Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  “I’d still like to meet her.”

  “I…don’t see that happening.”

  “Your decision?”

  “Her request. It’s not up to me. If it were, we’d have you both over for drinks. I wouldn’t mind seeing her myself.”

  “Well, what can you tell me? Is she working? What’s she doing?”

  Bannerman said, “Working? Not the way that you mean it. She’s made a new life and it seems to be a good one. She has friends. She has a home. She feels safe.

  She’s overdue.”

  “Married? A boy friend?”

  “That’s none of our business.”

  “Paul, give me a break. This has come as a shock. I’ve been reading about her, thinking about her; I’ve had trouble getting her out of my head. I was probably in prep school the last time that happened.”

  “A crush?”

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  “Okay, an attraction.”

  “An interest,” Clew insisted.

  “Hey, Roger…listen. I don’t blame you a bit. I found her extremely attractive myself. A little hard to know, hard to like at first, but if someone had put three holes in your belly, you might be a little stand-offish yourself.”

  Clew asked, “Where was this? At Chamonix?”

  An affirmative grunt. “Just before they left Europe. She and Kessler, I mean. They stayed for something like six or eight weeks. I was there for part of that time.”

  “Kessler didn’t find her so hard to like.”

  “Well, she wasn’t a walk in the park for him either. She’d get in a black mood and threaten to leave him and ten minutes later she’d be crying in his arms. I’m making her sound unstable and maybe she was. I assume that you know what she’d been through.”

  “As I’ve told you,” said Clew, “I’ve been reading.”

  “Then try to sound pleased that she’s put it behind her.”

  “Is she over Kessler?”

  “Um…Roger…”

  “I’m just asking. It’s a reasonable question. After all, the guy shot himself over her.”

  “That’s personal, Roger. Let’s leave it alone.”

  “So you’re saying she hasn’t put that part behind her. You know more than you’re telling me, don’t you.”

  “If I do, it’s not much. And what I do know is private. It is simply none of our business.”

  Clew was annoyed. “Hey, come on, we’re just talking. It’s not as if Stride could take up with just anyone. You say she’d break into tears. Who would understand why? It would have to be someone like, well…you or me.”

  Bannerman took a long sip of his coffee. “How’s life treating you otherwise, Roger?”

  “Okay. Subject closed. Except for Artemus Bourne. Do you care if I tell him that Stride is alive, but that she said she does not meet with scumbags?”

  A sigh from Bannerman. “Roger…why push it? You’ve heard that she’s alive, but you can’t find out where. It’s the truth. Why not leave it at that?”

  “He’s had someone at State trying to get at my files. For that alone, I’d like to shit on him a little.”

  “Bourne would have tentacles almost everywhere, Roger. I’m sure that didn’t come as a surprise.”

  “I bet I know where to look. I’d guess the African desk. Bourne’s been pretty busy in Africa.”

  Bannerman blinked. “Anyplace in particular?”

  “Angola. Oil and diamonds. You just hesitated. Why?”

  “I took a sip of my coffee.”

  “Then you took a few sips when I was talking about Kessler. I’ll ask you again. Do you know something I should know?”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll stop sipping. That way you’ll stop reading some deep hidden meaning every time I pause long enough to swallow.”

  “If you have something on Bourne…”

  “Will you get off this? I do not.”

  Clew grunted. “Okay. But if you ever do, tell me.”

  “Word of honor. You’ll be the first.”

  “By the way, I knocked his goon, Chester Lilly, on his ass. I don’t think we’re destined to be friends.”

  “You?” asked Bannerman. “You got into a fight?”

  “He came at me. I handled it. And yeah, damn it, me.”

  “Was this in Bourne’s presence? Bourne saw it?”

  “Front row seat. I messed his hair. He’s got a thing about his hair.”

  “Roger…”

  “I know. You told me. Never start one I can’t finish. I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m some kind of a wimp. I can handle myself better than you think.”

  “What I said was never start one that you don’t finish, Roger. That’s especially true if you’ve humiliated someone. No one ever forgets being shamed.”

