“Drop it,” she said, her chest heaving.
He was clutching his knee, his face contorted by pain. He looked up at Susan and at the pistol she held in a combat grip. His eyes darted about the room as if looking for a place to hide. They stopped at a point behind Susan, near the still open door. The eyes went wide.
“Get her,” he wailed.
She knew better than to turn. ”I said drop it. Drop the fucking knife.”
Dommerich ignored her. He pointed the knife past her.
“She hurt me,” he blubbered. “Get her.”
A shadow moved across the floor. Susan spun. Her finger squeezed the trigger but the Beretta did not fire. Horrified, she remembered that the safety was on.
“Easy,” came a voice from outside. “Don't shoot me.”
Carla's voice. Susan's heart pounded.
She would have.
“Lesko?”
Roger Clew, sitting in Jack Scholl's car, watched in disbelief as the familiar figure climbed out of a taxi and into the blue Chevrolet. Raymond Lesko. The Raymond Lesko. Who hadn't even bothered to scout out the street.
“You know him?” asked Scholl.
Clew nodded, perplexed.
He had only met Scholl ten minutes earlier. Clew had called him by radio phone on his way from the airport. Patched through to Scholl’ s car, he learned that a surveillance had been set up around a rental car that had been traced to Carla Benedict. Scholl had reason to believe that the car was soon to be reclaimed, possibly stocked with explosive devices.
“This reason to believe,” Clew asked, frowning. 4'Where'd it come from?”
*'I can't tell you that. But it's solid.”
Clew watched as Lesko pulled out into traffic. “Don't fuck with me,” he said darkly.
Scholl's color rose. “We . . . might have a wire. Some local girl. They've been passing messages through her.”
”A legal wire?”
Scholl answered with a shrug.
”I want to hear the tapes.”
”I . . . destroyed them. The bureau could be embarrassed if . . .”
Clew looked at him, more disbelief. And then at Lesko's Chevrolet, now headed south in no particular hurry. Another FBI car had fallen in behind.
”I want to talk to Lesko,” he said. “Take him right now. No guns.”
“Negative.” Scholl shook his head. “He'll lead us to Bannerman. I want them all.”
Clew let out a breath. “How many agents in this surveillance?’'
“Eight, not including us. Four cars.”
“And how many at that house where the car went through the wall?”
“Four.”
Thirteen agents, thought Clew. All tied up by a diversion in Malibu and musical cars in Burbank. The LAPD, meanwhile, is neutralized because Bannerman promised them the serial killer if they'd give him room. They believed it, he supposed, because they wanted to.
Clew had no doubt of what was happening here. It was Bannerman, clearing the children off the streets. Bannerman was about to hit Sur La Mer.
He reached for Scholl’s radio phone and handed it to him.
“Take him,” he said, “or I'll have your ass for breakfast.”
The KGB safe house in Culver City was a union hall for migrant workers.
A nice idea, thought Bannerman. A dormitory upstairs. Other quarters for staff. A steady flow of middle-class, well-dressed whites with social consciences. Hot meals provided by a nearby Catholic church. It even had a government grant. It functioned, Leo Belkin assured him, quite legitimately and quite in the interests of the migrants although the key organizers were all KGB operatives.
Belkin had joined him there, feeling the need to take a break from his vigil and also to smooth his way among nervous Soviet agents. Not the least of his reasons for coming was to remind Bannerman that a favor of this magnitude would require a substantial quid pro quo, if only to keep peace with Belkin’s superiors.
“Can you spare some people,” Bannerman asked, “to keep an eye on Marek's house and gallery?”
“To what purpose? You say he's fled.”
“Trust me on this. It's in your interest.”
Belkin was noncommittal. But Bannerman knew that he'd see to it.
