Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  “Until you get to know him?”

  “That’s my point. I never did. I never got to see the other side of him.”

  “So you’re saying he’s like a Jekyll and Hyde.”

  “No…that’s not right either. Martin used to say it’s his eyes and his voice. Martin said when he’s angry, you’d think they’d go hard. But they don’t. Not like Carla’s or Billy’s, for example. His eyes take on a shine and he gets very quiet. He said that’s when you want to be on his side because you don’t want to be on the other one.”

  Aisha squirmed in her seat. She said, “He sounds scary.”

  “I imagine that he has his moments.”

  Elizabeth began to reconsider what she’d said. “On the other hand, I’ll tell you how Molly described him. She said he looks like, and acts like, the sort of man who mothers wish their daughters would marry. But their daughters never do because they think he’ll be boring. Reliable and steady, a good provider, but boring.”

  “His wife’s name is…”

  “Susan.”

  “She mustn’t have thought so.”

  “She might have when that’s what he needed her to think. But over time, he must have grown to care about her, probably despite his intentions. And I guess he felt the need to try to live normally. I suppose that most of us do at some point. He’d have had to tell her who he is and what he’s been, but by that time I’m sure she had a pretty good idea. It must have taken her a while to adjust to all that. But they gave it a chance. They worked it out.”

  Elizabeth felt Aisha’s hand on her knee. She felt Aisha give it a squeeze. She realized how wistful she must have sounded. Living normally. Loving someone. Working it out. Elizabeth drew a breath. She shook off the thought. They were passing through the guarded Sea Pines gate.

  Aisha said, “Mr. Waldo said some people tried to kill her. He mentioned it twice. A long story, he said.”

  “Someone tried. It was before they were married. They saw killing her as a way to hurt him.”

  “So you do know that story?”

  “Almost everyone does. By that I mean everyone who lives in our world. You don’t, so please don’t ask me to repeat it. As John said, it’s not for young ears.”

  “The story’s so awful?”

  “He…made sure that no one would try that again. Let’s get off the subject, okay?”

  “Well, we can’t,” said Aisha. “Well, okay, maybe that one. But I can’t pretend that I never met all those people. I mean, that was pretty exciting.”

  They were waved though the gate. “You made a hit with them yourself.”

  “You know what surprised me? They don’t seem very tough.”

  “They aren’t. Except when they are.”

  Aisha asked, “What about Harry Whistler? Is he anything at all like Paul Bannerman?”

  Elizabeth had to smile. “That’s a tough one. Yes and no. Think of Bannerman as the neighbor who comes over to help you when…I don’t know…say your furnace goes out. Nice guy, good neighbor, and you have no idea. Think of Harry as the neighbor who throws roaring parties and you always see a line of stretch limos out front. Paul likes to live quietly. Harry likes to live big. They’re both big, but in their own way.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Harry? He’s great genial bear of a man. He has a beard, sort of square, an Ernest Hemmingway beard. And like you he always wears western hats. It’s been several years, but that look was his trademark. I doubt that he’s changed very much.”

  Aisha smiled. “That’s not how I’d have pictured him either.”

  “You envisioned a more shadowy, nondescript look?”

  “Well, you’d think he wouldn’t want to stand out in a crowd. You’d think he’d want to be more like Bannerman.”

  “It’s the only way anyone’s ever seen him,” said Elizabeth. “If he ever felt the need to be harder to find, he could change that look pretty easily.”

  “Like you with your wigs and black outfits?” she asked.

  “Same thing.”

  “Except I wouldn’t call you genial.” Aisha touched her knee again. “I mean, you’re great with me and I love being with you, but you’re not exactly bubbly with most people.”

  A grunt from Elizabeth. “I’m working on that.”

  “Those people we met…you say they’re all pretty dangerous?”

  “Not to you. Not to anyone you’d know.”

  “You know what I liked? I liked the way they would rib you every time you got snippy. They wouldn’t do that if they didn’t like you.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “You know who really likes you? The little one, Carla. Mr. Waldo said that she was bad-tempered, but she was pretty friendly when I met her. You should have come down. Carla likes you a lot. She told me that I’m in very good hands. She said that you’re one of the best with a knife.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Carla said that? To you?”

  “No, not exactly. At least not straight out. She just said the best, but not at what. But then she said that Claudia’s pretty good, too. That’s when I thought she meant good with a knife. And right then, Billy said, ‘Let’s get off that, okay? Let’s talk about something nice.’” And Carla said, ‘Sure. Why don’t we talk about birds?”

  Never should have let you meet her, thought Elizabeth.

  Aisha said, “Claudia thinks she’s an angel.”

  “Who said so? Claudia? She announced it just like that?”

  “No, Billy brought it up. He was changing the subject. Then it was Claudia who asked both of them to stop. She was a little embarrassed, I guess, but she never said it wasn’t true.”

  “It’s probably true in her mind,” said Elizabeth. “Oxygen deprivation. I’ve seen it before. Hallucinations can seem very real.”

  “Like with me? Do I hallucinate when I talk to my mother?”

  “We’ve discussed this. You dream. It’s not the same thing at all.”