  “He won’t try for me again. Bourne didn’t like it either. Bourne spanked him and sent him to his room.”

  “And now you’re looking forward to insulting Bourne.” Bannerman took a breath. “Look, I have an idea. Come up early. Like tomorrow. We’ll whack a tennis ball around or maybe go sailing. Give this a chance to this settle down.”

  Clew said, “Now you want me to hide.”

  “Bourne probably had his wife murdered. Did you know that?”

  Clew paused. “I’ve heard whispers. What do you know about it?”

  “It’s a matter of record that she’d filed for divorce and was asking for his Briarwood estate. It’s a matter of record that the lawyer she hired had an accident of his own on the same day as hers. The point is…”

  “I know. He’s not someone to mess with,” said Clew. “But maybe it’s time someone did.”

  Clew hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He said beneath his breath, “What a prick.” That’s two insults from Bannerman in one conversation. Bannerman had said, without actually saying it, “Back off. Bourne’s out of your league.” He had also said, without actually saying it, that if he, Roger Clew, thought he’d have a chance with Stride, he had best get a grip on himself. And the bastard is so calm, so smooth and so reasonable, you hardly feel the knife going in.

  He closed his eyes and muttered, “No, you’re doing it to yourself.”

  You were making a fool of yourself over Stride and now you’re trying to blame Bannerman. You reacted to the news of her being alive in a way that Bannerman could not possibly have expected. Hell, you would not have expected it yourself. Stride’s alive after all? Glad to hear it. I’m pleased. That’s all you had to say. You don’t start doing cartwheels. You don’t say, “I’d like to call her. Maybe dinner and a movie.”

  Well, he hadn’t gone that far. Damned near though.

  And another thing, Roger. Be honest with yourself. You’re not only annoyed at what Bannerman won’t tell you, you’re annoyed at how easily he found her. Here’s Bourne putting three federal agencies on her trail and Bannerman locates her in less than a day.

  But how? And where? Okay, let’s think about this.

  Clew went into his computer to the file that he’d downloaded containing the photo, “Almost certainly Stride.” Next he opened a blank window beneath it. The window was a file that he had named “Doodlings.” His thinking process seemed to work better when he could type out his thoughts as they came. The first words he typed in were STRIDE IS ALIVE. Underneath, he wrote BANNERMAN, also in caps. On the line after that, he wrote HOW AND WHERE?

  Bannerman said face-to-face. But he said not in Westport. He said it’s someplace where Stride has built a new life. And she’d asked whoever found her to be quiet about it.

  Clew suddenly brightened. He thought, “I’ll be damned.” On the keyboard, he typed the words HILTON HEAD ISLAND. That’s it, he realized. He added four exclam- ation points. Sure, he could be wrong, but the timing’s too neat. He’d bet they found her when they went there to help Adam Whistler.

  But hold it. Steady, Roger. That’s one hell of a coincidence. For that to be the case, she would have to be living there. And out of all the t
housands who live on that island, she’d have to have been spotted by Bannerman’s people. It’s possible, of course, that she spotted them first. But if she had, would she have approached them? Not likely. I mean, here’s a woman who has worked at being dead. Would Stride have walked up to them, out of the blue, and said, “Hi, guys. Long time no see. Let’s do lunch sometime when you’re not quite so busy blowing up half of my fucking island.”

  No, he thought. Hilton Head Island might be where they saw her, but it wouldn’t be where she lives. She had to have flown in with Harry Whistler.

  That’s it, he thought. That begins to make sense. He tapped the return key a couple of times. He typed in the words, “From Chamonix.”

  There was a knock on Clew’s door. He ignored it. A second knock came and the door opened partly. Alex stuck his head in. He said, “Mr. Clew? They say they need you back in that meeting.”

  He did not look up. “I’ll be in when I can.”

  Alex asked, “There’s a problem? That phone call from Bannerman?”

  “I’m handling it,” Clew told him. “Ten minutes.”

  “You want your coffee?” Alex asked him. “I brought it.”

