The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  A message came up. Clew to Hagler.

  MANLEY MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD—BANNERMAN/ZIVIC ARE ON TO US—MUST MOVE BEFORE HE DOES.

  “When he says ‘move’ ”—Belkin pointed—“one would assume that he means against Westport.”

  Bannerman nodded. The message certainly smelled of panic. And it was justified, but only to a degree. Bannerman would hardly execute, although he would surely chastise, two top government officials for what was ultimately an elaborate ruse aimed at forcing him into their arms. But then, of course, Belkin's “distraction” wouldn't have done much for their peace of mind.

  Belkin scrolled forward. He stopped at the first of several profile documents. Bannerman's own. Those of about half his people—the rest apparently unknown, even to Roger. One for Lesko. One for Susan. Bannerman read it.

  It was dated the previous November. Updated several times after that. The sense of it was that Roger disapproved of his involvement with her. No surprise there. Almost no one approved.

  Reading on, Roger had learned that they planned a ski trip to Switzerland. Probably tapped her phone. Clew wondered, in his notes, what Palmer Reid might make of that.

  More notes. Evidently taken from a computer analysis. These seemed to list Reid's probable courses of action.

  Belkin was right. This did upset him. Here, Roger had calculated what Reid was likely to do. He knew about the EIena-Lesko connection. He knew that Reid had been involved with Elena. And he said nothing, gave no warning. But, the big question, did he deliberately see to it that Reid knew? Or was it just carelessness that he made that call, on an unsecured line, at exactly the right time?

  Not likely.

  “Colonel Belkin.” He sat back. “These notes seem personal. Not meant for transmission. Why would he send them to Hagler?”

  “He did not. This part, the profiles and notes, were transmitted by modem to the machine of Irwin Kaplan. It was done on the day of Palmer Reid's burial. Roger Clew left for Westport directly from the cemetery. We believe that Irwin Kaplan gained access to Clew's apartment.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “There appears to have been an estrangement between Kaplan and the others.”

  One would say so, thought Bannerman. Breaking and entering, theft of data, would tend to suggest a breakdown of goodwill.

  “Colonel Belkin,” he asked, “would you ask Susan to join me here?”

  “You would show this to her?”

  “I'd like to know what she thinks.”

  Belkin hesitated.

  “About this,” Bannerman told him, “and about your proposition as well.”

  “For heaven's sake, why?”

  ”I told you. Because I trust her.”

  Bannerman stared at the phone. There had been something in Lesko's voice. A hesitation. A thickness. But Urs Brugg was fine, he said. Sleeping comfortably. Elena was fine. Everyone arrived safely.

  Bannerman shrugged it off. Probably still upset about the shooting in Marbella. He dialed the number Lesko had given him. A woman answered.

  “Mrs. Kaplan? This is Paul Bannerman. May I speak to your husband, please?”

  “Does he know you, Mr. Bannerman?”

  Her voice had an edge to it. Probably having dinner, he thought.

  ”I think so. Yes. It's quite important.”

  “One moment, please.”

  A long pause. Too long. Bannerman could hear whispers. The voice came on.

  “This is Irwin Kaplan.”

  “Good evening, sir. This is—”

  ”I know who you are.”

  “Mr. Kaplan, I've just spoken with Raymond Lesko. He says that you're an honest man.”

  “Is he there with you?”

  “No, sir. But I'm about to give you his number. I'm going to ask you to gather your family, leave your home immediately, take your disk file with you, destroy it or not as you choose.”

  “Wait a minute. Why would I—”

  “Go to a safe place, no relatives or close friends. Call Lesko from there. He will explain and he'll tell you how to reach me. I must hear from you within the hour.”

  “And if you don't?”

  “I'll assume that you've been harmed. Or that you are my enemy. But at this moment, Mr. Kaplan, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Silence. It had the sound of doubt.

  “Get out of there, Mr. Kaplan. Call Lesko.”

  Bannerman felt a touch at his shoulder. Susan reached for the phone, took it from his hand.

  “Mr. Kaplan? It's Susan. Susan Lesko.”

  “—Susan?”

  “We've met. You've been to our house.”

  “Of course—I—”

  “Please trust him, Mr. Kaplan. Trust me. And call my father.”

  “Give me the number.”

  “Get some rest, Paul,” she told him, frowning. “At least get off your feet.”

  He'd rocked backward, nearly toppling a lamp in the guest room to which he'd been assigned. He looked at his watch. Susan had moved it to his left wrist. He kept the right arm elevated. A full cast ran from the tips of his fingers, to keep them from flexing, almost to his shoulder.

  Two in the morning. Six hours ahead of Washington time. Kaplan should be calling soon. He had Belkin's word that the phone would be clear. He had to keep his mind clear as well.

  ”I think I'll look in on Billy,” he said.

