The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)
Page 22
“He's shaking Billy's hand,” she beamed. “I bet he'd just die to meet Anton Zivic.”
Anton brushed that lunacy aside. “Could this young man really be so ... inept?”
“He's probably competent enough,” she shook her head. “He's young and he's star struck. I think it's kind of….”
“Flattering,” he said sternly.
“Oh, loosen up, Anton. It's been three years since anyone looked at us like that. He's in awe. I got the same way when I ran into Paul Newman buying vegetables at the Korean's.”
Zivic closed his eyes as if in prayer that sanity would soon return. “What do you suggest we do with him?”
“You're the boss.”
“An opinion, please.”
Her smile faded. “Don't tell Paul. Let him go and enjoy.”
“And the young man? This Poole?”
“Let him go, too, before they miss him. Take him back to his car and tell him he's welcome to watch us all he pleases as long as he's discreet about it. Chances are he'd be too embarrassed to report that he was taken so easily and interrogated.”
“John?” Anton invited his opinion.
“She makes sense. Keep him or hurt him and you force Reid's hand. Let him watch us and that way we watch him, too, and he sees what we want.”
“What do you make of the girl's father being followed?”
Molly answered. “If they know about Susan they know who her father is. If I were Reid, I'd wonder how
and if Paul is connected to a man like Raymond Lesko. It's a blind alley. Let him follow it.”
“This seems careless.”
“‘To me it seems considerate. Would you want Paul to cancel his vacation over this? He will, you know.”
Slowly, frowning, Zivic nodded agreement.
“We must have black-and-white glossies made up.” He turned to the door. “Perhaps a team photograph for all future Doug Pooles.”
“T-shirts would be good, too,” John Waldo growled.
CHAPTER 13
That Thursday evening. Late
Robert Loftus had spent the afternoon following Raymond Lesko from one hotel to another before it dawned on him that they were all Beckwith properties. He returned to the NSA communications center, housed in the headquarters building of one of the major broadcast networks, where he made some discreet inquiries of the New York City Police Department and listened to that day and that evening's tapes of both Raymond and Susan Lesko's phone calls. Doug Poole checked in at eight, behaving a bit strangely but having nothing to report except that he'd spotted Anton Zivic. Loftus attributed that to having spent an afternoon in Westport and getting out intact. He was more concerned about Frank Burdick, who had not reported in at all.
Wearily, he punched out the number of Palmer Reid's Maryland home. Reid answered on the second ring. He identified himself. Reid said “Report.” Loftus could hear the clink of ice cubes against glass. Maybe after this call he could relax with a drink of his own.
“Sir,” he read from his notes, “first of all, Lesko wasn't meeting anyone at the Beckwith Regency. He's a security consultant for the Beckwith chain and has been for a year. He spent the afternoon visiting other Beckwith hotels and right now he's back in his room. Room service brought him his dinner and a typewriter. He`s probably doing reports.”
“Perhaps, but go on.”
Loftus resisted an urge to flash a middle finger at the mouthpiece. “Secondly, he did not at any time meet with Bannerman. I continue to believe they don't know each other. Bannerman was at his Westport office when Poole got there. Poole says there's no particular activity in Westport either, although he did see Anton Zivic leaving Bannerman's office. Apparently a routine visit.”
“If you say so, Robert.”
The finger twitched again. “Finally, Lesko called his daughter an hour ago. That's how I know what he's doing in his room. He told her. Lesko then asked the daughter for the particulars of her travel plans. ‘In case someone gets sick’ was the reason he gave. They are, it turns out, going to Switzerland but not to Zurich. They're going first to London where they'll board that restored Orient Express train. The train passes through Zurich, but they don't get off. Their final destination is Klosters. Bannerman has rented a chalet there. The daughter says that's where they'll be for the whole three weeks. I have the address and phone number.”
“I see.” Reid allowed a silence to settle. “So you're satisfied, I take it, that it's all an innocent romantic adventure.”
“Unless you know something I don't, sir.”
“At the moment, it's more a question of what Mr. Donovan knows. I'm afraid he's been on the phone again.”
“Asking about Bannerman?”
“And getting answers. He knows, Robert.”
“He knows what part?”
“Who Bannerman is. Or was. He has a call in now to Roger Clew who, fortunately, is in Mexico at the moment.”
“Are you sure he knows that, sir?”
“Why would you doubt it?”
