The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “To sit with earphones? We have reliable people who can—”

  ”I want you to create a distraction of your own.” Belkin placed his finger on one of the dossiers. “This man.”

  “If . . . that is your wish.”

  “Yuri. . . .” Belkin squeezed his shoulder.

  “This word distraction. It is not a euphemism.”

  The large man let out a breath. “It is good you told me.”

  “Hey. Lesko. Rise and shine. ”

  Lesko's body twitched. He snorted. But still he slept.

  “Let's go, will ya? We got roll call. ”

  He heard a slamming of cabinets from his kitchen. Katz. Any second now he'd start bitching about— “What a fucking pig sty. Don't you ever wash out cups?” Lesko opened one eye. Then closed it.

  “Come on. I got prune Danish. We'll pick up some coffee on the way.”

  Lesko tried to pull the covers over his face. But they felt wrong. And the sheet beneath him felt like leather. And out in the kitchen, Katz sounded like he was dragging furniture across the floor. He opened one eye again. Shit. Where's this? He raised his head and blinked until it cleared.

  He remembered now. Westport, not Queens. Greenfield Hill. A couch in the staff lounge. It was leather. The blanket was his topcoat. There was no Katz, coming in, like always, to pick him up. But he could still hear him. The slamming and dragging. Lesko rubbed his face, hard.

  The racket was coming from outside. He crossed to a window that looked out on the parking lot in the rear of this former Victorian mansion. Covington's delivery truck was still there. Bannerman's blue sedan was next to it. Lesko looked at his watch and cursed. Almost ten o'clock.

  Now he saw what was making the noise. A man in an orderly's uniform came into view. He was dragging two laundry bins. Their plastic wheels clattered over the macadam. He stopped at the rear of the truck, opened the door, and lifted one of the bins inside. It was empty. The other contained the sheets and blankets they'd borrowed from Covington's. They had been washed of blood stains and folded. Another man appeared. Lesko recognized the slender build and blond hair of Glenn Cook. Guy who ran the local ski shop. Bannerman's long-distance shooter. He was carrying a case that was about four feet long, a foot wide. The first man lifted the folded blankets. Cook placed the case inside the bin, then covered it. That, Lesko assumed, was the present that Bannerman had promised Wesley Covington. He could guess what it was.

  “Hey, David?” he called softly.

  No answer. Just a feeling.

  “Are you back?”

  Still nothing.

  ”I could use you, you putz,” he said aloud. Then he felt stupid. He picked up his topcoat and hurried from the room.

  Making his way to the basement, Lesko stopped first at the door to the operating room. The Jamaican was gone. He tried several other doors including that of a second surgery where the body of the other Jamaican, Ruby, had been kept. He was gone as well. Nothing left to show that he'd been there but Lesko could see him in his mind. His jaw shattered. Neck broken, no question. No blue lips or any of the other physical signs of asphyxiation. The Russian had told the truth. Bannerman had not suffocated him. Which still didn't say he wouldn't have, Lesko told himself, if the cash register hadn't killed him first.

  Okay. So it wasn't just the cash register. It was still an accident. Mostly.

  Lesko returned to the stairwell and climbed toward the main entrance hall where the clinic had its administrative offices. He stopped at a pair of mahogany doors that had once opened onto a parlor. He heard voices inside. Bannerman and the Russian. He thought he heard the name Urs Brugg. He leaned closer. There was only silence.

  “You may join us, Mr. Lesko.” Zivic's voice. Lesko grunted and turned the knob.

  They were seated at a coffee table. A large map lay open on it. On one wall, Lesko saw a bank of television monitors. One screen showed the basement corridor. Another showed the main entrance hall outside. They'd been watching him, he realized, since he'd climbed off the couch. He hoped they hadn't heard him too. Goddamned Katz.

  Lesko offered no greeting. He didn't even look at Bannerman. “Where's Manley?” he asked Zivic.

  “Unharmed and resting, Mr. Lesko. But probably not asleep.” Zivic gestured toward the monitors. “He is behind one of those doors you've been rattling.”

  Zivic looked fresh and clean. Different suit. Same with Bannerman. Lesko felt like a pile of Covington's laundry. His mouth tasted like a crotch.

  “Did he talk?” he asked.

  Zivic glanced toward Bannerman who shrugged and nodded. Zivic reached for the map and rotated it toward Lesko. “He did indeed.”

  Lesko picked up the map, a street map of Westport, and studied it. It was covered with small rectangles, drawn with a Magic Marker. The rectangles, he knew at once, represented cars. Cars with bombs. He was stunned. He had never quite believed it before. But there it was.

  There were eight rectangles within the two city blocks of Main Street alone. Five more on Railroad Avenue between Mario's restaurant and the commuter station across from it. Two at the Compo Shopping Plaza where Bannerman had his office. Two more at his condo complex. One at the town library, one at each of seven Westport schools, two each at the police and fire departments. The rest were scattered around Westport but not at random. Someone, probably Zivic, had written penciled notes near their locations.