  ”I just did. He's out cold. So should you be.”

  “Soon,” he told her. “You go to bed. We have an early flight.”

  Which was dumb, she thought. But at least he was leaving Billy. The doctor said two weeks before he could travel. Bannerman said he'd probably kick his way out in three days without us here to sit on him. Speaking of sitting . . .

  “Sit, Bannerman.” She dragged a chair to within reach of the bedside phone and eased him into it.

  “Did your father,” he asked, “have anything else to say?”

  She had spoken to him before he did. Paul had told him about the Ripper Effect. The American version. Not in great detail. Just enough. And that it was Susan who had recognized the name of Irwin Kaplan when she saw it on the screen.

  “Not much. But Elena came on. She was very grateful. That you were so nice about what happened, I mean. And so considerate of my father's feelings.”

  A dismissive shrug. He said nothing.

  “You are nice, Bannerman. You're a nice man.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “And Elena's nice. So's her uncle. And Billy. Even Colonel Leonid Belkin of the dreaded KGB is nice. I still can't get over it.”

  “As Billy would say, what's not to be nice? It's not a weakness.”

  “How tough is Elena? Tough as my father?”

  ”I only know her secondhand. But the word I'd use is strong”

  “How long does it take? To get that way.”

  “You're already there, Susan. You were born with it.”

  She smiled, but remained doubtful. “If that's true, it probably needs to cook for a while. I'm way behind the rest of you.”

  “Time will turn it into habit. And then instinct. But it won't change you any more than it's changed Elena. You won't become hard.”

  She fell silent. She looked for something to do. She stepped to his end table where a thermos of water had been left, intending to pour it for him. She saw two paper cups but they each held pills. American made. She recognized the sleeping pills: Seconal. And the two yellow ones were Dem-erol. For pain.

  “You haven't taken these? You've had nothing since the anesthetic?”

  After I speak to Kaplan,” he said. He gave her a look that asked her not to argue.

  His cast was sliding over the arm of his chair. She took his bed pillow and gently placed it in between.

  “Have you ever been shot before?” she asked.

  “Nope. First time.”

  “I've seen scars on your body. What are they?”

  “Appendix when I was thirteen. Otherwise, just your b
asic collection of cuts and bumps, mostly from general klutzi-ness.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Scout's honor.”

  “Then you've been lucky. What you do is so dangerous.”

  He shook his head. “Not really. It's a lot safer than being a New York street cop, for example. Has your father been shot?”

  “Twice. And cut a few times.”

  “There you have it.”

  “Bannerman.” She curled her lip. “I've traveled with you twice in the past four weeks. And both times one of us almost got killed.”

  “For reasons totally unrelated to our purpose in being here,” he pointed out. “Someone miscalculated, or jumped to a conclusion, or was careless or stupid. A planned mission leaves as little as possible to chance.”

  “You can plan for no Tuckers?”

  “No. But it's why I pick my friends very carefully. It's the Tuckers and the Palmer Reids that hurt you. They're more dangerous than the enemy.”

  “Am I your friend? You know what I mean.”

  “More than that. You're our friend.”

  She knew that. Although it was good to hear. And although there might be an exception or two.

  “What about Carla? Do you think she'll ever get off my case?”

  “Eventually. Don't worry about it.”

  Calamity Carla. ”I could probably learn from her.”

  Bannerman shook his head. “Learn from Molly,” he said, “or from Janet Herzog if you can get her to talk. Carla's good but she likes to walk too close to the edge.”

  “And from you?”

  “I'll teach you nicer things. I’m a nice man, remember?”

  There were more questions she wanted to ask. Like, Those three you went to Marbella for—does this mean you have to go back? Try again? Or did I miss something.

  And why did you, while speaking of Carla, cock your head in the direction of Marbella, not Westport?

  Probably just tired. Disoriented.

  But she didn't think so.

  And what about us? The old one-day-at-a-time seems to have gone by the boards. Do we give some thought to—you know—or do we keep it unofficial? Or am I supposed to make my bones first.

  Whatever.

  Or how about an easy one. Like, My new Russian diplomatic passport, even now being forged, which I'll need to slip back into the country tomorrow. My new name. Katya Khakov. Which has to be Colonel Belkin 's idea of a joke. And do I get to keep it for a souvenir.

  The phone rang.

  “Good,” she said. “Now take your pills.”

  — 32—

  Wednesday. Kennedy Airport.

  The TWA flight from Lisbon touched down shortly after noon, waking Bannerman, jarring his arm. As it taxied toward the terminal he could see the black stretch limousine, windows smoked, waiting near the gate as Leo Belkin had promised. An immigrations officer stood near it, clipboard in hand, waiting to record and clear their diplomatic passports.

