Bannerman's Ghosts
Page 11
Elizabeth asked, “Now, what kind of boat is it? Are we looking for power or sail?”
“It’s a sailboat. Tan hull. The name is Last Dollar.”
“If you see it, just say so. Don’t point.”
Aisha tilted her head. “I think I already have. That big one way down to the right.”
Elizabeth shifted her eyes in that direction. The boat Aisha meant was tied up at the fuel dock some three hundred feet from where they stood. It was lit inside and out. She could see movement in the cabin. But the transom was in shadows. She could not make out the name.
Elizabeth shook her head. She said, “That doesn’t seem likely.”
“Bet it is. It’s the only one that fits the description.”
Elizabeth remained doubtful. That could not be the one. Not that lit up. And not at a fuel dock. Not unless its owner is awfully sure that he didn’t have an enemy in the world. No professional, for that matter, would get caught dead on a sailboat. No speed, no mobility, a thin fiberglass hull. If she were the enemy, that boat, with those on it, would be a lump of melted plastic by now.
Aisha said, “Well, we’re here. Don’t you want to check it out?”
But as Aisha spoke those words, her voice had trailed off. She had turned to look at something behind them.
“What is it?” asked Elizabeth.
Aisha kept her voice low. “That man with the crab trap. He was staring at us. Now he’s speaking into a cell phone.”
“Is he watching us now?”
“No, he just turned away. He said something to that other man, the one cleaning the fish. Now the other man is looking at us sideways and…uh-oh.”
“What is it?”
“The second man. The smaller one. He’s one of the men in those FBI photos.”
Elizabeth didn’t turn because her eyes were on the boat. She saw a woman’s figure climbing up through the hatch. The woman was dressed in a dark business suit and she was holding a cell phone to her ear. She stood with one hand cupped over her eyes as if to shade them from the glare of the shore lights. She was looking directly at Elizabeth. Now a young man, or a boy, came through the hatch and joined her. Elizabeth took a breath. No, it wasn’t a boy. It was a small, slender woman with
red hair.
She said, “Aisha, right now. Walk back to the car.”
“What’s happening?”
“Just do it. I’ll be two steps behind you.”
“Oh, boy. I’ll try. But I think we’re too late. Those two men came over. They’re blocking the ramp.”
Elizabeth turned. She saw that they had. And that they weren’t so old after all. Now she saw that the woman with the cell phone was coming. She had gestured to the redhead, telling her to stay on board. The redhead objected, but she obeyed. The one with the cell phone was approaching the ramp. Her eyes were still locked on Elizabeth.
Aisha took her hand. “How much trouble are we in?”
“I want you to leave. They won’t stop you. Go now.”
“Leave you here? I won’t do that. Who are they, Elizabeth?”
The two men heard Aisha say Elizabeth’s name. The big one said, “See? Did I tell you? I told you.” The other answered, “I’ll be damned.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Hello, Billy. Hello, John.” Then she cursed herself under her breath.
More of Bannerman’s people. She’d ignored her own hunch. And she should have known that if that boat were still there, someone would have been posted to guard its approaches. She’d been living in peace for too long.
The man who said, “I told you” was Billy McHugh. Back then, he was known as Bannerman’s monster. A frightening man, unnervingly silent. Come to think of it, she’d never heard him speak before this. But here he was, speaking. He said, “Next time listen,” to the smaller man with him. The smaller man repeated, “I’ll be damned.”
Not only had Elizabeth never heard McHugh speak, she’d never seen a change of expression on his face. But his face now revealed not only surprise, but what might pass for pleasure at seeing her again.
John Waldo, the one who kept saying “I’ll be damned,” had been only slightly more talkative when she knew him. Unremarkable in appearance, you’d never look at him twice. But Waldo, it was said, could move through a darkened house without so much as stirring a curtain. No security system, it was said, could defeat him. No border patrol either. No minefield. His hair was white, but it was white then as well, except when he needed to be someone else. Some other nationality. Even some other sex. Like her, he had worn an abaya in his time. As with her, it had made him invisible.
