Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  Whatever the reason for the cancellation, Clew assumed that Bourne had gotten the message that he, Roger Clew, would not have come. But Bourne himself called him at his office a day later. He asked for a face-to-face meeting, just the two of them, perhaps at some location mid-way. Bourne assured him that he would not come empty-handed. He had something of value to offer. Clew had told him, “Mr. Bourne, you have nothing that I want. I neither like you nor trust you; let’s not waste each other’s time. I have no wish to see you. Goodbye.”

  He’d regretted that somewhat. There was no need to be insulting. He also found himself thinking about Claire and wondering what the sweetener might have been this time around. He also had to admit that this sudden attention made him curious as to Bourne’s motive.

  On the Friday preceding the ill-fated brunch, he’d had a conversation with the Secretary of State in which the latter, Howard Leland, had urged him to attend.

  “If you’re uncomfortable, Roger, fly down with me. The moment you feel that your virtue is imperiled, I will whisk you to safety, I promise.”

  Clew declined and added, “You shouldn’t go either. The man is a criminal, sir.”

  The Secretary answered, “He’s our criminal, Roger. As you know, using criminals is in fashion again. The playing field has been leveled considerably.”

  “All to Bourne’s advantage. He’s unindictable, right?”

  “I consider that a small price to pay.”

  Clew didn’t respond. He did not want this conversation. It wasn’t about to change either of their minds. But the Secretary pressed. He said, “Explain it to me, Roger. What distinction do you see between using Bourne and using such renegades as you have employed throughout your career in intelligence.”

  “You’re referring to Paul Bannerman?”

  “Bannerman, Harry Whistler, to cite two of the worst.”

  “You’ve just cited the two very best, sir.”

  “And you’ve used them even when it was illegal to do so. But of course I don’t expect you to admit it.”

  Clew shrugged. “As you’ve said, they’re in fashion again.”

  “And we’ve broken no laws in accepting Bourne’s assistance. I’ll ask again; what difference do you see?”

  Clew answered, “Well, for openers, I trust them.”

  “You do? Where’s their loyalty? Where’s their patriotism? We need people who’ll work to further strengthen this country. Not people who recognize no government but their own. They are outlaws, mercenaries, judge and jury.”

  “Um…what’s Bourne?”

  “An American,” said Howard Leland. “First and foremost.”

  Clew blinked. “Just so I’m clear. You see Bourne as a patriot?”

  “In his way. Yes, he is. His strength is our strength, and it’s not just the oil. He’s doing work that is vital to our national interest and could end up saving millions of lives. I’d convince you of that if I were free to discuss it. I’ll remind you, however, that his help was invaluable after the September 11th attack. It put some very evil people out of business.”

  “Yes, but who? Their financiers? An arms dealer here and there? He was thinning out his own competition.”

  The secretary sighed. “A most biased view, Roger.”

  “Sir, I think you know that I’m right.”

  The secretary said, “The point is, he delivered them. Did Bannerman? Did Whistler? If they did, where’s the evidence? Those whom you’ve claimed that Bannerman took out seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. How are we to know that he actually found them? How were we to verify that he had the right people if he didn’t deliver them for questioning?”

  “They were questioned, I assure you. They’d have held nothing back. You would not have learned a thing from what was left of them.”

  “He’s a torturer? You admit that?” The secretary asked Clew.

  “Ask our widows and orphans how upset they would be upon learning that these people were not dealt with gently. I don’t think you’d hear much of an outcry.”

  “The point is…”

  “The point is,” Clew told him, “that I’d trust him with my life. Would you say the same thing about Bourne?”

  “I trust him to do what we need to have done. If his interests and those of our country coincide, that simply accelerates the process. Granted, we’ve had to turn a blind eye now and then. As you have. As you’ve just acknowledged.”

  “Let’s…agree to disagree on this subject,” Clew answered. “I’m not going near his damned brunch.”

