The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Lesko? What's happening in there? Lesko? Greenwald's voice.

  Lesko was too busy. Gripping the broken steel shaft, he rammed the clothing hook between the big man's teeth, snapping some. His cheek swelled impossibly. Lesko twisted the hook, setting it. The big man flailed at him with his legs and, with his hands, tried to seize the shaft. With a roar, Lesko hauled him to his feet, then, as with a gaffed tuna, swung him over his shoulder and sent him sprawling, gagging, into an open space between the racks of finished clothing. He tried to rise, reaching for the heavy chain he wore around his neck. Lesko moved toward him. His foot struck the broken cash register. He picked it up, grunting, and, from a shot-putter's stance, sent it crashing against the hooded head and shoulders. The big man fell as if axed.

  Dimly, from the street outside, he heard the horn of a car. A long blast. Not far away. It was not stopping.

  “Lesko? I think there are more out here. I think that's Hector's car. ”

  Lesko found the radio where he dropped it.

  “Tell him to ignore the horn.” Bannerman's voice. Calm, quiet.

  “What?” He was breathing heavily.

  “It's not a problem. Tell him to ignore it. Then drag the other one back here.”

  Confused, Lesko blinked, but he obeyed. He seized both Covington and Manley by their collars, pulled them apart, and threw Manley, bodily, into the pressing station behind the conveyers.

  “Lesko? I think there was a hit I think there's a dead man across that horn.”

  “Tell him you know,” said Bannerman.

  ”I know what?”

  “That their driver is dead.” Bannerman gestured toward one of the figures writhing on the floor. “He said it. The streets are dangerous.”

  The horn still blared. Another sound. Gunfire. From another direction.

  “Lesko? There's shooting out here. Automatic weapons, I see people diving into doorways.”

  “Tell him you know that too.”

  Lesko stared at Bannerman. But he pressed the button. “Harry?” he shouted. “It's okay.”

  “How long before a police response?” Bannerman asked.

  ”I don't know. Around here? Ten minutes.”

  “Then that's how much time we have.”

  The big man, his body twitching feebly, was tied wrists to ankles. A bloody foam bubbled from his nose and mouth. There was no need to gag him. Next, Bannerman tied the Jamaican known as Dandy. He, too, was bleeding from the mouth and wretching to clear his injured throat but he was conscious. His sunglasses clung crookedly to his face revealing one eye, moist with pain, fearful yet defiant. Bannerman forced a cloth between his teeth. Wesley Covington appeared with two canvas laundry bins, one inside the other. He separated them, lined them with plastic. With Lesko's help he lifted the big man into one of them, Hector Manley into the other.

  Bannerman stepped back. He shook his head at the damage Lesko had done to two large men in so short a time.

  “Any chance,” he asked idly, “that you and Billy McHugh were separated at birth?”

  “What?” Lesko gave Manley's bin a final kick.

  “Never mind.”

  “Just hold the door, okay?” He seized the bin containing the big man and spun it toward the front.

  Wesley Covington unlocked the rear of his delivery truck. With Lesko, he lifted one bin inside, then the other. He moved briskly, although unnerved by the horn that still blared up the street. Farther down, where the gunfire had been, sparks from a ruined electric sign spat eerily into the night. There were no pedestrians in view. Lesko looked at Bannerman, his expression a blend of awe and irritation.

  “You did all this? Out here?”

  Bannerman ignored the question. “Lesko, you ride up front with Mr. Greenwald. Mr. Covington? Please ride in the back with me.”

  The black man hesitated. “You men aren't cops, are you. This is no bust.”

  “It's better than that. Please get in, sir.”

  They were two blocks to the south, Harry Greenwald driving, when a flash of brilliant light seared through the glass of the rear door. Covington jumped. Ðannerman put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy,” he said. “It's not your store.”

  The horn, Covington realized, had gone silent. “It's that car?”

  Bannerman nodded.

  “Phosphorus, right?”

  “You know it?”

  ”I was in Nam. Marine lieutenant.”

  Bannerman nodded again. He had assumed something like that.

  Covington gestured toward the bins. “What are you going to do with these two?”

  “They won't bother you again. Can you live with that?”

  Covington understood. ”I guess. Easy.”

  “The girl who wanted to stay with you . . . I'm sorry, I forgot her name.”

  “Lucy. She's family. She'll be home by now.”

  “She was very brave. It will be hard for her to wait. We'll take you there now.”

  “How much can I talk about this?”

  “The story for the police is that these two came to see you. They heard their car horn. They ran out. You heard gunfire. You closed up shop and left. Otherwise, tell your own people whatever you like.”

  Lesko rapped on the paneling. “Here's One hundred fifty-third.”

  Covington moved toward the door. “Do I get my truck back?” he asked Bannerman.