Billy said, “Hello, Elizabeth. Except weren’t you dead?”
Waldo added, “That’s what I thought. Good to see that you’re not. Except what are you doing down here? Are you part of this?”
When one of them spoke, the other’s eyes and head kept moving. Between them, the two men missed nothing. Billy stood with his massive arms folded, one hand probably resting on the butt of a weapon that was slung underneath his left shoulder. Waldo stood with his hands clasped behind him. Waldo’s weapon, no doubt, was at the small of his back. Baggy jackets, thought Elizabeth. That alone should have alerted her. They were too covered up for this warm evening.
She answered, “I live here. And I’d like to stay dead. I wish you’d forget that you’ve seen me.”
“You live here? No kidding?”
“And no, I have nothing to do with all this. I want to keep it that way.”
Waldo seemed doubtful. “So you’re just passing by?”
“Um…guys…you’ve been busy. I was curious. Wouldn’t you be? What if someone did all this where you live?”
Billy said, “Well, for starters, this wasn’t all us. We just got here today. A friend needed a favor. We’ll be gone before sunrise tomorrow.”
“Was that friend Harry Whistler? Might that be his son’s boat?”
“Those are…pretty good guesses for someone just curious.”
“Forget it,” she said, “I’m sorry I asked. Now excuse me; we have to be going ourselves. It’s way past this young lady’s bedtime.”
She took Aisha by the arm, but Aisha resisted. Elizabeth would have thought that she was frozen with fear were it not for the look on her face. Her expression was a mixture of relief and fascination. To Elizabeth’s dismay, she extended her hand. She said, “I’m pleased to meet you. My name’s Aisha.”
John Waldo took her hand, but he used his left. He kept his right hand near his weapon. “Like you heard, my name’s John; this is Billy,” he said. He looked up at Elizabeth. “So she knows who you are?”
He was asking, of course, how much Aisha knew, and therefore how much he could say in her presence. He was also asking her what name she was using. She had answered to Elizabeth, but Elizabeth what? He expected an alias. She chose not to enlighten him. She’d have preferred that they hadn’t heard Aisha’s name either. Too uncommon. Too easy to find.
Elizabeth answered, “She knows more than enough. And we really have to be going.”
Aisha said, “But Elizabeth, if these men are old friends…”
“They’re not friends. They’re simply men I once knew. And they know that I mean no offense.”
Neither man had made room to allow her to pass. “I’m offended,” said Billy. “You’re not being nice. Here’s a girl with good manners. You could learn a few things.”
Elizabeth groaned. She could scarcely believe this. Here’s Bannerman’s monster pretending to sulk. Here’s a world class killer, gun, knife or bare hands, telling her that she’s being antisocial.
“Stay a minute,” said John Waldo. “Molly’s coming. Say hello.”
Elizabeth turned. She saw that the woman who had stepped off the boat had slowed midway to the ramp. She was tapping out a number on her cell phone as she walked. Elizabeth knew of only one Molly. She asked, “That would be Molly Farrell?”
“Yeah, you met her?”
“Just that once.”
“It was where I met most of you, yes.”
Elizabeth had especially liked Molly Farrell. Very young back then. Even younger than she was. Sad eyes, but warm-hearted. They had had some long talks. She had seemed not at all like the rest of that crowd, but Elizabeth had learned that she was every bit as lethal. She was Bannerman’s expert in electronics, explosives.
She asked John Waldo, “Who is she calling?”
“Bannerman, most likely.”
“About me? Damn it, John…”
“No harm to you. She’s just touching base. We won’t mess up your life, I guarantee you.”
“Is he here on the island?”
“We didn’t need him for this. Molly’s Bannerman’s right hand; she’s been calling the shots. She wants a few words. Don’t rush off.”
Molly must have asked them to hold her. Very well. She would stay for another five minutes. Aisha, in the meantime, had lost any sense that these might be dangerous people. She was asking John and Billy, “So this Bannerman is your boss?”