  “These here.” Lesko pointed. “These are where you guys live?”

  “Some.” Zivic nodded. “Others are at main access roads, presumably to block the arrival of emergency equipment from other towns. A few more appear to be at gasoline stations.”

  “Somebody really scouted this town,” Lesko said, frowning. “The Arab guy?”

  “Or whoever,” Zivic answered.

  Lesko's frown deepened. “Not a local, though. Not someone who lives here. Not someone who ever tried to find a parking space on Main Street.”

  “Bravo,” said Zivic. He glanced once more toward Ban-nerman who still had not spoken. There was a hint of I-told-you-so in Zivic's manner. “Please finish your thought, Mr. Lesko.”

  ”I mean”—Lesko waved the map disdainfully—“the plan is perfect, right? All it needs is forty cars, forty black junkies who think they can pass for white, and forty accomplices from Westport who will save exactly the right parking spaces for them at exactly the right time. Piece of cake.” Lesko spat.

  “Then you agree with Mr. Manley.”

  “That it's a load of crap? Yeah.”

  “Mr. Manley, by the way, remembered a few more things about the Arab. It seems that he represents, or so he claims, an organization called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine—General Command. That is the group, financed largely by Iran and Libya, that is believed to be responsible for the bombing of the Pan Am flight over Lockerbie, Scotland. The Arab as much as admitted it. He suggested to Mr. Manley that they are brothers under the skin, so to speak, sharing a common cause against all who would oppress them and deny them what is theirs by right.”

  Lesko snorted.

  “You seem skeptical.”

  “No one guy can be so dumb.” Lesko curled his lip. “He comes in with the worst possible plan, tries to recruit the worst possible people to do it, he practically hands out business cards and he tries to tell a drug dealer and killer like Hector Manley that if money won't get him interested, how about social justice.”

  “But if he's not so dumb”—Bannerman leaned forward— “what then?”

  “Fuck you, by the way.”

  Bannerman ignored this last. “What then, Lesko? What else could he be doing?”

  “Two things.” Lesko considered. “No, three. One is to tie you up in Westport, checking parked cars, now and then grabbing some poor son of a bitch who happens to be black and driving through town and strapping him to that table downstairs. Two is to get you to make dogmeat out of Hector's posse for even thinking about this.”

  “And the third?”
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  “Go kill some Arabs.”

  Bannerman and Zivic exchanged looks. From their expressions, Lesko thought, they'd reached the same conclusions.

  “How does Urs Brugg figure in this?” he asked.

  Bannerman's face showed nothing. He had seen Lesko's ear at the door, too late, but it had only been for a moment.

  “It's another matter,” he said. “No connection.”

  “It's connected with me. Elena's okay, isn't she?”

  “She's mending. She's fine.”

  “You going over, by chance?” His manner softened. “You going to see her?”

  ”I won't see her, no.”

  “Then what's with her uncle?”

  Bannerman sat back. “Lesko, you'll understand, won't you, if I don't share my every thought with you.”

  “You're sharing too goddamned much already.”

  Bannerman gestured vaguely toward the map, signaling a retum to the subject at hand.

  “Anton said that you might return Mr. Covington's truck. It's on your way.”

  ”I might. What's that package in the laundry bin?”

  “It's a sniper rifle. Silenced. A night-vision scope. It will help him keep One hundred and fifty-third Street clear for six hundred yards in either direction. There are also four phosphorus grenades. Don't get stopped for speeding.”

  Lesko had guessed it. Pretty much. A thoughtful guy, Bannerman. Most guys would only refill the gas tank. Bannerman gives him a way to put a bullet up a dealer's ass from three blocks away or to cauterize a crack house. But what the hell, he thought. His pleasure. “I'll take it.”

  “Just park it somewhere in Manhattan. Call him and say where it is.”

  “What do I say about Hector and Ruby?”

  “No one will see Ruby again. I haven't made up my mind about Hector. He'll be with us here for a while but please don't tell that to Covington or Detective Greenwald. I don't want anyone to know he's still alive. You can assure Coving-ton, however, that Hector will not bother him again. I'll call him myself before long.”

  “No carving? Hector's face, I mean.”

  “There's probably no need.”

  “No need,” Lesko repeated, shaking his head. “Bannerman,” he asked, “do you begin to see why your average father doesn't want his only daughter hanging around with you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. But she's safest here. You're welcome to stay yourself until we get this sorted out. I need to be away for a few days. You can keep her company.”

  Lesko saw Zivic's jaw tighten at the mention of Bannerman taking a trip. He had the impression that they'd argued about it.

  “This is about Urs Brugg?”

  Bannerman gestured dismissively.

  “Hey,” Lesko snapped. ”I know how to use a phone too. Why don't I call him right now and ask him?”

  Bannerman tried a shrug of indifference. But Lesko was watching Zivic.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. He scanned the room for a telephone, crossed to it, and dialed an outside line. An operator came on. He asked for directory assistance, Zurich, Switzerland. He could hear Zivic whispering. Bannerman sighing. Lesko gave the name.

