Artemus Bourne hadn’t waited four to five days before showing serious symptoms. He’d started hemorrhaging on Tuesday morning. Until then, he had tried to bluster and to threaten the federal officials who had come there to question him, speaking through the door that entombed him. He demanded instead to speak to their superiors, men who had often attended his brunches.
None of these would respond. He threatened to ruin them. He’d demanded his attorneys. They wouldn’t go near him. The senior executives at his Houston headquarters had scattered to wherever their money was kept. Hundreds, worldwide, ran for cover as well after the atlas in Bourne’s study was found with Bourne’s damning notations in its margins.
Elizabeth had asked Bannerman, “Was this why you didn’t end it?”
“It was not the only reason,” he’d told her.
Chester Lilly was dead. He hadn’t lived through the night. There were those who thought the bee toxins had killed him. There were others who thought that he’d died of embarrassment soon after he’d managed to limp to a mirror and see what remained of his hair. So, Bourne, for whatever time he had left, would remain in that room with a corpse. The pantry held ample food, but he’d eaten almost nothing because nausea had set in so quickly.
Dr. Greta Kirch, at Bannerman’s suggestion, had a camera set up, trained through the small window, to record the onset and progression of his symptoms.
“There are people who should know what they’ve supported,” he told her. “There are people who should be made to watch it.”
Bourne saw the camera. He realized what it meant. He’d become a test subject, like a monkey or a rat, or like the many human subjects that he’d probably observed. He tried to smash the glass with a leg torn from his cot, but the glass was too thick and he was weakening. Soon he could only sit, his mind almost gone. This had been the other reason for not ending it.
Waldo had taken those other recordings, the tapes of the bedroom antics at Briarwood. Molly had told Waldo, “We’re not keeping them. Destroy them.”
This discussion took place in Howard Leland’s helicopter. It had crossed Long Island. Bridgeport’s airport was in sight.
She said, “We’re not going to watch them. We’re not going to release them. They’re jerks, but they have families. Destroy them.”
Waldo said, “We got some big names on these labels. This is leverage. They could come in handy.”
“If that day comes, it’s enough that they’ll think that we have them. Save the labels and jettison the tapes.”
“Yeah, okay, but we ought to lift a shot of this Claire. I bet you she’s the one who they found dead with Clew, but who didn’t have much of a face left.”
“Okay, one,” said Molly. “Toss the rest.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Do it now,” she said. “We’re over Long Island Sound.”
“You could kill some poor stiff on a sailboat down there.”
“It could have been worse for them. Toss them.”
Speaking of Molly, her mood hadn’t improved. It was surprising, more than troubling, because this was Molly. She’d always been outgoing and unfailingly pleasant, except, of course, when she had to be otherwise. She was not at all like Carla who was prone to black moods and who’d always had a hair trigger temper.
In fact, Carla had been positively sunny of late. All that damage that she’d done on Hilton Head Island had probably served as an overdue fix. And then there were those two at the Marriott. She hadn’t done that by herself. It turned out Viktor had been with her. And then, having done it, she’d had Viktor to go home with. Molly went home alone. She had no one. She’d said so. She’d never expressed such a sentiment before. Bannerman wasn’t sure where it had come from.
It didn’t seem to help matters much when she saw Adam Whistler arrive with his beautiful angel. It was the first time Bannerman had seen Claudia in the flesh. He’d only heard her described. Seeing her, meeting her, feeling her touch, he could almost believe that she’d undergone some extraordinary change in the netherworld. Molly greeted her warmly because Molly is Molly, but one could feel a slight tinge of jealousy there. It was not because Claudia was a beautiful young woman and not because she seemed to be singularly gifted. It was because she had Adam and because Adam loved her. Everybody had someone but Molly.
Well, not everyone. There was Waldo. At least Molly had a home; she ran a business; she had roots. No one really knew what sort of life Waldo had. He comes, then he goes. He might vanish for weeks. Then he pops up out of nowhere when he’s needed. But on that day when Molly spoke of it, by Bourne’s rack of dessert wines, he’d known better than to offer that comparison.