“Because I think he would have gone straight to Lesko with that information and Lesko would have stopped that ski trip very damned fast. But I'm sure Lesko didn't know as of an hour ago.”
“Good point, Robert. Why would he not have called Lesko?”
“Probably because he wants confirmation first. More details. But whether he talks to Roger Clew or not, he won't wait past Bannerman's flight tomorrow.”
“I've seen to that, Robert.”
“Sir?
“I've had him taken.”
Loftus closed his eyes and bit hard into his lower lip. “Burdick?” he asked.
“Among others.”
Loftus was speechless. “Sir,” he managed, “may I respectfully remind you that Donovan is a former U.S. Attorney? And that Burdick is a fucking goon?”
Reid took in a breath at Loftus's choice of adjectives, but did not comment. “Thoughtful casting was not a requirement, Robert. I merely wanted the man removed from circulation until I can have a friendly chat with him.”
“When will that be?”
“Tomorrow morning. Do you know Ambassador Pollard's residence in Scarsdale?”
“Yes.”
“You may reach me there if you learn anything else. Your presence, however, will not be required.”
“Mr. Reid, I hope you know what you're. . . “'
“Good night, Robert.”
Friday morning, after breakfast.
Raymond Lesko's mood had not improved much at all.
He glanced at his watch. Susan's flight was in about ten hours. This time tomorrow she'd be on a mountain somewhere. He hated the thought of her being that far away. Right now. Too many things didn't feel right.
One of which was that Buzz Donovan didn't show up at Gallagher's last night, and he didn't answer his phone at home, and he didn't answer it this morning, either. Garage man says his car's still there but no Donovan.
Another aggravation was finding out this morning that goddamned David Katz doesn't just hang around his Queens bedroom. Four this morning, he shows up at the Beckwith Regency.
Damned dreams. Seemed like all night long. With the whole cast of characters. Loftus was in one. Just sneaking around again. Lesko wished he'd squeezed him harder when he had the chance so he wouldn't have to stew about him when he could be sleeping. And Bannerman was there, this time younger and thinner but with slicked down hair and a pencil mustache. Looked like what they used to call a lounge lizard.
Lesko knew Bannerman didn't look like that any more than he looked like he did in yesterday's dream. Susan wouldn't hang around with a creep like that, anyway. But seeing him that way in a dream didn't help Lesko like him any better.
Another new guy in the dream was Palmer Reid. Lesko's head made up a face for him as well. Guy about Donovan's age, dresses like a Ken doll, gets a haircut every week. He's not doing anything. Just watching. Loftus keeps whispering in his ear. Donovan keeps looking over at him like he can't stand the son of
a bitch.
The dumbest part, Lesko winced at the memory, was that not only was Elena there—it must have been Gallagher's again—but Donna, his ex-wife, was there, and Donna's having a high old time telling Elena all about life with Raymond Lesko. He snores, he farts in bed, he never hangs up his clothes—which is not true, by the way—he forgets to flush, and when he eats kielbasa his breath could peel wallpaper. What the hell's that all about? Anyway, it's just like Donna to harp on shit like that when serious things are happening all around her.
Katz wasn't in that dream. He showed up later. Four in the morning. Still with the bagels or Danish, but here he's in the suite they let Lesko use, and he's walking around saying this is nice, this is good, it looks like you finally scored.
“Yeah, well, it's not a score, it's a job. And this isn't mine so don't go touching anything.”
Katz's hands went to his hips. “You can't say hello before you start with the nasty mouth?”
“You come in here expecting etiquette? Who invited you? Anyway, you're not even here. You're dead.”
“You don 't have to keep saying that, either. ”
“Christ ” Lesko bunched the pillow against his face.
“You 're worried about Susan, aren 't you?”
No.”
“You want me to keep an eye on her? Maybe I could do that.”
“Keep an eye where? She's going to Switzerland.”
“Maybe I could find them, ” Katz shrugged. ”l don 't know. ”
“She's with a guy. You think I want you standing around at night watching whatever she does with him?”
“It's just a thought. I thought maybe it could help square us. ”
“You want to make yourself useful? Go find Donovan for me. After that, you want to haunt somebody, go haunt my ex-wife. Flush the toilet all night while she's trying to sleep. ”
The dreams stayed with Lesko throughout breakfast and through two more attempts to reach Buzz Donovan. No answer.