  He and Susan stayed in their seats until the last passenger had cleared the aisle of the first-class section and a wheelchair could be brought aboard. The wheelchair, and a feigned sedation, made it all the more unlikely that he would be questioned.

  The officer's face showed nothing. No sign of recognition or interest. Perhaps the Soviet credentials were unnecessary. But better safe than sorry. They were cleared in less than a minute. The limousine, its driver a burly young Russian, huge hands, followed the signs to the terminal exit. Once there, Bannerman asked that he return to the entry ramp for departing passengers. At the far end of the ramp, Bannerman directed him to the curb. They waited. Seconds later, Anton Zivic approached the door and, waving the driver forward, quickly stepped inside.

  “Can you take us to Westport in Connecticut?” he asked in Russian.

  The driver nodded. ”I am to give every assistance.”

  “Are we being recorded?”

  “No,” the driver answered. But he shrugged and lifted one hand, palm up. Who knows? “There is vodka,” he said. “Also there is tea in a thermos.”

  Zivic thanked him, then found the switch that raised the glass partition between them. He snapped open a briefcase, taking a plastic device from it. He turned a dial. A pulsating light showed that it was working, flooding the limousine's interior with inaudible harmonics. “Speak freely,” he said to Susan, “but softly.”

  He reached for her hand, kissed it, and held it for a moment looking into her eyes. Perhaps appraisingly, she thought. But apparently satisfied. His gaze shifted to the cast on Bannerman's arm. He frowned. Bannerman waved dismissively.

  “Colonel Belkin sends his regards,” he said.

  Zivic nodded an acknowledgment. “How is Billy?”

  “Not so bad. John Waldo showed up at the embassy this morning. He'll stay with him. I saw Carla on the street outside and Janet at the Lisbon airport. They'll stick around a while as insurance.”

  Susan raised an eyebrow. She'd seen no one.

  “Roger is in Westport,” Zivic told him, “with perhaps two dozen men. Most of them are positioned as surveillance teams. The rest, with Roger, have occupied the clinic. They have found none of our people but they have Hector Manley. They are holding him, possibly for use as a witness against you.”

  ”A witness? To what?”

  “Kidnapping. My information is that he carries federal warrants on that charge, another concerning the theft of government property, and a third concerning a conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “That's not a federal crime.”

  Zivic waggled a hand. “It is alleged that you deprived Palmer Reid of his civil rights. It is all the same.”

  Bannerman sighed audibly. “What would have been wrong with a simple phone call asking if we could talk this over?”

  Zivic's eyes flicked toward Susan.

  “It's okay,” Bannerman said.

  “He tried. But he is now certain that you suspect him of that car bomb business. When he saw that you were gone, that nearly all of us were gone, he concluded that we were about to move against him. In his place, would you sit and do nothing?”

  “He might still be innocent,” Bannerman told him. “It could have been done by an associate of his named Harry Hagler. I have some computer disks to show you when we get a minute. In any case, that wiretap of Manley and Buster Bang came to us through a third associate, a DEA official named Irwin Kaplan who also happens to be an old friend of Lesko's. He had no role in it but when he heard the tape he suspected his friends of working a sting. There was also the chance that the plot could be genuine. Third, because he'd had a falling out with Clew and Hagler, and since the recording was done by DEA agents, it crossed his mind that they might be setting him up as well. The course he chose was to leak the tape to a narcotics cop who he knew, via Roger, to have been in Westport and who was very likely to go to Lesko with it.”

  “Roger is not innocent,” Zivic answered. ”I saw his evidence. And I saw his eyes.”

  Bannerman looked away, his expression uncertain.

  “You have doubts,” Zivic said. “What are they?”

  Bannerman reached into his carry on bag and found an antimagnetic film pouch that contained the computer disks. He handed them to Zivic. “Hold on to these, by the way,” he said.

  Zivic opened the pouch and saw what it contained.

  “Leo Belkin got those,” Bannerman said slowly, “by tapping Roger's line. He told me that and I believe him. But how is it possible?”

  “Technically, you mean?”

  Bannerman shrugged. “Whatever the technology,” he asked, “how does a tap on the home telephone of a senior State Department official go undetected for a period of weeks, even months?”

  “Did you ask Belkin?”

  ”I thought about it later. He wouldn't have told me anyway.”

  “Would Molly know?” Susan asked.

  “She might.” Bannerman reached for the tea. Susan helped him with it.

  “What are we going to do now?” she
asked.

  “There are a few places in Westport they won't know about. We'll drop you off at one of them. You'll be safe.”

  “No chance, Bannerman. Not this time.”

  “Susan—”

  “With that arm, I assume you're not going to walk in shooting.”

  “No, I'm not. I'm going to try to defuse it. But Roger is a frightened man right now and he has a lot of guns with him. It's a dangerous situation.”

  “If they see me with you, would they be as quick to shoot?”