  Clew nodded absently. Alex came in. He set the mug on Clew’s desk. Clew raised a hand to the monitor’s screen to block what he had just written. Alex asked, “Any way I can help?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Clew. “Close the door if you will.”

  Rakowsky left the room. He closed the door, but not fully. Clew rose from his chair. He pushed the door shut himself. He sat again and stared at the screen. He murmured the word, “Chamonix.”

  Chamonix, he thought. Of course. She’d been there with Kessler; she’d been Harry’s guest. After that, we know that they came to the States. If we all know that, so would those who were tracking her. She kept moving around with them nipping at her heels. She needed a place where she could settle, be safe. Where would that place be? Wouldn’t she have called Bannerman? She and Kessler certainly knew about Westport. One would think that they’d have opted for Westport.

  Except Bannerman said no. He said that she’d never been there. And assuming that Kessler had a vote in where they’d go, he would probably not have liked the idea of settling in some yuppie suburb. Kessler’s choice would have been Chamonix. Harry Whistler was his friend long before he met Stride and probably before he met Bannerman. He must have been to Harry’s lodge a dozen times. He knew every inch of the village below it. But then…oh, wait…why would Kessler blow his brains out? What had happened with them in between?

  She’d dumped him once. It was that Swisher Sweets business. And Bannerman had said that she kept threatening to leave him. So she probably dumped him once and for all. Even so, it still was hard to imagine that Kessler would pop himself over that. Okay, he loved her, but this was Martin Kessler. Women have probably been hitting on him from the day he started to shave. He’d have found all the solace he could handle.

  But he did shoot himself. It could have been for something else. It could have been any number of things. Bannerman didn’t seem to want to talk about Kessler. In fact, he specifically avoided the subject. So Bannerman must know. And it must have been ugly. Why else would Bannerman duck all questions about him?

  Stride stays in Chamonix under Harry’s protection. Harry takes her to parties, loosens her up. His friends become her friends. In time, she settles in, buys a house, takes up needlepoint. But Stride is still Stride and she owes Harry Whistler. She can’t just sit when young Adam is in trouble. She flies over with them and it’s suddenly old home week. And Bannerman had to have known right along that she was alive and with Harry.

  He’d as much as said so. Wait, what did he say? He said that Harry flew home with Adam and Claudia and, he said, two or three others. If it’s three, two of those would have been the Beasley twins. Harry doesn’t go anywhere without them. The third one had to have been Stride.

  Thanks a lot, Paul, thought Clew. Thanks for the trust. I’ll remember this the next time you need me for something.

  An icon on the screen of his computer began flashing. Another cryptogram had come in. He hit a few keys to see who it was from. General Tubbs again. This one was flagged “Urgent.” He hit another key and a window appeared in the middle of his file on Stride. Its heading was a shout, nine words, all in caps.

  It read, “DAMN YOU, YOU HAVE SENT US A PLAGUE SHIP.”

  FIFTEEN

  Clew read the short account with growing confusion. The general seemed be saying that the ship was infected by some kind of virulent disease. His best officer, he said, was probably doomed along with all the soldiers who had boarded the freighter. They’d been told that none of them could hope to survive, the ship’s crew and the children included. They’d been told this by a man in the pay of Savran Bobik.

  Clew didn’t understand. Calling it a plague ship seemed to suggest that the ship was diseased before the general’s troops got there. And who was Bobik’s man? Was he already on board? Clew had to assume that he probably was. He must have been escorting the shipment. And if Bobik’s man said they were all going to die, it follows that he had to know what was killing them. The general’s last lines were, “The freighter must be burned and sunk so that it cannot reach land. But why should I have to give such an order? This should be on your head, not on mine.”

  Clew readied himself to type out a response. His fingers wanted to write, “Will you fucking calm down?” but he forced them to use gentler language.

  Clew wrote in reply, “I need more specifics. What did Bobik’s man say? Ask him what plague. Bubonic? What kind? Are you saying it was part of that shipment to Mobote? What is the condition of your men at this moment? Is the ship still at those coordinates?” He hit the encryption key and sent it. Clew sat back and stared at the screen.

