler led her to the chart room, just forward of the galley. It had been equipped with every state-of-the art navigational and communications device.These included the basics – a cell phone, a Fax and an answering machine – plus a device that was called a Magellan. It combined a computer with a GPS or global positioning system. It could send or receive instantaneous messages anywhere in the world.

  “Your mother has a hand-held version of this one.”

  “She does?”

  “Or she will, by the time she goes home. So it’s not as if we’re dropping off the face of the earth. You can message back and forth all you like.”

  “I can tell her where we are?”

  “It would be better if you don’t for a while. These messages are hard, but not impossible to track. My father, however, will know where we are. This thing transmits a continuous signal that only his equipment will recognize.”

  He showed her the bedrooms, one forward, one aft. The aft cabin was the larger, more luxurious of the two, but he’d opted for the smaller forward cabin.

  “For who?” she asked. “You mean we still get separate rooms?”

  “Oh, no. Not this time.”

  “Not ever again.”

  She didn’t ask him why he’d chosen the small one. Actually, she preferred it because, overhead, there was a tinted plastic hatch that opened wide. They could fall asleep looking at the same moon and stars that lit the skies over Colorado.

  Whistler’s reason for preferring it, which he kept to himself, was that anyone attacking the boat while they slept would assume that they were in the aft stateroom. Another minor precaution also probably not needed. But it was one that might give him an edge, however slight, should an unwelcome visitor come calling.

  Claudia took her time exploring the boat. She went from place to place checking every switch and instrument, making notes on the function of each. She began to unpack for the both of them. While checking the closets she discovered a locker that was just below the main hatch. It contained a rack of armaments and two kevlar vests and an ample supply of ammunition.

  “Adam, why all these guns? You said you were through.”

  “My father had them put there.”

  “His idea or yours?”

  “I didn’t have to ask. Every boat in these waters has some kind of protection. You’ve heard of carjackers? There are boatjackers, too.”

  “Like pirates? Really?”

  “It doesn’t happen every day, but it happens.”

  She reached to run her fingers over the firearms. They were, in addition to his own Beretta pistol, an Ingram MAC-10 with a thirty round clip, a drum-fed shotgun with a cut-off stock and an M-87 .50 caliber rifle.

  “What’s this rifle?” she asked. “I’ve never seen one that big.”

  “It’s a military weapon. For snipers. Long range.”

  She frowned. “You were a sniper? Is that what you did?”

  “Um…actually this weapon isn’t for people. It’s for putting holes in equipment.”

  That seemed to be what she wanted to hear, and his answer was more or less the truth. He had once brought down a command helicopter with a rifle identical to this one. He had also disabled several ground-to-air missiles at a range of almost two miles. No explosion, just a hole that more than likely went unnoticed until they tried to fire the missile. That’s when it would have exploded.

  “What kind of equipment?” she asked. “Like a hull?”

  “A hull or an engine. More humane than shooting people.”

  She nodded toward the shotgun. “That doesn’t look so humane.”

  “It’s called a streetsweeper. Well…down here, a decksweeper.”

  “I guess I’ll need to learn how to use them,” she said.

  “No, you won’t,” he answered. “There won’t be any troubIe.” He reached to close the locker. “Pretend they’re not there.”

  “I’m supposed to protect you. I think I should learn.”

  “We’ll see. There’s plenty of time.”

  She said she thought that she should learn, but she said it with distaste.

  It was a reaction that he shared. He supposed, however, that as long as she’d seen them, he might teach her how to handle them safely. The shotgun, at least. It would be hard to miss with it. Twenty rounds to a drum, half buckshot, half slugs. It could probably cut a speedboat in half.

  For the next eight months, Last Dollar was their home. They would wander with the breeze, no pattern, no plan. They would choose their next landfall on a whim. By their third month out, Whistler found himself believing that this might actually last. He’d kept waiting for Claudia to wake up one morning and realize that she must have been out of her mind. But Claudia never did. She never wavered.

  At the outset, he’d intended that they’d keep to themselves and try to avoid probing questions. This was more out of prudence than from any real fe
ar that someone might be actively looking for them. But as he should have known, that was not going to work. There were always other yachts in every anchorage they came to. One look at Claudia was usually enough to get them invited for cocktails. Those they met, however, seldom asked many questions that were of a personal nature. Most of them were on an escape of their own, although not in a fugitive sense. They were taking a break from whatever their lives were back in Toledo, Chicago, wherever. Only the here and now mattered to them. They might ask him where he came from, meaning where he’d been cruising, but they didn’t much care what he’d done before this. The past seemed to be of no importance.

  Even so, he and Claudia used assumed names. He would introduce himself as Kip, sometimes Greg. He thought these names suited the sort of young man who had a lot of time on his hands. Claudia would make up her names on the spot. She thought Fluff or Bootsy were the kind of names that went with a Greg or a Kip. The use of false names had begun a precaution, but Claudia thought there would be no harm in having some fun while they were at it.

  “Gotta keep it light, Adam. But don’t worry. I’m watching. I’ll never let anyone harm you.”

  Names aside, he’d asked Claudia to cover her scars whenever they would be with other people. The entrance and exit wounds were still vivid. Someone would be bound to ask what had caused them, and the subject was better avoided. Although Claudia was not at all self-conscious about them, she took to wearing little green or white scarves, knotted to one side with long trailing ends, whenever they were in company. He had bought her several. They looked good on her. Almost anything did. He had also requested that she try to avoid telling anyone that she was an angel.