  Aisha sighed. She said, “You’ll see. You just wait.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  “Um, now that you mention it…”

  “Something else besides Martin.”

  Aisha shook her head. “I was thinking of Nadia. She’ll probably ask me what you and I did tonight. I’m going to have to tell her, but how much?”

  “Tell her everything,” said Elizabeth. “There’s no reason not to. Except that she’ll want to skin me alive and she won’t be too happy with you either.”

  “I’ll make sure Jazz is there to get between us.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “One more question,” said Aisha. “Mr. Waldo said someone was looking for you. That doesn’t mean after you, does it?”

  She’d almost forgotten. Artemus Bourne. “It’s nothing. Some guy wants to meet me. It won’t happen.”

  They continued on. Elizabeth said little. As she turned the car onto Plantation Drive, she said, “Listen, Aisha. All that talk about Martin…”

  “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

  “It’s just that I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

  Aisha said, very softly, “We’ll just wait.”

  FOURTEEN

  It was the next day, early morning. It was not a jogging day. Clew had gotten to his office by 7AM in order to catch up on assorted correspondence before being bogged down in meetings. Most of his mail had come through his computer. Most of it was encrypted, but instantly decoded at the touch of a series of buttons.

  Since last night, he’d heard nothing more from Paul Bannerman and that, in itself, was good news. Bannerman’s people must all be off that island by now. He’d have heard right away if they’d had problems. The other good news was that Bannerman now owed him. Clew had done him a considerable favor.

  Clew scrolled through his messages. He saw nothing else marked “Urgent.” He came to one from his contact in Liberia, the usually reliable Abednego Tubbs. The language of the m
essage was deliberately vague. It said that the matter was being attended to in accordance with their discussion. It said that the package was already wet and that further inspection was about to take place.

  Clew understood this to mean that the arms had been destroyed and, Clew assumed, their recipients with them. It seemed to say that the freighter had not yet been boarded, but that the General’s men were ready to do so. This message had been sent at two o’clock in the morning, Liberian time. Allowing for the six-hour difference, that meant that the message had been sitting in his machine since eight last evening, Washington time. Clew glanced at his watch. 7:40AM. The interception, therefore, had taken place almost twelve hours ago.

  Clew scrolled down the page looking for a later message. He saw nothing new from General Tubbs. He thought it odd that the general sent an interim report, but nothing more detailed after that. The boarding, Clew assumed, must have gone without incident. The ship was probably docking in Monrovia by now. Perhaps the general had decided to wait until a search of its hold could be conducted.

  At half past eight, Clew shut down his computer and proceeded down the hall to a conference room where the first of his meetings was already underway. Clew’s driver and assistant, Alex Rakowsky, intercepted him. Alex said, “You’re late, but so was everyone else. They know it’s going to be the same old bullshit.”

  “Give me an hour, then call in a bomb threat.”

  Rakowsky chuckled. “You got it.”

  This morning’s topic was the need for increased cooperation between the intelligence services. An end to the turf wars. More intelligence sharing. Even after all this new Home Security business, such meetings were an utter waste of time. Clew could no longer count the number of sessions that he had sat through on that subject. They usually followed some intelligence failure, some senator asking, “Why didn’t we know this?” Or they followed a memo signed by a new president who still thought that just because he gave an order, the various services would obey it.

  The same proposals would be made. The same assurances would be given. A few crumbs would be traded, a few files swapped. But soon human nature would kick in again because each of the services was made up of people. They deal in information. What they learn makes their careers. They don’t advance by making some other service look good. Clew thought it naïve to expect that they’d share without getting something better in return.

  The FBI’s representative yawned and stretched as Clew entered. He was already bored, but he gave Clew a wink. He and Clew had already held their own private meeting and had agreed to a small exchange of favors. The official had seen to it that Bannerman and Whistler had a twelve-hour window to get their people off that island. What he’d wanted in return, to Clew’s quiet amusement, was Clew’s help in locating Elizabeth Stride, or else in confirming that she’s actually dead. Here’s that agency still trying to score a few points with the powerful Artemus Bourne, having come up empty on its own. The FBI man obviously had no idea that Clew had already met with Bourne. If he had, he would have asked for some other favor. Clew had gladly agreed to the deal.

  At a quarter to ten Alex entered the room holding a slip of note paper. He made his apologies to the others in the meeting and said, “Sorry, sir. You need to see this.” Clew read the message that Alex had written. It said, “No bomb scare. Just a call from Paul Bannerman. You’ve been in here more than an hour.” Clew feigned a grim expression and rose to his feet. He said, “Please keep going. I’ll try not to be long.” No one ever seemed to question grim expressions.

  Once outside, he asked Alex, “Is he still on the phone?”

  Alex shook his head. “He said there’s no rush. He said he’d be in his office all morning. That was really him, right? That was Bannerman?”

  “Guess so.”

  “He sounds like…I don’t know…I don’t know what I expected. Yeah, I do. You remember Sydney Greenstreet from the old Bogart movies? That’s who I thought he’d sound like. Sydney Greenstreet.”

  Clew smiled. “That’s how you pictured him? Old and fat? Hooded eyes? I love it. Now I can’t wait to tell him.”