  Our criminal, thought Clew. Situational ethics. Even so, if pressed, Clew would have to admit that “our criminal” was better at it than theirs. Bourne was definitely world class. Top ten. Off the charts. Right up there with the old robber barons.

  He was also, according to Forbes Magazine, the 34th richest man in the world. But those rankings were estimates, based on traceable wealth. If the true extent of his holdings were known, he’d be pushing Bill Gates for first place. His ‘holdings” included many public officials in any number of governments. In this country, over the past several years, Bourne’s money had helped to elect, or re-elect, at least fifteen key senators and congressmen. He did more than simply contribute to their campaigns. He had them coached on how to run, what to say, what to promise. And he’s focused on those who had something to hide, some transgression that could ruin them if published. He told them very clearly what he wanted in return for both his support and his silence.

  Clew knew all this. So did everyone in Washington. Last election, Bourne had helped to put a president in office who not only was deeply beholden to him, but who now echoed many of his views. It’s the rich who have the power. It’s the rich who’ve built this country. The worker bees have never much mattered. They vote, but they vote for the candidates we choose. The poor scarcely matter at all.

  Bourne had made his first millions in oil – Texas oil. He had since seen it grow by the hundreds of millions when the government, in return for his generous support, had arranged that he be licensed the sole drilling rights off the shores of several West African countries where enormous new deposits had been found.

  Bourne’s company did no actual drilling because his was an “oil services” company. What that meant was that he brokered the drilling rights to those who did the work and took the risks. In so doing, his company collected commissions from big oil, and also from the African governments in question. Among his “services” was to help keep those governments in power until they were no longer needed.

  In the meantime, he would suck their countries dry.

  Especially Angola. An astonishing country. It should be one of the richest on earth. Instead, it’s one of the poorest. It’s eastern half is littered with alluvial diamonds of the highest quality yet found. And they’re lying on the surface. They don’t need to be mined. But they’re still in a war zone; they’re still called “conflict diamonds.” That’s a label that DeBeers has been trying to slap on them to try to keep them off the world market. Good luck, thought Clew. Half the world’s in there buying them. Bourne’s been trying for years to control that trade himself.

  And all those diamonds, thought Clew, the best in the world, are still just a drop in the bucket. Angola’s western half, its Atlantic coast, has been blessed with proven off-shore oil reserves that are at least equal to those of Kuwait. The oil itself is light sweet crude, the most desirable grade. Add to this the most abundant fishing grounds on the planet. Angola’s people get to keep almost none of it, but try to find anyone who cares about them. They’re only Africans, right?

  Bourne would answer, “They are what they are. Show me one thing they’ve built, one resource they’d developed. What claim do they have to what lies underfoot? All they’re good for is labor and breeding more laborers when they’re not busy hacking away at each other. I see the world as it is. I didn’t make it that way. And if they’ve never had it, they won’t miss it.”

  Except many of them
did. They did not share that view. Bourne saw their objections, not as an inconvenience, but rather as a business opportunity. He made

  still more millions through the sale of arms to those governments that have the oil. They needed the arms to fight off insurgents who wanted what they thought belonged to them. And of course he sells arms to those insurgent groups as well, being paid, for the most part, with those diamonds again. He does so indirectly, through companies he controls, in order to keep them busy killing each other while his companies reap profits – once again - from both sides.

  He either owns or controls several biotech firms specializing in tropical virology. A reporter had stumbled on Bourne’s name in that connection. When asked, Bourne claimed to have no direct involvement. He said such firms were run by a charitable foundation that he had set up to honor his wife who had died in a tragic boating accident. But his motives, he admitted, were not entirely unselfish. The work these firms are doing can protect oil workers from the perils of Sub-Saharan microbes and pests. Clew doubted it. Those workers were already shot full of vaccines. They are also too easily replaced if they fall ill. Clew wondered what his real purpose was.