Bannerman tried Susan from a secure phone. He got a busy signal. Annoyed, he told Belkin how Carla had bolted from the car. Possibly headed back to the Beverly Hills Hotel and her supply of pantyhose. More likely headed for Sur La Mer. John Waldo had gone there in hope of intercepting her. And otherwise to scout it. Billy was outside flagging new arrivals. Elena was resting.
“And if Carla gets there first?” Belkin asked.
“Then she's on her own.”
“This does not . . . force your hand?”
Bannerman sighed. He shook his head slowly.
Leo Belkin saw sadness, not anger, in his manner. The words, and their tone, said that he had already reconciled himself to the loss of Carla. He would not risk other lives to save her from herself. Belkin wondered, even if she survived, would Bannerman ever allow her to return to Westport.
“What will you do, Paul?”
“I'll wait.”
“But not for long, I think.”
Bannerman shook his head again, distantly.
He realized that Belkin expected, even hoped for, some dramatic response. He was, after all, the famous Mama's Boy. And that was the problem.
He would not deny that the legend had its uses. But it was a burden just as often. Two winters ago he'd gone to Switzerland to ski, only to ski, and people died because they simply would not believe that. Even now, Leo Belkin could not quite accept that he had no deeper purpose in coming to California. Or that he knew as little as he did.
He had no idea what Axel Streicher wanted to protect. Or why he needed until noon. Or what Roger was afraid of. There must be dozens of people, he thought, perhaps hundreds, who were at this moment trying to find him, and, failing that, trying to anticipate his next move. Wondering what the phantom Semtex was for.
Let them.
If everything they think they know is wrong, their actions will be wrong. He had no wish to die for their mistakes either.
His next move, he now decided, would be to take a nap.
After he tried Susan again.
50
On the camera monitors at the rear of the main house, Theodore Marek watched the arrival of the small caravan. He had darkened the room, the better to see the screens.
In the lead, a Volvo station wagon, that annoying young doctor at the wheel, a nurse ...no, a nun ... in the passenger seat holding a clipboard. A jitney bus followed, the markings of the Motion Picture Country House on its side, a man in white driving, a pipe between his teeth. Marek watched with satisfaction as the gates swung shut behind them.
He turned to another monitor that scanned the great lawn. The members, most of them, were scattered about, some in wheelchairs, that blind old man busy with his stupid paints.
Marek had reconsidered keeping them all, including Feldman and his helpers. That other asylum would only start calling, looking for them, within a matter of hours. But he could certainly delay their departure. Make sure all documents were checked, all members examined, and then of course fed. In the meantime, keep them in the line of fire should any other visitors decide to come calling.
The door behind him opened. A dim light spilled in from the hall. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that it was the decanter of brandy and the sandwich he had ordered. The. tray was set down at his side. A glass was poured. Retreating footsteps. The door closed again.
He checked another bank of monitors, trained where Darby had deployed the other guards. He could not see them but he knew that they were theré. They were well armed and out of sight.
The cameras covering Tower Road showed no activity there. One man walking a dog. One car, his own bodyguards in it, cruising the perimeter. They had alerted him by radio of Dr. Feldman's approach.
He wished he ha
d more of his own people out there. But he'd ordered the best of them to stay at the house and guard his possessions. Especially his vault. Keep the media away. Keep the police from penetrating any farther than had poor Felix's car.
Mr. Marek, they were to say, was out of town, incommunicado, inspecting the art collection of a famous recluse. All very hush-hush. He knows nothing of these people who came crashing through his wall.
Even at Sur La Mer, Marek would stay out of sight. Right here, watching the sweep of the monitors. Let Darby deal with Feldman in his normal bumbling, officious and time-consuming manner. When that nun with her clipboard discovers one of the members unaccounted for, it ought to keep them all in the line of fire even longer.
“Drink your brandy, Mr. Marek.”
Marek jumped at the sound of the voice. A woman. He spun in his seat, instantly terrified, his eyes alternately wide and squinting as he tried to make out the dim figure standing, arms folded, her back against the door. The sister? The Benedict woman? Impossible. And yet there she was. Small. Short hair. An odd shine on her face and on her forearms.