  Alex knocked again and opened the door. “Mr. Clew, they’re starting to get pissed in that meeting. They say they have better things to do.”

  “Let them go,” said Clew. “I’ll apologize later.” He muttered to himself, “I don’t need this.”

  “Same problem as before?”

  “Huh? No,” he said distractedly. “No connection.”

  “You need more coffee? Let me get you more coffee.”

  Alex, too quickly, stepped into the office and reached for the mug on Clew’s credenza. Clew tapped a key and his screen went blank before Alex could get a clear view of it. He looked up at Alex, into Alex’s eyes. Those eyes had dropped, but not soon enough. He knew that Alex had tried to read the screen.

  Clew said to him. “Alex, I do not need more coffee.”

  Alex blanched. He said, “I’m…just trying to be helpful. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  Clew saw that once again Alex failed to shut the door. Clew did not get up this time. He stayed at his monitor. He knew that he would have to give further thought to how helpful Alex was trying to be. And who he was actually helping.

  The icon flashed again. The general was responding. This time he seemed more in control of himself. Clew read the message as it scrolled down his screen.

  It said, “The ship is underway. It is headed out to sea. Major Scar had ordered it turned into the wind in order to keep the infection from spreading. He believes that this substance cannot go against the wind. Those already infected are kept at the stern. All others, including the children, are forward. He has a helicopter gunship and a patrol boat, but he says that neither of these craft were exposed. He has ordered them both to stand off. Major Scar informs me that no one shows symptoms, but Bobik’s man said they will soon be very sick. First sign will be bloodshot eyes and bad headache. It is not bubonic. Bobik’s man said it’s Marburg. Do you know Marburg? Even worse than Ebola. Bobik’s man said that they cannot survive. He is dead now himself. Loss of blood. He’d been shot. And yes, this container was part of the shipment. Who would send such a thing to such a lunatic as Mobote? Please stand by. Major Scar is reporting again.”

  Clew waited. Major
Scar? He assumed it was a nickname. Whoever he was, he seemed refreshingly competent. This major was all that was keeping his general from killing a few dozen people.

  The next message came a few minutes later. “I have also consulted a virologist here. He confirms that Marburg is fatal, no question. A very bad death comes within seven days. There is no vaccine, no treatment, no hope for any who have been infected. It only dies when it has consumed the host and no other host is available. That is why isolation is required. The host becomes liquid; he is nothing but blood. Our virologist says this blood is a river of virus. Get some on you and you are a dead man. But blood also dries; it gets blown by the wind. You can be far away and it will find you. This is why I tell you that the ship must be sunk using napalm, I think, so that none can escape.

  Major Scar accepts this. Also the blame. He confesses that he opened the jar after Bobik’s man warned him not to do so. He says that the contents rose up like pink smoke, very fine, very light, and the smoke was alive. He believes that he is most probably infected, as were all who were gathered downwind of his position. Not so, perhaps, all those who were to upwind. He suggests quarantine, but this seems too big a risk. I trust that you will make the right decision.”

  My decision, your ass, Clew said to himself. He leaned forward to make his reply, but he stopped. Like smoke? Very fine? Scar said it was alive? The phrase, ‘weapons-grade” flashed into Clew’s mind. Only weapons-grade toxins behave in that way. The pink would be from tissue or chicken blood, the mediums in which they are grown. What would Bobik be doing with weapons-grade Marburg? Where could he have possibly gotten it?

  Clew took a deep breath. One thing at a time. He resumed typing out his response.

  He wrote, “Too big a risk? I see almost none. That freighter is at least fifteen miles at sea and you say most aboard are to windward. Quarantine is right. You have nothing to lose. You say that Scar has isolated those who might be infected. Keep them isolated for the full seven days. Give it a month if you must. His chopper and patrol boat can escort and observe and keep all other vessels from approaching. I will not, repeat not, cause that ship to be destroyed until you’ve given quarantine a chance.”