  No one looks at him too closely because he is “our criminal.” Here’s the Secretary actually saying so. Not that Clew was naïve about the realities of trying to do business abroad. Since the passage of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, U.S. companies were forbidden to bribe foreign officials. Very upright, very moral, and a crushing disadvantage. The result was that all of these American firms scrambled to sign up foreign “consultants.” If they couldn’t offer bribes, they’d hire people who could. It was the only way they could compete.

  The moralists in congress didn’t stop there. They decided that the U.S. intelligence services shouldn’t work with foreign agents who were outside the law.

  No assassins, of course, but that was the least of it. No spies, no paid informants, no illegal hackers unless they’ve been specifically approved in advance and a clear mission statement is written. In effect, no covert operations. If you seek that approval, you’re then held to account. If such a project goes wrong, your career’s in the toilet, especially if word of it appears in the press. No intelligence service can function in that way. No intelligence officer who is in his right mind is going to put his name to a proposal that might end up costing him his pension.

  Those in government who were realists learned early on that the services

  had been rendered impotent. They turned to the Artemus Bournes of the world who

  were under no such constraints. They knew that Bourne was already far ahead of that game. He had long since developed a network of “consultants.” He was better, and quicker, at getting things done than any intelligence service. He could deal both with criminal organizations and out-and-out criminal governments.

  Deal with them, thought Clew? In some cases, he owned them. At the least, he had his own people in them.

  None of this was a secret. Everyone knew it. They knew it because Bourne made sure that they knew it. He was the man. The go-to guy. He got results and especially the oil. The United States wanted that oil.

  But the question at hand was, what does Bourne want? Here was Artemus Bourne, here in person, in the open. As far as Clew knew, Bourne rarely left his home. His conglomerate, Bourne Industries, was based in Houston, Texas, but Bourne rarely spent any time there himself. He preferred being closer to Washington D.C. and the Briarwood estate became his base. The man almost never appeared in public for fear that he might be kidnapped or killed. This was not paranoia. Clew would call it sound judgement.

  Bourne had to be high on any number of hit lists. Those who’d kill him were not those whose futures he’d made hopeless and whose countries he’d turned into killing fields. They wouldn’t even know that he existed. Those who’d kill him were the people who were standing in line to take over and do more of the same.

  And yet, here he was in the full light of day with only Chester Lilly and that chase car to protect him. Therefore, thought Clew, whatever Bourne wants must be vitally important to him. Clew knew that he ought to swing wide and jog on, but now that he’d wondered, he was curious. Ignoring Chester Lilly, he approached Bourne’s limousine. Its rear door stood open. Bourne leaned forward, showed himself. He said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Clew.”

  Clew ignored the sarcasm. “You’re illegally parked.”

  Bourne said, “Mr. Clew, I intend to be civil. All I ask is five minutes of your time.”

  Clew gestured toward the car that had pulled in behind him. “That’s your idea of civil? Fuck you.”

  “Hey,” snapped Lilly. “Watch your mouth with Mr. Bourne.”

  Bourne said, “Chester! Be silent. Mr. Clew is quite right.” He said to Clew, “If you’d turned, those men wouldn’t have stopped you. They stay near for my protection, nothing more.”

  Clew replied, “State your business. Make it short.”

  Lilly said, “Hey, that’s twice you got smart-mouthed with him. Now get in the car. Be a gentleman.” As Lilly said this, he reached to take Clew by the arm.

  Roger Clew, ordinarily, would have simply stepped back and told Chester not to touch him again. He certainly would not have gotten physical with him. But one gets to the point where enough is too much. He took Lilly’s reaching hand and twisted it sideways, pulling Chester Lilly off balance. He swung his right foot against the back of Lilly’s knee and Lilly fell hard against the pathway.