Harry Whistler came with Kate. Kate was Claudia’s mother. Bannerman had not met Kate before either. A surprising bit of news was that he’d asked Kate to marry him. Harry's wife, Andrea, the spectacular Andrea, had died years ago. Cancer took her. Kate, very wisely, said, “Let’s take our time. Ask me again in two years.” But that hadn’t stopped her from moving in with him. She’d asked him, however, whether she could redecorate. He’d said, “Ask me again in two years.”
Even so, they were a couple. Molly saw them as lovebirds. It was the same when Lesko arrived with Elena. An unlikely couple, but totally devoted. Both in late middle age, but they’d had a son together.
Their little son was named Willem. They had brought the boy with them. He was roughly the same age as Cassie. They’d named him after Elena’s cousin, an excellent man, Willem Brugg. The elder Willem was chairman of the board overseeing the Brugg business empire. Elena was Vice Chairman and unspeakably rich. Lesko ran the Brugg Foundation, endowments worth billions, aside from being overall Chief of Security.
And then there was Kessler and Elizabeth and Aisha, but they were a whole different story. The subject at hand was Molly Farrell.
Bannerman had done something he should not have done. Even Susan had warned him against it.
She’d said, “Paul, it’s one thing for a woman to say that she wishes that she had a man in her life. It’s quite something else for a man to decide that a woman needs a man in her life.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“You know nothing about women.”
He asked, “Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”
“Because you know nothing about women.”
Very well, he decided. He would try to be delicate. He’d called Howard Leland to ask him about the Secret Service man who’d been guarding him. Brian Moore. The sharper one. The good looking one.
“What sort of fitness reports does he get?”
“Exceptional,” said Leland. “I just hope we can keep him.”
“He’s considering leaving?”
“He’s been getting a bit restless. You’re not thinking of stealing him, are you?”
“It’s nothing like that. Is he married?”
“Divorced,” said Leland. “I believe for some time.”
“Do you happen to know why? Has he ever said what led to it?”
“Um…why are you asking?”
“Just curious. I liked him.”
“Well, he certainly hasn’t discussed it with me, but I gather it was one of those mutual things. Two people simply realizing that they’ve made a mistake and had married for the wrong reasons.”
“Or maybe that they’ve married the wrong person?” asked Bannerman.
A brief pause. “I don’t suppose…that you know the right person. He did mention, in my hearing, after you and I met, that he had once known Molly Farrell.”
“Oh, had he?”
“Ah,” said Leland. “So you didn’t know that. For a moment there, I thought that you’d begun a dating service.”
“Nothing like it,” said Bannerman. “Not at all.”
“Then of course you’d have no use for his telephone number.”
“Not unless you have it handy.”
“I’ll e-mail it.”
Bannerman reached Moore at his apartment
that evening. Moore thought at first that it was a prank by some friend, some other agent, who had been told that Moore had actually frisked the Paul Bannerman.
“No, this is no joke. It’s deadly serious,” said Bannerman. “In fact, you just might save my life.”
“How is that, sir?”
“You’ll recall that I invited you to drop in and see us?”
“I’d…concluded that you were just being polite. What is this about saving your life?”
“Brian, are you able to get some time off?”
“Um…actually, I’m off now through next Tuesday.”
“Would you care to come visit? This weekend would be good. We have a guest house that should be available by then. It’s just two doors down from Molly Farrell.”
A pause. “Mr. Bannerman…”
“It’s Paul.”
“If there’s something that you hope to get out of me…”
“On my word, not a thing. This is entirely social.”
“I did say that I’d like to see Molly again. Is she behind this invitation?”
“She is not. She doesn’t know. I haven’t mentioned you to her.”
“Should I…come armed?”
“No, of course not. Why would you?”
“Sir…”
“It’s Paul.”