“How did you . . . who ... I didn't. . .” He couldn't catch his breath.
“Drink it, please.” She took a step toward him.
A wave of relief flooded upward from his stomach. It was not that woman at all. It was the homely one. Luisa. Cried all the time. Played dead when he touched her. The one he'd returned.
His brain whirled but he remembered now. Darby had said something about her. That she was back. “Messed up ... not too bad,” he'd said. Marek had paid no attention. Back from where?
Her face, her arms, seemed to have been burned. They were covered with ointment. The hair wasn't short. It was simply gone but for a few tufts at the rear. He stared, transfixed, more aware of her increased ugliness than of the small pistol half hidden under one folded arm.
“Luisa,” he managed. “What ... I mean, how did you .. ”
“Drink your brandy.” Her arms separated. The pistol dropped to her side. The movement caused her to wince and yet Marek saw peace, not pain, in her eyes. “Drink it. Then we'll talk.”
Susan had never seen Carla so calm. Her own pulse was still racing. Carla seemed to be sleep-walking.
She watched, the Beretta ready, as Carla entered the bungalow and approached the pale young man who sat curled into a ball against the sitting room couch. One of his hands still held the knife. Both hands massaged his injured knee.
“Hello, Claude,” said Carla. She lowered herself to his side. Susan noticed that her knees were hurt as well. They had bled through her jeans.
Gently, Carla took the knife. He did not resist.
“H...hi, Carla,” he stammered. He tried to smile. She answered it.
Carla studied the fighting knife, testing its balance.
“Claude? You use two knives, don't you?”
He swallowed. “You could tell?”
”I could tell.”
He drew one hand from his knee and touched the pocket of his windbreaker. Carla reached into it and found the black leather case that contained his skinning knife. She slid both weapons well under the couch.
“Can you walk, do you think?”
“I'll try.”
“Um . . .” Susan stepped closer. “Walk where, Carla?”
Carla ignored her.
“Is she your friend?” asked Dommerich.
Carla hesitated, but she nodded.
”I didn't know. I mean, first I thought she was the older lady, Molly, but then I saw she wasn't. Then I was afraid they arrested you for what I did or maybe they had you tied up in here. Or something.”
“No harm done. It's okay.”
“Oh.” He touched one of her knees. “You're hurt, too.”
“Just scraped. I'm fine.”
Dommerich’ s eyes wandered the room, searching. ”I sent you flowers,” he said.
Carla glanced where they had fallen. “They're lovely. Thank you.”
“And cookies.”
”I saw. Try to stand, Claude.”
“Carla.” Susan took another step. “He stays where he is.”
She turned her head, gesturing toward the Beretta. “Put that away. You won't need it.”
Susan shook her head.
“Look at him,” Carla said quietly. “Does he look dangerous to you?”
Claude was wide-eyed, his jaw slack, the lower lip protruding. A sunken chest, soft at the waist. No, he did not look dangerous. None of his victims would have thought he did either.
Susan glanced around the room as if for help. She saw the fallen telephone. She wanted to rush to it and pick it up, hopeful that it would then ring and she would hear Paul's voice telling her what to do.
What would he say?
He'd be very calm. He'd tell her to keep him there. Wait for him. Maybe even call the police.
But Carla wants to take him, Paul. I think she'll let him go. She's not even asking what his real name is. Paul, I can't let her take him.
Put her on the phone.
She won't talk to you. She's helping him, right now, to his feet. She's asking if he has a car outside.
Then let her go, Susan. Don't take her on.
Paul, I have a gun.
What gun?
Mine. I mean, there were two in your bag. I might have to shoot him.
Don't. Do you hear me? Do not. You're not like us, Susan. You never can be like us.
In her mind, Susan hung up on him.
She had to. Claude was standing. Carla brought his arm around her shoulder. Susan felt for the hammer with her thumb, making sure that it was fully cocked.