  “More the voice. A little creepy. And stroking a cat. But he sounded like a regular guy.”

  “He is. He’s a sweetheart. Wouldn’t step on a bug.”

  “With respect, sir, I think you’re full of shit.”

  No rush meant that Bannerman was just checking in. It confirmed that his

  people were extracted without incident. Bannerman and Whistler had both used their own planes. They both had pilots who were well experienced in snatch and go operations. In this case, however, they were under no pressure. They probably could have hitch-hiked off that island.

  Clew returned to his office. On his desk were two telephones, one secure and one open. The one that was secure was fitted with a mute that covered his mouth when he used it. It was fitted with a scrambler as well. He lifted the receiver and punched out the number of Bannerman’s office in Westport. It was a private line, also very secure, within the travel agency that Bannerman owned. The agency actually did book some travel, but it was, primarily, his communications center. The computers in most of the agency’s cubicles had never so much as looked up an airfare. One of those terminals was said to have access to the NSA’s Echelon surveillance system. Clew doubted it himself. Echelon was untappable. Nor would Bannerman say one way or the other. And his silence, of course, encouraged the belief that his people had managed to crack it. As in diplomacy, as in any negotiation, what the opposition thinks you know is often more useful than the knowledge itself.

  Bannerman, in fact, was busy booking some travel when told that Roger Clew was on his private line. He was making an assortment of dummy arrangements for

  some of the people who’d be coming to Westport. The dummies were intended to disguise their destinations. A few of them were doubtless under surveillance by someone’s intelligence service somewhere. He showed most of them flying into Washington, D.C. They would certainly be followed if they actually showed up there, perhaps even rounded up and detained. But they wouldn’t be there; they’d be in Westport.

  He was dressed in a faded sweatshirt and jeans, sipping coffee that he’d picked up at Starbucks. His normal dress at work was a suit or a blazer, but he’d promised Susan he’d be home by late morning to finish wallpapering the nursery.

  Bannerman took the call in his conference room. “Good morning, Roger,” he said brightly. “Well done. Molly and the others are back here in Westport. Harry and his group flew out before dawn. They’ll be landing in Geneva in an hour.”

  “He took Adam and his lady back with him?”

  “Both Adam and Claudia and two or three others. They’ve left Adam’s boat. They’ll send a crew for it later.”

  Clew asked, “Will Harry Whistler be coming to Westport?”

  “He was coming all along. I have some business with Harry. But now it seems that both Adam and Claudia will be joining us. You’ve heard about Claudia?”

  “Yeah, she thinks she’s an angel.”

  “I’m developing an interesting circle of friends. What about you? Are you a definite?”

  “Barring some crisis,” said Clew, “Absolutely.”

  “The guest list seems to be growing by the day. I’m starting to wonder if it’s such a good idea. So many of us in one place.”

  “Except for the ghosts,” Clew reminded him.

  “The trouble is,” said Bannerman, “they don’t want to miss it either. They haven’t seen some of these people in years.”

  “Yeah, but no one’s going to know who’s there and who’s floating. If you’re doing this over two or three days, you can rotate a few of them at a time. Either that or postpone if you’re uncomfortable about this.”

  Bannerman had already set up a rotation. He said, “No, I know that a raid isn’t likely. And Susan’s looking forward to seeing her father. So, absent any kind of a realistic threat, I’m reluctant to disappoint everyone.”

&n
bsp; “They tried you twice,” said Clew. “You made it expensive. I’m not saying that they’re any more comfortable with you, but as long as you tread lightly and don’t rub their noses in it, I think they’re inclined to live and let live.”

  “You agree with that precept? Live and let live?”

  “Within limits,” Clew answered. “Um…why are you asking?”

  “Because I have some news, but before we get into it, have you found out what Bourne wants with Stride?”

  “Not yet, but I mean to. And I will.”

  Bannerman took a beat before speaking again. “Roger, the news is that Stride is alive. She’s been told of Bourne’s offer. She has no interest. As far as Bourne and the rest of the world are concerned, Elizabeth Stride is still dead.”

  On Clew’s end, stunned silence. Then he managed, “You’ve found her?”

  “She had mixed feelings about the encounter. But we’ve promised that we will

  respect her wishes. That ‘we’ includes you, of course, Roger.”

  Clew’s voice took an edge. “You did not have to say that.”

  “No need to take offense. I’ve said the same thing up here. She’s dead until she tells us differently.”

  “Okay, none taken. But just so I know…someone actually met her and spoke to her, right? We’re not talking hearsay. This was face-to-face with Stride?”

  “Face-to-face. No mistake. It was Elizabeth Stride.”

  Clew asked, “You’ve confirmed it with more than one source.”

  “Be assured. There were multiple sources.”

  Clew paused to absorb this. “Are you going to tell me where?”

  “Roger…”

  “Roger, what? I don’t need to know? It would really piss me off if you said that to me.”

  “Will you stop? It’s her wish. This is not about you. I said we’d tell no one. I’ve given my word.”

  Another brief silence. “Is she there? Is she in Westport?”

  “No, Roger, she isn’t. She’s never been here. And that has to be your last guess.”