“I’m confused about the part where I’d be saving your life.”
“Okay, here’s the truth. Molly’s been a little down. Do you think that she might be pleased to see you?”
Moore’s voice took on a smile. “Is that really all this is?”
“There is no hidden motive, I promise.”
“Well, then yes. I’d sure like to give it a shot.”
“It’s me who’ll get shot if she finds out I called you for the purpose of
getting you together.”
“We are…trained to throw our bodies in the path of a bullet. I’ll see you on Saturday,” said Moore.
He had also asked Greta to fly back from Briarwood to renew her acquaintance with Elena. Well, actually, that wasn’t his sole reason either. Bannerman had sat the two of them down and put a thought that he’d had on the table. Simply put, the Bruggs should buy VaalChem.
The Luanda government still had VaalChem under guard and they were frightened to death of it. The first step would be to get them to seize it. They can do so under international law and keep it or sell it as they choose. They would probably be glad to be rid of it.
Bourne had purchased VaalChem when it was in Johannesburg. He’d had it dismantled and moved to Angola where the government not only gave him the land, but promised no interference. If it was moved once, it could be moved again. The Liberian government, now reasonably stable, was aware of VaalChem’s strategic value in the eyes of nearly all western governments. The Liberians would entertain VaalChem’s presence in their country, provided it is tightly controlled.
“But who would control the Liberians?” asked Elena.
“Western aid. Western oversight. They’d have far more to lose than they’d gain,” he told her, “if they were to break their agreements. Their biggest benefit would be the international prestige that would come with having such a facility. But it mustn’t fall under any government’s control. It ought to privately owned.”
“Why by me?”
“Because the Bruggs are already in similar businesses. You control two large pharmaceutical firms and, I believe, a biotech of your own. You understand the safeguards, you have the trained specialists. I would suggest, however, that you recruit Dr. Kirch here as senior researcher and Director.”
Greta Kirch raised her hand. “Wait one minute,” she protested.
“Dr. Kirch would go to Luanda at once. Howard Leland will guarantee her security. He’ll provide all the help that she needs. She will seize all weapons-grade bacilli and spores in the name of the CDC. She will seize all existing documentation. It’s not all there because Kessler took much of it, and I have a good deal of it that we took from Bourne, including his computer’s hard drive. Those we’ll keep, but we’ll make them available to her. She’ll return, but she’ll soon be going back to Luanda. Assuming that we’re able to work this out with Liberia, she will then supervise the dismantling of VaalChem.”
Greta, once again, raised a hand to demur. Elena reached for that hand and gently lowered it. She said, “Tell me again. Why Liberia in particular?”
“We’ve discussed it,” said Bannerman. “We’ve conferred with our people. Our own, Harry Whistler’s, Leo Belkin’s from Russia, the Israelis and, of course, Martin Kessler. When I say the Israelis, I mean the Mossad. Yitzhak Netanya sent his top Angolan agent who, incidentally, helped save VaalChem from destruction. The consensus was Liberia. We already have a relationship with them, primarily through Roger Clew. He considers that Liberia is likely to become the most stable nation on the continent. He says that in Liberia there’s a national pride that he hasn’t seen anywhere else.”
“And your stake in this would be?”
“Not financial. Not control. But we’ll be seen as the people who are in control. Our influence will be considerable.”
“I see.”
“Greta Kirch, if she accepts, will be seen, in short order, as the foremost virologist on the planet. She’d be free to choose her own personnel, but I might make one or two suggestions.”
“Such as?”
“Her security staff. Major Scar from the freighter. And Major Scar’s men. They’re the best in all Africa. And Major Scar’s wife, now with the Red Cross, who would serve as their liaison and watchdog.”
“You trust them?”
“I do. It’s mostly instinct, but I do.”
“And I trust you,” said Elena. “And I trust Greta Kirch.”
Greta said, “Wait. I have not agreed…”
“Nor have I,” said Elena. “I’ll discuss it with my husband. Then, back in Zurich, I’ll discuss it with Willem.”