“Let us by,” she said. “Be careful with that.”
Susan felt the beginnings of tears. “Carla . . . please don't make me.” She raised the Beretta, lining the sights against the young man's chest.
Carla took a breath. “Hurt him, Susan, and I'll hurt you,” she said.
Susan glanced at the ceiling, the floor. She considered a warning shot. Maybe several. Draw a crowd.
Carla saw the thought in her eyes. “I'll hurt you for that, too.”
Susan heard the click of a knife springing open. It flashed in Carla's right hand. She had not even seen where it came from.
“Claude?” Susan heard herself say his name.
He turned his head. He looked at her sideways.
“Talk to her, Claude. There's no way you're walking past me.”
His lips moved, indecisively. The lower one trembled. ”I . . . I was trying to help, you know,” he said at last.
He was suddenly six years old, she thought.
”I know,” she said.
“Your name is Susan?”
She nodded.
“Those guys . . .” he cocked his head vaguely toward Burbank and toward Thousand Oaks. “They were worse than me.”
She found herself wanting to reply. But she could not.
“Didn't they shoot you once? You and this lady . . .” He groped for a name. It came to him. “Elena?”
Even Carla blinked.
Susan could only shake her head. Her father flicked into her mind. Pizzas. His warning. Her mind could not finish the equation.
“Sit down, Claude.” Susan set her jaw. “Tell Carla you're staying.”
He seemed to consider it. Then he lowered his head. ”I can't go to jail. They'll ... I know what they'll do to me there.”
He tugged Carla forward.
A tear spilled onto Susan's cheek.
She fired.
51
Lesko, spread against the roof of the blue Chevrolet, submitted to a body search. Three cars full of suits had cut him off as he neared the Hollywood Freeway. They showed weapons, held ready, but they were not pointing them. That struck him as odd. What did not surprise him at all was that one agent, apparently in charge, had gone directly to the trunk and was unscrewing the spare tire.
“He's clean,” said the one who had patted him down and was now handcuffing him. Lesko had l
eft his pistol with Bannerman.
Another car squealed to a stop. Two men, dressed more casually than the others, climbed out. The one from the passenger side was staring at him. Lesko saw recognition on his face. LAPD, he decided. Probably Andy Huff.
“Lesko?” he asked.
“Nice to meet you.” Lesko stood upright.
Huff looked at the older agent. “Scholl? What the hell is this?”
“You'll see.”
Lesko heard the hiss of escaping air. Then grunts and prying sounds. Then silence.
“So?” Huff asked.
Lesko turned to look at the older agent. He saw the disappointment on his face. And confusion. The other agents had ”you-win-some, you-lose-some” expressions. But not the one named Scholl. With him it was personal.
He had to hand it to Bannerman. The son of a bitch was smart. “You'll know the one who set the wire,” he had said. “You'll see it in his eyes. If you don't, Katz will”
Yeah, well, fuck you about Katz.
But suddenly Lesko wasn't so sure anymore because the passenger door of Scholl's car opened and he saw that the man climbing out was Roger Clew.
Little prick.
The one whose games got Elena shot. And Susan almost killed. He waits until the cuffs are on.
Clew nodded a tentative greeting.
“Fuck you, too,” said Lesko.
Clew's expression showed no surprise at all. “Nothing, right?” he said to Scholl. “And he's unarmed?”
Scholl spread his hands.
“Where's Bannerman, Lesko? We need to talk.”
“Ah . . ,” Huff stepped in. “Could we discuss jurisdiction here? Maybe even what the charge is?”
“Obstruction, for openers,” said Clew, showing his identification. “And it's a federal matter.”
Huff looked at Lesko, questioning.
Lesko saw the gridlock caused by his interception. Obstructing traffic was more like it. “I'll tell you later,” he said to Huff. “Clew's a weasel but don't get on his shit list.”
Bannerman's Law Page 40
