Bannerman's Ghosts

by John R. Maxim

  There were no further messages from General Tubbs. It would be around midnight off Liberia. On that ship, Bourne’s death ship, there was nothing to be done.

  Nothing but wait. Steering into the wind. That major hoping that he’d see his wife and daughter one more time, but knowing that he probably wouldn’t.

  Alex had knocked on his door only once. It was shortly after they had returned. He said he’d missed lunch; he was going to grab a sandwich in the sixth floor cafeteria. He didn’t ask whether Clew wanted anything for himself. That was unusual. Alex normally asked. It made Clew wonder where Alex was actually going. Very probably, he thought, to some other office to tell someone that he might be in trouble.

  At half past six, Clew loaded his briefcase with the day’s unread mail and with his PDA that held all the files he’s downloaded. Briefcase in hand, he stepped out of his office. Alex was back at his desk.

  He said to Alex, “Long day. Let’s go home.”

  Alex rose, but he did not meet Clew’s eyes.

  EIGHTEEN

  Chester Lilly waited with the woman named Claire in a car a block and a half from Clew’s building. It was twilight. A light rain was falling. Clew’s car would approach by one of two routes. Chester’s car was positioned so that he could see both of them as well as the entrance to the building’s garage. Claire had already learned from the doorman that Clew almost never went in through the lobby. Almost always the garage and almost always on foot. He was usually dropped off at the ramp.

  Chester’s muscle was already in the garage. Toomey and Kuntz had entered on foot because access by vehicle required a card that would raise the cantilevered wooden barrier. Toomey, the ex-cop, had jammed the arc of one of the two surveillance cameras. Its sweep would now stop short of a space directly in front of the elevator. Anyone watching the monitors in the lobby would probably not notice the shortfall.

  The cage fighter, Kuntz, had broken into a van that had been parked there unused for some time. The van was covered with a month’s worth of soot and the layer on its windshield had not been disturbed. Its owner, Kuntz decided, was not likely to appear. They would wait in the van unseen by other residents who might enter the garage before Clew.

  Both men wore Baltimore Orioles jackets. Both men had knitted orange ski masks in their pockets and each had a pair of leather gloves. The jackets and the ski masks were the first items that any potential witness would be likely to describe and possibly all that any witness would remember. They were easily disposed of after use.

  Chester kept his cell phone flipped open and ready so that he could alert them when Clew’s car appeared. He’d told Claire that she could go, that he no longer needed her. “Go get yourself a drink and relax.”

  She said, “No. I’ll stay. Mr. Bourne wants me with you.”

  He answered, “You’ll do what I tell you.”

  She said, “A man with a woman is less likely to be noticed than a man would be sitting by himself. We’re an innocent couple. We’re sitting here chatting. I’ll pretend to be chatting. All you need to do is nod.”

  Claire stopped pretending when Chester announced, “I’m going to want to see this myself.”

  Claire straightened. She said, “Don’t even think it.”

  He said, “Clew won’t see me. He’ll be out cold by then. I just want to see what Kuntz does to his face.”

  “You’ve seen what he does. And Clew has seen both of us. It’s not worth the risk of being made.”

  “He hit me. Did you know that? Right in front of Mr. Bourne. That little prick grabbed me by the hair.”

  Claire closed her eyes. She said, “Your hair looks just gorgeous. That’s the first thing I noticed when you picked me up. I think Terrence is an absolute genius.”

  Chester growled, “Now you’re stroking me. Quit it.”

  “No, it’s the truth. You have beautiful hair. I could pick you out from a block away, which is why we’re at a block and a half.”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  She said, “Okay, let’s review why we’re here. Job one is to get Clew’s PDA so Mr. Bourne can see what is on it. Job two is to make it look like a mugging, which means they take his watch and his wallet. Job three is to beat the shit out of Clew because he was rude to Mr. Bourne. All three jobs can be done in two minutes flat. Let’s not make this a spectator sport.”

  “Just one look,” said Chester. “I’ll bring an umbrella. That way my hair’s dry and nobody sees it.”

  “Chester, if Mr. Bourne heard you right now…”

  He reached for her hand. He dug his fingernails into it. “Say one word, it’s your ass. Do you understand me?”