Bannerman said, “But we should start this ball rolling.”
Elena nodded. “I agree.” She put a hand on Greta’s arm. She asked, “Will you go to Angola?”
“That much…I will do. But as for the rest…”
“We’ll take it one step at a time.”
EPILOGUE
Kessler had not yet flown back to Angola.
Before the third day, when he was to have returned, he had used Molly’s radio to contact the captain whom he had left in command. The captain was to stand down, but not to withdraw. The captain was to contact the government commander and say that he would not fire on VaalChem unless government troops entered VaalChem itself. If they did, he would assume that they were looting the complex. He would turn it into a furnace.
Kessler had to promise that he would return within a few more days at the most. He gave his word that he wouldn’t abandon those soldiers who had chosen to serve at his side. He’d told the captain that Artemus Bourne could no longer work his mischief in Angola. With Bourne’s influence nonexistent and Savimbi long dead, an honorable truce with Luanda might be possible. Kessler promised that he would do all in his power to end the rape of his country.
“A tall order,” said Bannerman.
“One must try,” Kessler told him.
“You’ll do what you can. And we will help you where we can. I know you understand that you can’t change the world. What you can do is try to make your own.”
“As you have? Fortress Westport? This place is unique and it is only for a few. There ought to be a place for the many.”
Bannerman shrugged. “We’re not so unique. There must be a thousand neighborhood watch groups that have been organized all over this country. Not gated communities. I mean inner cities. Neighbors who’ve decided to take care of their own.”
“In terms of lethality, take my word; you’re unique.”
“Granted,” said Bannerman, “but the principle’s the same. They let the criminals know that the pickings would be easier in some other neighborhood, on some other
street. It takes courage, but they do it and they see that it works. They’d be out there with bullhorns and baseball bats in areas that even the police wouldn’t enter except in considerable force.
The police would say to them, ‘You’re not solving the problem. All you’re doing is shifting it. You are ordered to surrender your bullhorns and bats. Violence isn’t the answer.’ The men with bats would say, ‘Go tell that to the criminals. Let us know when they’ve handed you their guns and their drugs. That’s when we’ll give up our bats.’”
Kessler nodded. He said nothing. He got up and he paced. Then, finally, “I don’t know what to do.”
“About Angola?”
“No,” he said, grimacing. “About Elizabeth and Aisha. What can I possibly offer them, Paul?”
“Everything that’s worth having,” said Bannerman.
Bannerman had witnessed their first encounter when he drove back to Westport from the airport. Elizabeth and Aisha were with him, as was Molly. John Waldo was gone. He had vanished again. This was normal. No one bothered to remark on it.
Kessler had been waiting with Carla and Viktor. Their home, their Cape Cod, was the first house one encountered on passing through the pillars of Greens Farms Estates. Carla said later that he’d been a wreck. She said she’d been forced to threaten to cripple him if he didn’t stop pacing and wringing his hands. He’d been watching through the window for Bannerman’s car ever since he’d gotten word that they had touched down in Bridgeport.
Bannerman had driven past Carla’s house. He hadn’t been told that that’s where Kessler would be. He saw sudden movement in his rearview mirror. He saw that it was Kessler. He’d run out into the street. But then Kessler had stopped. He stood there frozen. He seemed shaken. He didn’t know what to do next.
Bannerman slowed and had not quite stopped when he gestured toward the mirror and said, “There he is.” He had barely completed that very short sentence when Aisha exploded from the car. She ran to him, squealing and shouting his name. She reached him, leaped at him, he lifted her bodily. Kessler was smothering Aisha with kisses, but he quickly broke off, again unsure of himself. He told Bannerman later that it had suddenly struck him that the child he had known was now a young lady and kissing should perhaps be more restrained. But if this had troubled Kessler, it did not trouble Aisha. She threw herself at him once more.
Bannerman's Ghosts Page 42