Funny how he was getting used to Katz. The conversations they were having weren't all that different from the way they talked to each other when Katz was alive. He could have done without dreaming of Elena, though. Twice in a row now. Bad enough she pops into his head nearly every damned day. And he could also do without his head inventing new Paul Bannermans every night. Maybe he should sneak out to the airport and watch them check in. At least he'd know what the real Paul looked like.
Where the hell is Donovan?
A couple of meetings this morning and then a free afternoon. You know what he might do? Maybe he'd go back to Queens and borrow Mr. Makowski's car and take a ride up to Westport. No particular reason. Just to look around. See if he notices many people leaping out of windows or running in front of trucks.
Irwin Pollard, having made a substantial fortune as an investment banker, contributed generously to the first-term election campaign of President Ronald Reagan. He let it be known that he would appreciate being named ambassador to the Court of St. James or any other comparable post that did not involve dealing with Orientals or Arabs. He was offered Bolivia, but declined, giving the excuse that he did not speak Portuguese.
It was Palmer Reid who persuaded him to change his mind by pointing out how that position could make him considerably richer and that the languages of Bolivia were, in any case, Spanish and Quechua. Further, the currency of Bolivia was not the peso but the coca leaf. Many a great and worthwhile cause, could be funded with that money, particularly if a man of vision, a man who was not a lackey of the State Department or the Congress, happened to take that post.
Pollard, who was now on station in La Paz, was a man who knew the value of a dollar. As a further incentive to take the job, Reid offered to pay off the mortgage on Pollard's Scarsdale home and, until Pollard was recalled, pay him a substantial rent in return for the right to sequester people there on occasion. Reid also threw in a state-of-the-art security system, behind which Buzz Donovan, impressed and unshaven, had just spent a very angry and sleepless night.
“I know you're upset.” Palmer Reid entered the Pollard living room, hands raised, palms forward, where Buzz Donovan sat on a sofa watched over by Frank Burdick and an ape of a man named Gorby. “You have every right. It's perfectly understandable.”
“Don't dare patronize me, you son of a bitch.*' Donovan glared at him.
Reid made a show of stopping in his tracks, an expression of confusion on his face. He blinked at Burdick and Gorby, then back at Donovan. “My God,” he hushed, “No one's explained to you. Is it possible no one had told you why you're here?”
“Oh, stop it, Palmer.” Donovan said disgustedly.
Reid pretended not to notice the cynicism. He looked at Burdick. “Did I or did I not give specific instructions that Mr. Donovan was to be told why he was brought to the safety of this house?”
“We may have erred on the side of caution, sir.” Burdick knew his lines.
“No wonder the man is outraged,” he snapped. “Get out of my sight.”
“Sir, if I could just apologize. . . .”
“Get out. Now.”
Burdick and Gorby left the room. Reid sighed deeply and shook his head. Now wringing his hands, he took a seat facing Donovan. “Before I begin,” he said, “I must remind you that you are still bound by oath to uphold and defend. . . .”
“Spare me, Palmer. Get on with it.”
Reid paused again as if choosing his words. Then he made a damn-the-torpedoes gesture signifying, he hoped, that he had decided to withhold nothing. ”A project is now under way,” he said quietly, “whose objective is nothing less than the destruction of all South American drug traffic within two years. What is particularly outrageous about that drug traffic is that a number of former government agents seem to be very much involved in it. A trap is being laid for them. You, I fear, are in danger of springing it prematurely.”
Donovan waited.
“I tell you now, regretfully, that your friend Raymond Lesko appears to be involved with these people, either directly or as an unwitting dupe.”
“Spell it out, Palmer.”
“You are, of course, aware that shortly after the death of his partner, Raymond Lesko executed three men in a Brooklyn barbershop?”
“That has not been proven or even charged.”
“It may shock you to learn that one of these three men was an American undercover agent. Quite an excellent young man, by the way. Lesko shot him down without a word.”
“How could you know that?”
“There was a witness. Her name is Elena.”
Reid watched for a light of recognition in Donovan's eyes. Donovan had made up his mind to give him nothing.
“I have it all second-hand, of course,” Reid told him, “but the essence is that she survived the shooting because she and Lesko had been in league all along. She's been hiding since the event. I think Lesko knows where.”
“That doesn't make him sound like an unwitting dupe to me.”
“It's conceivable, I suppose,” Reid told him, “that their relationship might be more personal than criminal. But I have reason to believe that a third party is using Lesko to reach Elena. I'm afraid Lesko's daughter is involved in this as well.”
“Who is the third party?”
“I'll need your word first.”