  “And if you don’t let go,” she said wincing, “it’s your balls. Chester, get your fucking hand off me.”

  He released and pointed. “There’s his Lincoln,” he said. He tapped out a number on his cell phone. “We’re rolling.”

  Alex pulled the Lincoln up to the ramp. He said, “Look, Mr. Clew…” But he didn’t finish. He said, “Never mind. Goodnight, sir.”

  Clew asked, “Alex, why don’t you come up for a drink? Maybe watch a little basketball. We’ll talk.”

  Alex sucked on his lip. He wasn’t quite ready. He said, “I would, but my wife…we play Bridge on Thursday nights. I promised her I’d be home by eight.”

  “In the morning then,” said Clew. “We’ll stop; I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “Yeah, breakfast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Clew opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He said to Alex, “You have a good night.”

  Clew walked to the ramp and had nearly reached the bottom before he heard the Lincoln pull away. He also heard the squeak of a car door’s hinge from somewhere deep in the garage. He thought nothing of it. Some other tenant. His mind was more on Alex who had seemed a decent man. Good record, no black marks, decorated in Vietnam; he’d put three daughters through college. If he’d somehow gotten in over his head, Clew felt sure that he’d come clean in the morning.

  He switched his briefcase from his right hand to his left in order to fish for his keys. One of the keys was a tubular device that allowed residents to use the garage elevator. As he inserted it, he felt a small chill. It occurred to him that no engine had started after he’d heard that one squeak. He released his keys, left them dangling in the panel, and slipped his hand under his jacket. His fingers found the butt of the pistol he carried. He wasn’t greatly alarmed. He did not draw the weapon. But he turned, protecting his chest with his briefcase because muggers had been known to work garages like this one.

  They had seemed to come from nowhere. They were on him at once. Two men wearing ski masks, baseball jackets. One of them turned sideways, aimed at kick at his groin. Clew blocked it by lowering his briefcase to that region, but the force of the kick slammed him backward. Clew’s shoulders and head hit the elevator door. He tried to draw his pistol, but another kick came. The impact crushed his fingers against it. The second man grabbed him by his right arm and spun him. Clew's face hit the elevator door. He felt a hand groping for the pistol through his jacket. Clew managed to work the safety catch with his thumb. He gritted his teeth. He squeezed the trigger twice.

  He felt a shock of pain as the bullet creased his buttock and he heard a cry of “Shit” from the man who’d tried to grip it. The man backed away; he was clutching his fingers. The man hissed, “Fucker shot me. Take him out.”

  Clew had partly turned; he almost had his gun free when a blow to his kidney’s lifted him off his feet. His briefcase fell. He had no strength to hold it. The fingers holding his weapon turned flaccid. He could see a fist poised. It was aimed at his face. He tried to use his thumb to attack that man’s eye, but his arm would not obey his brain’s command. The man with the fist took Clew’s arm, almost gently, and lowered it out of his way. Clew saw the fist coming. It chopped downward at his eye. Clew heard a popping sound as his cheekbone shattered, but he felt little pain, only numbness. The fist came again.
It struck the same spot. This time he saw only flashes of light. When the flashes cleared he realized, although now only dimly, that his eyes were looking in two different directions. One must have gone out of alignment. With his good eye he saw that the man who’d cried “Shit” had his hand to his mouth and was sucking blood from it. Clew could see, again dimly, that the man had Clew’s pistol. He heard the man snarl from inside his knitted mask. He saw the pistol come up. It was coming at Clew’s mouth. The man jammed it through his lips. Clew heard his teeth snap. He heard the other man say, “We don’t shoot him. Give me room.”

  Clew saw, in slow motion, another fist coming. It was all that he saw. He saw nothing more. After that, there was only a dull thumping sound and the crunch of more bones in his face.

  Rakowsky had made a left turn, passed in front of Clew’s building, then only got two stoplights further. It was Friday night gridlock in Georgetown. The falling rain deepened his already dark mood. Now he wished that he’d taken Clew’s offer. Go up to his apartment, have two or three vodkas, and get a few things off his chest.