  “Put the phone down,” Bannerman said wearily. “Please.”

  Lesko did not. “I’m listening.”

  “It's a personal matter. It's the men who murdered Dr. Russo. Urs Brugg knows where they are.”

  Lesko stared. An operator was telling him that the number was unlisted. He barely heard. He replaced the handset.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “As I said, it's personal. With me and with Urs Brugg. It's none of your affair.”

  “Like hell it isn't. Elena . . . she's—”

  “Elena,” Bannerman reminded him, “is someone you went to see exactly once after she was shot and haven't spoken to since. You have no claim on this. If you ever had one, you've lost it.”

  Lesko wanted to hit him. He held his temper. “I'm going with you.”

  “No.”

  “Then I'll go myself. I still got that passport.”

  “Go where, Lesko? Pick a country.”

  “Elena will tell me.”

  “No, Lesko.” Bannerman shook his head. “She won't. Nor will Urs Brugg. Because they both know that you'll get yourself killed and some of us along with you. We've had this conversation before.”

  Lesko looked to Zivic as if for help. He saw none. “You didn't shut me out then,” he said, hating that Bannerman held all the cards. “What makes this different?”

  “You had a claim then. Susan. You don't now.”

  Lesko looked away. ”I tried to call,” he said, his voice softening. ”I didn't know what to say. I felt stupid. I hung up.”

  Bannerman said nothing.

  There was a carved marble fireplace in the room. A framed mirror hung above it. Lesko saw himself there. Hair disheveled. Two days' worth of stubble. Clothing a mess.

  “What could I say to her,” he muttered.

  It was not a question. Bannerman did not try to answer.

  “It's more than that, isn't it?” Lesko turned his head. “It's my daughter.”

  “There's that,” Bannerman acknowledged. “If you come home in a box I don't want to have to tell her how I allowed it to happen. I'm also not sure that I want you covering my back. Your heart might not be in it.”

  Lesko looked as if he'd been slapped. “You think I'd . . .”

  “Hesitate.” Bannerman chose the word for him. “You might not mean to.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That's not all,” Bannerman said quietly. “You've got into the habit of judging me. Second-guessing me. That not only makes you tiresome, Lesko, it makes you dangerous. There will come a time when I need to act and you will hesitate. You will get in the way.”

  Zivic squirmed. He didn't like this. It was not like Paul to give reasons. Certainly not so many. To do so is to invite rebuttal . . . reassurances. Was this simply to berate Lesko? To match insult with insult? Zivic did not think so. There was, he knew, no meanness in the man.

  But there was surely stubbornness. To insist on going to Spain. Alone if he must. With help, provided they volunteer. Which, of course, they will. All of them. To go, even though mindful of the curious fact that on one day he had no active enemies and on the next . . . hundreds.

  Zivic ticked them off in his mind. A Jamaican drug gang, extraordinarily violent, armed and trained by Cubans. The drug gang's allies, its sources, perhaps even the Cubans themselves. An outlaw faction of the PLO, the most dangerous, the most implacable of them all. And now, very conveniently, the assassination team engaged by the late Palmer Reid whose current whereabouts are discovered by, of all people, the KGB.

  If ever there were a time to hang back, to force the enemy to show his hand, to seize that hand and see who or what is on the other end of it, that time would be now. But Paul will hear none of it. “Never let an enemy pick the time,” he says. “Never let him rest ” How often we've heard that The question is, however, how many others have heard it as well?

  ”. . . never let a partner down in my life.” Lesko was arguing. “That's twenty-five years, Bannerman. Don't fucking tell me—”

  ”I don't need you.”

  “Yeah, well I need this. I go or you don't. I pick up that phone again and I'll have fifty cops watching the airports and they'll bust you for anything they can—”

  “All right.” Bannerman raised a hand. “I'll think about it.”

  “I'll wait.” Lesko folded his arms.

  Bannerman's eyes turned cold. “Behave yourself, Lesko.”

  “Look, you want me to say I'm sorry about giving you so much crap? I'm sorry. You want me to say I like you? I'll say it. I might even mean it a little. If there wasn't any Susan, if she didn't figure in this—”

  “Will you do as I say?”

  Lesko stopped. “Yeah.”

  “No arguments?”

  “Call them suggestions.”

  “You're sure.”r />
  “Try me.”

  “Fine. Go see Elena. Leave tonight. Do that first.”

  Lesko blinked.

  “Stop at my office on your way out of Westport. I'll call them. They'll book your flight. But do not tell Elena you're coming. Just go. I'll contact you through Urs Brugg in a day or two.”

  “What's”—he turned visibly pale—“What's the point?”

  “To get her settled in your mind, one way or the other. You won't be useful to me until you do.”

  ”I don't believe this.”

  “Is that an argument?”

  “It's a suggestion,” he said, his color rising again. “You want another one? Go f—”