  “Tomorrow morning. You'll find it. Do you have an extra set of keys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be alone when you open it. I'll leave you a present.”

  Covington's eyes narrowed. He glanced toward the bins.

  “Not them,” Bannerman reassured him. “Something useful.”

  The truck slowed, then stopped. Covington hesitated. He held out a hand. “Am I ever going to know who I'm thanking?”

  Bannerman took it. “You're a good man, Mr. Coving-ton.”

  They dropped Harry Greenwald where he had left his car. He seemed stunned. His collar was wet with perspiration. Yet he was reluctant to leave them.

  “Fucking Lesko,” he muttered. “That's your idea of asking a few questions?”

  “Hey,” Lesko snarled. “Who figured on the moose? Who figured the dry cleaner goes ape shit? Anyway we got their attention.”

  A car slowed to a stop a half-block behind them. It blinked its lights. A second car pulled up. It did the same. Greenwald's hand went to his hip.

  “They're friends,” Bannerman said. “We'd better go.”

  Greenwald shook his head. A machine gunner, a sniper, and a firebomber. Everyone should have such friends. “When do I hear?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “If Hector talks.”

  “Tomorrow,” Bannerman repeated.

  The truck swung east on the Cross Bronx Expressway, following the signs to 1-95 and New England. One of the two cars moved ahead. The other stayed to their rear. Bannerman had asked Lesko to drive. He would remain in the back. It was time to begin that talk.

  In the random wash of light from other vehicles, Banner-man reached into the bigger man's bin and pushed back his hood to reveal long hair worn in dreadlocks and an ear studded with several rubies. The man made no sound, no movement. Bannerman checked the pulse at his throat. Then he turned to Hector Manley and unknotted the cloth that gagged him.

  “What's this one's name?” Bannerman asked.

  No answer. A hard stare.

  ”I know it's not Buster,” he said. “Because Buster Bang was thrown off a roof a few nights ago. Why do I think you did that, Mr. Manley?”

  Still no answer.

  Bannerman shrugged. He reached into the big man's bin and pulled loose a plastic garment bag. He knotted it at the shoulder, then pulled it over the big man's head. With the cloth that had been used to gag him, he secured the bag around his throat.

  “What are you doing?” Hector rasped.

  “If you won't talk to me,” Bannerman said, his manner resigned, “we need some way to pass the time. We'll just sit here an
d watch him die.”

  The Jamaican turned away. He stared through the window.

  “You're not cops,” he said finally. “You're not friends of the cleaner man. What is this?”

  Bannerman didn't answer. He reached to tuck a loose end of the plastic into the cloth that held it.

  Hector kept looking through the glass. His eyes narrowed. “Are we going to Connecticut?”

  “Yes.”

  “What town?”

  ”I think you know.”

  “Will you tell me...do you live there?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Hector Manley fell silent. He seemed to smile. Then, “This is pointless. Let him breathe.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “The way to change my mind about Westport is to do it with money.”

  Bannerman blinked. Then he understood. Hector had refused the job after all. “Bad guess, Hector. The Arab didn't send me. I'm the intended victim.”

  “Then it is all the more pointless.” The man squirmed to face him. ”I would not have done it.”

  “Who is ‘the Arab?’ ”

  ”I don't know.”

  Bannerman stretched his arms. He sat back.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Peel your face off.”

  “Peel . . .”

  Bannerman closed his eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” the Jamaican asked.

  “It will be done on an operating table.” Bannerman stifled a yawn. “Then you will be taken back to New York and released on the street where you live. You will have no face, no eyes, no tongue. Your friends will find you stumbling about, trying to scream. I need them to see you that way.”

  Hector tried to spit. His mouth was dry.

  Neither man moved or spoke for several minutes. Bannerman appeared to doze. He waited, giving Hector Manley's imagination time to see himself groping from one parked car to another, hearing the screams of women, children running from him, older boys tearing at his pockets, taking his jewelry.

  ”I don't believe you,” he said finally.

  ”I know you don't. Get some rest.”

  “This, I take it, is to frighten me? To make me talk?”

  “Talking won't save you. But you will talk. Trust me.”

  They were silent again. The truck reached the tolls at New Rochelle.

  ”I told the truth,” Hector Manley said hoarsely. ”I would not have done it.”

  Bannerman checked his watch in the light of the unmanned booth. “Done what, Mr. Manley?” he asked.

  Hector bit his lip. “Car bombs. Scattered throughout Westport. Timed to go off all at once.”

  “Forty of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “The Arab had a street map. He drew boxes on it, one where each car was to be left. Remove that plastic and I will show you those that I remember.”

  “Who is the Arab? Where do I find him?”

  ”I don't know. This is the truth.”