  Yeah, he’d told Clew the truth; he’d had no contact with Bourne. But, yeah, he’d become an informant. There were nicer ways to put it, but that was the word. A goddamn backstabbing informant.

  The man at State who approached him was Henderson Quigley. He was Bureau Chief on the African desk. Used to be U.S. Consul to Angola.

  Quigley said, “As you may know, Clew goes his own way. A good man, don’t mistake me, but not a team player. Moreover, he has antagonized a man whose activities are vital to our nation’s interests.” He asked, “Alex, are you a team player?”

  Alex had told him, “Hey, I’m not your guy. You got problems with Clew, talk to Clew.”

  But then the things Quigley asked him, they were always so small. Alex threw him a tiny little bone now and then just to keep this guy off his back. Quigley asked, “What are his habits? Who does he see?”

  “That’s your question? Clew sees fifty people a day.”

  “I mean anyone…remarkable. Anyone you thought odd.”

  “Clew works, eats, and sleeps. He gets up and he jogs. Maybe two nights a week he goes out on a date. Don’t ask me how often he gets laid.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t. Of course not,” said Quigley. “Unless…”

  “Don’t start with ‘unless.’ I won’t touch it.”

  “Fair enough. Nor should you. I understand. I have just one other small question.”

  They were always small questions. But they start to add up. He went in to tell Quigley, “That’s it. No more,” but then Quigley dangled a promotion. The promotion meant an extra two hundred a month for the rest of his life when he retired. That two hundred would just about cover the payments on some college loans that were still strangling him. Quigley said, “It’s no gift. I think you’re way overdue. You can take the raise in pay in good conscience.”

  But it wasn’t in good conscience. It bothered him. It ate at him. He’d knew that he’d been bought cheap.

  “Screw this,” said Alex, as he flipped his turn signal. “I’m not waiting ‘til the morning. I’m telling Clew now. I’m telling him about fucking Quigley.”

  Chester, with Claire, had moved his car to within a hundred feet of the building’s garage. They were on a one-way side street, not much traffic, no pedestrians, but some could appear at any time. With the car’s engine running, they sat and they waited for Toomey and Kuntz to emerge and climb in. They heard two muffled and echoing shots. Chester spat an obscenity. “I told them no guns. Oh, shit. Do you think that’s Clew shooting?”

  He reached for his umbrella. Claire said to him, “Don’t.”

  “Two shots; they could be down. I gotta go look. You get behind the wheel. You be ready.” He opened the door and he unfurled his umbrella before stepping out into the rain.

  She said, “I’ll wait for one minute, not one second more. You three bozos will be on your own.”

  She watched as Chester trotted up to the entrance. He crouched, peered down the ramp, turned and gave her thumbs up. She revved the car’s engine in response. Seconds later, Toomey and Kuntz both appeared. She saw that Toomey was cradling his left hand with his right. She could see that the hand was bleeding badly. Kuntz stripped his ski mask from his melon-shaped head. He had Clew’s briefcase under his arm. Kuntz, too, was massaging the knuckles of one hand. No doubt, he had bruised it on Clew.

  She saw Chester gesture toward Toomey’s ski mask. Get it off. Look normal. Keep your head down. Chester pushed them toward the car, but Chester wasn’t following. He held up one finger. He mouthed, “One minute.” She leaned her head out the window, hissing, “Don’t. Don’t go down there.”

  But that was exactly what Chester was doing. He couldn’t resist. He had to see. Toomey and Kuntz reached the car and climbed in. Toomey was in pain. He said, “Son of a bitch. He blew off part of my finger. It’s squirting blood. You got a towel?”

  Claire told him, “Use your jacket. Don’t get it on the seat.” She tapped her horn angrily, three times.

  Chester found Clew where the other two had left him. Clew had slid down the elevator door. Chester saw that Clew’s keys still dangled from the panel. He decided that he might as well take them.

  He still held the umbrella; it was still fully open. He squatted over Clew to make a closer inspection. He felt something crunching under his foot. He looked. It was one of Clew’s teeth. He saw with satisfaction that Clew’s face was raw meat. From the middle of his brow to his now crooked jaw, Clew’s face was a mass of blood and swelling. Clew didn’t seem conscious, but his eyes were partly open. One more than the other. It bulged out of its socket. Clew suddenly gagged. He was choking.