  He heard Bourne shout, “No,” but Bourne was too late. Lilly scrambled to his feet and, still in a crouch, lunged forward to grapple with Clew. Clew stepped into Lilly, smothering his rush. As Lilly raised both his hands and searched for a grip, Clew reached his hand under Lilly’s right arm and seized him by the hair from behind. He jerked the bigger man’s head sharply backward and downward. Lilly’s throat was exposed; he was helpless. Clew jammed his right thumb under Chester Lilly’s jawbone, pressing hard against the tender cluster of nerves that he knew would cause paralyzing pain. Lilly gasped and tried to break Roger Clew’s grip, but all Clew had to do was shake Lilly’s head to keep him from regaining his balance.

  “Stop it,” Bourne shouted. “Stop it at once.” He said to his chauffeur, “You stay where you are.” He scrambled from the limo while waving both arms at the men now emerging from the chase car. Clew saw both men hesitate, then ease back into their seats.

  Clew released Lilly. He shoved him away. Lilly went reeling, tripping over his feet, before falling heavily to the grass. His face had turned red, almost purple with rage. With one hand, he covered his now throbbing jaw. He raised the other to his burning scalp and seemed horrified by what he felt there. With a squeal, he slid that hand inside his jacket.

  “Chester…” Bourne moved toward him. He said, “Don’t you move.”

  Lilly hissed, “I’ll kill him for that.”

  Bourne reached him. He slapped him. “Damn you, you will not. What you’ll do is apologize to him.”

  Lilly had his Glock half way out of its holster. He’d ignored the slap to his face.

  He snarled, “I’ll do what? After what he just did?”

  “Take a moment to notice what’s in his right hand. Look slowly and carefully, Chester.”

  Lilly saw what he meant. Clew’s right hand held a pistol. Clew was holding it low, hard against his thigh, his thumb on the safety and his finger on the trigger.

  Bourne said to Lilly, “Do you see how he’s holding it. It’s against his leg so that you wouldn’t have seen it. He waiting for you to finish drawing your weapon so that he can put a hole in your head. I have just saved your life, you damned fool.”

  Lilly froze.

  “See how calmly he waits? He really does want to shoot you. You’ve offered him a golden opportunity, Chester, but he doesn’t actually care about you. In his mind, at this moment, he sees newspaper headlines. He sees my face, not yours, on a thousand front pages. He sees me embarrassed and compromised, Chester. He sees my influenc
e shattered, my support diminished. Do you begin to understand this man, Chester?”

  None of that, actually, had entered Clew’s mind. His first thought was not to get shot. The sort of calm deliberation that Bourne had described would be second nature to Paul Bannerman and his people. In fact, it was one of Bannerman’s women who’d taught him the moves he’d used on Chester. It was little Carla Benedict who’d taught him. Bannerman himself hadn’t liked the idea. He’d said, “You’re no Carla. You’re not equipped for this, Roger. You’ve never had a gun pointed at you in your life and you haven’t made a fist since about the tenth grade. You’re better off walking away if you can. Never start a fight you can’t finish.”

  “You’re no Carla” was right. She would have thumbed out both his eyes. Still, there seemed no harm in letting Bourne think that his mind did indeed work that quickly. Clew’s heart was pounding. He hoped that Bourne couldn’t see that.

  Clew said to Bourne, “That was not being civil.”

  Bourne said to Chester, “Mr. Clew is quite right. Take your hand off that weapon and get on your feet. Use those feet to take a nice calming stroll.”

  Chester parted his lips. He sucked in a breath. The veins at his temples were still pulsing.

  Bourne said, “Not a word. Leave immediately, Chester. Be thankful that you’re able to do so.”

  Chester showed his teeth, but he remained silent. While straightening his disheveled hair with both hands, he let his eyes say to Clew what he intended to do if he ever caught him alone. He turned and walked down toward the basin.

  Bourne waited until Chester was well out of earshot. He said to Clew, “I must say that I’m impressed. I know that you have people who do this sort of thing for you, but I see that you’re quite capable of doing it yourself.”