  “Very well.” Bannerman lowered his chin.

  ”I was not interested because it was stupid,” Hector Manley said, his voice more firm than before. “Think about what he asked. Forty stolen cars, driven by black men into a town where even one black man is noticed. The Arab is a fool. It could never be done.”

  “Buster Bang seemed to disagree.”

  “Buster was a greater fool.”

  “He didn't hear you say no.”

  “He did the last time we spoke.”

  “On that rooftop?”

  The Jamaican tossed his head vaguely. ”I told him not to speak of it. But he tried to find others who would do this. It had become a sickness with him.”

  “When and where, were you to see the Arab again?”

  ”I don't know. I've seen the man only twice. Each time he found me.”

  “Mr. Manley,” Bannerman said patiently, “you're meeting him next Wednesday. Where? And what then?”

  Manley seemed confused. Then his eyes widened as he remembered the conversation with Buster and he realized that it had been overheard. “That was a lie,” he said. ”I told Buster there was to be a third meeting only to keep him from doing what he did in any case. It is true that I would not have done what the Arab asked but I would have taken the payment he offered.”

  “What sort of payment?”

  “The offer was heroin. Five kilos on agreement. Fifty more when the cars were in place. After that, a guaranteed supply for two years at twenty percent below the market rate.”

  “How much is that?”

  “It depends. Many millions.”

  “This did not tempt you?”

  ”I would have taken the five kilos. I might have taken the next fifty as well, and then I would have had to kill him. But I would not have done this thing in Westport.”

  Bannerman did not speak.

  “Is Ruby dead?”

  Bannerman raised his head. The earrings. Now he remembered a ruby ring as well. Ruby. He reached into the other bin, his fingers finding the big man's throat. “Yes. He is.”

  Hector Manley made a sound through his teeth. He turned away. “Will you tell me your name?” he asked.

  “It's Bannerman.”

  The Jamaican mouthed it, frowning. He shook his head. “What is your real name?”

  Bannerman understood. He smiled. “It's not a street name. That's it. Paul Bannerman. Some people know me as Mama's Boy.”

  The Jamaican mouthed this as well. He shook his head. If it had meaning to him, he gave no sign. If anything, Bannerman thought, he seemed to be wondering why anyone would choose such a name.

  “Hey,” Lesko rapped against the panel. “Here's Westport. Where to now?”

  “To the clinic. You know the way.”

  “Then what?”

  “Um . . .” Bannerman winced. “Actually, we have to talk about that. I have a dinner date in one hour. Someone you know.”

  A long silence. “We'll talk, all right.” Another silence. “You prick.”

  The truck swung onto the exit ramp.

  Manley was staring at him. ”A clinic?”

  “And an operating table. I believe I mentioned it.”

  “For the last time”—the Jamaican's mouth went dry again—”I told the truth.”

  “So did I.”

  -18-

  Two in the Morning. Zurich.

  Urs Brugg groped for the telephone that chirped at his bedside. He brought it to his chest. Before lifting the receiver he made note of the line on which the call was coming. It was the line that had a scrambling device. He touched a button on his bed and his upper body began to rise. He lifted the receiver.

  “Urs?”

  “Yes, Leo.” He rubbed his face. “Good morning.”

  “You said at any hour,” the KGB Chief of Bern reminded him.

  Urs Brugg grunted, acknowledging the literal truth of it. It was a truth, however, that he had considered open to reasonable interpretation.

  “We've located them, Urs. The three of them.”

  He turned on one elbow. “The ones who—”

  “Killed Josef, yes. And shot Elena.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They have gone to Spain. Apparently in search of new employment. It seems they have mentioned the killing of Dr. Russo among their credentials even though his death was not intended. Inquiries were made to verify their claims. This is how we learned who they are.”

  “Where in Spain, Leo? What are their names?”

  ”Urs . . . this is not the way. If you like, my people will deal with them. They will bring you proof. It will be finished.”

  Urs Brugg shook his head. ”I am already more in debt to the KGB than is comfortable for me.”

  “Not the KGB,” the other man said. “This is Leo. Your friend. And there is no debt.”

  A brief pause. Long enough to convey skepticism. Not so long as to be impolite. “Leo, where are these men?”

  “
Two are men. Their driver was a woman.”

  “Their names?” Urs Brugg switched on his reading light.

  The KGB man gave them. He read, from notes, what was known of the three. The leader was British. Educated, well spoken, fetish for cleanliness, sexually active, extremely so, although he is said to despise women. Second man, rarely speaks, Algerian but travels on a French passport. The woman, a German, is a known prostitute and drug addict. Between assignments, sells herself to keep them in funds. Otherwise, it appears, one of her duties is to find girls, preferably students, backpackers, for the Englishman. He likes to bathe them, then rape them.