  Chester said softly, “You still feel? Glad to hear it.”

  He leaned closer. He said, “You like to pull hair? Well, for that, I’m going to scalp you, you little shit.” He reached into his pocket for his clasp knife.

  Claire saw the headlights coming up the street behind her. She said, “You two get down. Duck your heads.”

  She averted her face as the vehicle passed, but she looked up again when its brake lights came on. She saw, to her horror, that the car was Clew’s Lincoln. It was turning into the garage. “Damn you, Chester,” she muttered. “You two stay here.”

  She climbed out of the car and walked quickly toward the ramp, her hand reaching for the gun in her purse.

  Rakowsky stopped to use his card in the cantilevered barrier. It raised up; he drove into the garage. His eyes were on the space that was reserved for Clew’s car, but he saw a sudden movement ahead and to his right. It was a man. With an umbrella. It was opened indoors. The man was behind the row of parked cars. He was trying to squeeze between the cars and the wall while hiding behind the umbrella. It was only then that Rakowsky noticed the shape that was crumpled by the elevator door. He saw blood on the door, streaks and splatters.

  In almost the same motion, he threw the Lincoln into “Park,” opened the door and drew his weapon. He swept the Beretta over half the garage before dropping its sights to the umbrella. He steadied his aim on the roof of the Lincoln and called, “Hold it. Right there. One more step and I shoot.”

  The man froze, but Alex could not see his hands. He said, “One chance. You’re going to close up that umbrella. Use both hands to do it. Do it slow.”

  The man shifted his weight. He seemed to lean toward the ramp. Alex knew that the man was measuring his chances, deciding whether he should risk running. But Alex was deciding whether to shoot. It could be a resident who stumbled on something and decided that he wanted no part of it. Except not with the umbrella. The umbrella was wrong.

  Alex decided. “I’m shooting on three. Here’s one; here’s two…”

  “Take it easy. Don’t shoot.”

  “Close the umbrella. Hold it straight up. I want to see both your hands all the way.”

  The man still hesitated. Alex said, “Okay, three.” Taking careful aim, he put a hole throug
h the umbrella. The man jumped. He lowered the umbrella part way.

  Alex saw the face, the wavy blond hair. He said, “Lilly? Chester Lilly?”

  Lilly didn’t respond.

  Alex blinked. He felt a knot form in his stomach as he realized who the body by the elevator must be. He said to Lilly, “Is that Mr. Clew?”

  Lilly’s hands were at his shoulders. He shrugged.

  “Get on your knees,” said Alex. “Do it now.”

  Lilly obeyed. Very slowly.

  Alex kept his gun on him as he reached for his cell phone. He punched out 911. He waited, then spoke. “My name’s Alex Rakowsy.” He gave his location, side door, garage entrance. He cited his State Department ID. “My boss has been bushwacked, I think shot, maybe dead. I need EMS, police. Make sure they know I’m armed. I’m holding the bastard who…”

  Alex felt three blows against his ribs and his hip. He heard the three shots being fired. At first he didn’t realize that he had been shot because the shots sounded more like loud slaps. Lilly darted. Alex fired. Lilly yelped, but kept going. Alex swung his pistol toward the source of the slaps. He saw the woman. He knew her at once. The one who gives blowjobs for Bourne. She was backing away, telling Lilly to move. The gun in her hand was a small one, small caliber. He realized that was why he wasn’t knocked off his feet, but he felt himself sinking, sliding down the Lincoln’s fender. He felt the strength draining from his arms and his legs. His head was beginning to swim.

  He heard Lilly bark, “Finish him. Kill him. He knows us.”

  She snapped back at him, “Get out of here. Now!”

  Alex raised his Beretta. It was terribly heavy. He jerked off two shots in the direction of Lilly, but the bullets went wild, making sparks against concrete. He heard another slap. A bullet pinged off the Lincoln.

  Lilly shouted, “Get closer with that popgun. A head shot.”

  The woman shouted back, “I hear sirens. Get out.” Alex saw that she was now coming toward him.