Billy rocked a hand. “We don’t think of him that way.”
Waldo squinted. “We don’t? Then what is he?”
“You say ‘boss’ and people think, like, a Mafia thing.” He turned to Aisha. He said, “He’s more like a coach. Except coaches yell sometimes. He never yells.”
Aisha smiled. “I have coaches who yell.”
“Oh, yeah? You play sports? You look like you play sports.”
“Not another word, Aisha,” said Elizabeth.
Waldo scowled. “Here’s a kid who knows how to converse with adults and here’s you telling her to shut up. Don’t you know what that does? That arrests her development.” He said to Aisha, “Your age, I played stickball. Down here, you can’t do that, I guess. Too many trees.”
Elizabeth glowered. “John, what are you doing?”
“Catching up. Making small talk. Hey, come on. It’s been years.”
“And giving Molly Farrell time to finish her call. By the way, when did she become Bannerman’s right hand? Anton Zivic had that job last I heard. Is he dead?”
“So now you’re asking questions. It’s okay for you?”
“Keep this up and I’ll arrest your development.”
A smile. “Zivic’s fine. You want to hear this or not?”
She had met Anton Zivic. An interesting man. He’d been a KGB colonel, stationed in Rome. Once Bannerman’s enemy, then an ally, then a friend. An elegant man. Cultivated. Well read. More a planner and a strategist. More like Bannerman himself for that matter.
Waldo said, “He’s still in Westport, but he had to slow down. He needed two new hips and a rod up his spine. He got car-bombed. You never heard?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I hadn’t.”
“It was when he went back to Rome for a visit. Some old grudge. We took care of it. Anyway, Anton gets around pretty good. He runs this fancy antique shop in Westport. You ever get up there? Stop in. He’d like to see you.”
Billy said, “You should. You’d get a discount, I bet.”
“I don’t travel so much any more.”
Billy said, “He gave my wife a good deal on two lamps. These were Tiffany lamps. You know, like church windows. And he got us a whole rack of old copper pots that my wife has hung up in the kitchen.”
“And she uses them,” said Waldo. “Hell of a cook. She’s Italian. Best cooks in the world.”
“The secret’s fresh vegetables.” Billy patted his stomach. “I grow them myself. I got a garden.”
This newest revelation was almost too much. Billy McHugh has a woman? An actual wife? And he’s growing tomatoes and peppers in his yard? Next she’ll hear that he shops the garage sales and bakes casseroles for new neighbors.
Waldo saw her surprise. He found it amusing. He said, “Billy’s been housebroken some since you knew him. He was living in this rooming house, run by a widow. One thing led to another. You know how it is.”
No, thought Elizabeth. She couldn’t imagine it.
“Bannerman, too,” Waldo told her. “He’s married.”
“That I knew,” said Elizabeth, “but as I recall, some of you were against it at the time.”
“Some of us, yeah, but only at first. Susan, that’s her name, came to Westport to snoop. She was a newspaper reporter. Worse than that, her father, he’s this ex-cop named Lesko, didn’t want his daughter near Bannerman either. Damned near killed him after someone else tried to kill Susan. That’s another long story, but it worked out okay. He’s part of the family. He got married himself.”
“That’s nice,” said Elizabeth. She was still watching Molly.
“Got his own kid,” said Billy. “Hey, you know who he married? Elena Brugg.
You heard of her, right? The Brugg family? Zurich?”
“Not off hand,” said Elizabeth.
“The family’s worth about nine zillion dollars. But she falls in love with this ex-New York cop who’s as ugly as Billy and almost as scary. It’s funny how it happened.
That’s another…”
“Long story?”
“Maybe when you’re not so rushed,” said John Waldo. He paused, then brightened. He said, “Hey, you know what? Bannerman and Susan have a six year-old daughter and another kid’s due any time now. The whole crew’s flying in to get a look at the baby. We’ll talk some business, but a lot of it’s social. It’s like when we all went to Chamonix.”
“I’ll send a stuffed animal,” said Elizabeth.
“You ought to come up. Bring Aisha here with you.” He asked Aisha, “Would you like that? We’re more fun than you think. Don’t listen to Ms. Stride here on that subject.”
Cute, thought Elizabeth. He’d just confirmed her last name. Aisha had shown no confusion on hearing it. But she knew that it was pointless to have tried to keep it from them. After this, if they wanted to find her, they’d find her.
Aisha said, “Sure I would. If Elizabeth goes. But she doesn’t seem crazy about the idea. Could I ask…who’s that woman who stayed on the boat?”
“There’s three,” said Waldo. “Which one do you mean?”
“The one with red hair. The one who’s pacing the cockpit.”
Waldo looked. “Oh, her? She’s one of our friends. She flew down with Molly this morning.”
“Is she, like…a killer?”
“Just a little bad tempered.”
“She’s the one I’ve been hearing about all afternoon.” She looked up at Elizabeth. “So, you know her after all.”
“I wasn’t sure then.”
“Can I meet her?”
“You may not.”
Waldo let out an exaggerated sigh. “See that?” he said to Aisha. “Antisocial again. You, you’re willing to meet some new people. She doesn’t even care about seeing old friends. You’d think she would have asked who else is here.”
Elizabeth said, “I already know. That is Carla Benedict on that yacht, is it not?” Molly had told her to stay put for some reason. “It was Carla who blew up that house with a fuel truck. It was probably Carla who took out that jet. Nice to see that she’s learned to calm down.”
“She didn’t do the plane. And she’s calmer than you think. Did you know that she owns a bookstore in Westport? Sells a lot of Harry Potter. She does readings for kids.”
This was more than too much. “I am…happy for her.”
“Her bookstore’s right near Anton’s. Nice restaurant in between. And she has a boyfriend. I don’t think you’d know him. She’s had bad luck with boyfriends, but this one has lasted.”
“That’s what you call bad luck?” asked Elizabeth. “She kept killing them.”
Billy said, “Nah, that was just that Italian. Before him was Doc Russo, but she didn’t kill the Doc. The same people who tried to kill Susan got him, but with Carla some people just assume.”
“The
new guy,” said Waldo, “is a Russian, like Zivic. Like Zivic, he’s ex-KGB. Carla met him in Moscow and, yeah, she did shoot him, but they got along better after that.”
“Good story,” said Billy, “But it’s not for young ears.”
“Those young ears,” said Elizabeth, “have heard quite enough.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Aisha. “They got along better?”
Waldo said to Elizabeth, “Hey, you brought it up. The point is…”
“The point is,” said Elizabeth, “that you’re all peaceful citizens except when you’re killing each other.”
Waldo frowned. “Not each other.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, I do. And I think you know how it is. Carla’s still Carla when she needs to be Carla. Bannerman’s still Bannerman. We’re all who we are.”
She said quietly, “Not all of us. I’m out of it, John.”
“I hear you. But you better talk to Molly.”
“What about?”
“Someone’s looking for you. Some guy name of Bourne. Here she comes. Let her tell you about it.”
TEN
Artemus Bourne had dined alone in his study. He did not look up as his maid cleared the dishes and his butler placed a brandy on his desk. His attention was focused on a large well-thumbed atlas that he had been perusing through dinner.
No one, he reflected, seemed to have much use for a big heavy atlas these days. It’s all on computers. CD-ROM disks. Nothing ever seems quite as real on a screen as it does in a handsomely bound volume. The world is not a video game.
He enjoyed, of an evening, tracing his fingers over those countries whose economies he had influenced. Twenty-two, to be precise. Spread over three continents. In a few, he damned near was the economy.
In its margins he had jotted the key industries he owned, the commodity markets he had cornered. He had penned the names and titles of a hundred officeholders who were, inextricably, in his pocket. Not named, but envisioned, were the thousands of workers who trudged off to their jobs every morning. Tens of thousands. A million. He’d never troubled to count them. All secure in the conceit that their lives are their own. Well, they’re not, thought Bourne. They are mine.