The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (19 page)
Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online
Authors: John R. Maxim
Scattered around the agency's front office, Lesko saw what he took to be Bannerman's entire group, minus the shooter who was still down in Maryland. He recognized most of them. The bartender and the two women from Switzerland were there, plus a few he'd seen at Greenfield Hill and a couple more he was sure he'd seen around Westport although he had not connected them with Bannerman before this. There was also Robert Loftus, jaw wired, nose splinted, half his teeth kicked out.
Lesko shook his head. Forgetting Loftus, he could have picked any twelve men and women off the street at random, ages thirty to sixty, and they .wouldn't have looked much different. Two jogging suits, a few ski jackets, a Mickey Mouse sweater on the woman with the knitting bag, another in a party dress like she's got a date later, Bannerman in shirtsleeves. The only other guys in suits were Zivic, who runs the local antique store—they say he's definitely not a fag, though—and a guy who someone said was their accountant, and looks it, which probably means he's a world-class money launderer. No wonder nobody in this town noticed.
Billy McHugh was clearing one desk, setting up champagne bottles and plastic glasses. Molly Farrell was at another that had a call director on it. She was wearing headphones and fiddling with a small black box that had assorted gauges on its face, a red plastic switch and an LED readout with blue lights, all zeros. The others, one by one, were picking pairs of headphones and little radios out of an open suitcase. Bannerman was at the rear-most desk, collar open, feet up, looking more relaxed than Lesko had ever seen him. Lesko made his way back.
“What the hell is all this?” he asked Bannerman blankly.
”I told you. Happy hour.”
“Happy hour,” Lesko repeated.
“Take some earphones. Find a chair.”
“Ask a silly question . . .” Lesko muttered.
Reid stared at his watch. The minute hand moved slowly toward six and then past it. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Forty. Stay composed, he told himself. You're in control. Act the part.
He jumped when it rang.
Reid forced a smile. He motioned Charles Whitlow to the extension. Whitlow scurried into the chair nearest it, a notepad on his lap, knees close together.
Four rings.
On a signal from Reid, they picked up together.
At the call director in Bannerman's office, Molly peered at a meter on the instrument she held as Reid answered. The drop in amperage was twice what it should have been. She held up two fingers for Bannerman to see.
“Palmer? It's Paul. Is your phone secure?”
“It is. I had it swept an hour ago.”
Molly looked toward the audience, her expression smug. Several of them broke into mimed applause. Lesko scratched his head.
“Are we alone, Palmer?”
Reid was less than comfortable but he could not object. He did not like being anywhere near an electronic device if the Farrell woman was involved. He knew her file too well. And he was appalled to discover that the Russian defector, Zivic, appeared to have risen to a position of high trust. But soon he would have them as well. Zivic would be taken alive and kept alive, and in pain, until every last bit of intelligence was wrung out of him. “Not at all,” he said.
“Palmer, our whole group is assembled here.” He looked to his left where every available chair and desktop held one or more of his agents. All were seated except Billy, who'd begun pouring champagne. Janet Herzog was engrossed in her knitting. Carla Benedict used the time to balance her checkbook but her eyes were shining. All the rest were eagerly attentive except John Waldo who had worn a sour expression since he arrived and was idly leafing through a Bermuda brochure. “Everyone wanted to be a part of this,” Bannerman told Reid.
“Palmer,” Paul interrupted his reverie, “as long as we're being truthful with each other—”
“At long last, Paul.”
”—I should tell you that until we talked this afternoon, I was pretty sure you were behind all this. Mind you, that was before I knew that it's Barton Fuller who's been working with the cocaine traffickers all along. So, a few days ago, Anton sent Molly Farrell down to your house.”
Janet Herzog looked up, stared at him.
“Um . . . and Janet Herzog.” He tossed his head, apologetically, in her direction. She returned to her knitting.
A long silence. “To what purpose, Paul?”
“You'll see in a minute. I'm afraid I wasn't entirely truthful about Lesko, either. He's here listening in.”
“Paul—”
“Palmer, I think it's time we ended this. Don't you?”
this is shit
And he heard a growing panic that constricted the throat of Palmer Reid. But he knew that Reid would not hang up. Not while there was another lie to attempt. Bannerman almost felt sorry for him.
Loftus bent over the microphone.
“Hello, Mr. Reid,'' he slurred through wired teeth.
A gasp through the line. “Robert?”
”I won't tie up the line. I just wanted to say good-bye.”
“Robert! What are you . . .”
“Good-bye, Mr. Reid.”
Paul's arm came down. The others fell in unison. Loftus hit the switch. Lesko heard a sharp snapping sound.
Then,
instantly, a duller
thukk,
like an archer's arrow hitting a target pad. A chorus of birdlike squawks, each at a different pitch. A telephone clattered against a desktop. A glass smashed against a hard surface. Now there were sounds of fumiture toppling over and of bodies thumping against a thickly carpeted floor.
Lesko, his headphone still at his ear, his mouth open, said, “What the hell . . . was that what I think it was?”
”I believe,” came the voice of Urs Brugg, “that it was a promise being kept. Paul?”
“Yes, Mr. Brugg.”
“You will come visit me one day?”
“I'd like that, sir. As soon as the Swiss lose interest in me.”
”I will try to hurry them along. Mr. Lesko?”
“Yeah . . . Yes, Mr. Brugg.”
“You especially. I think we should talk.”
“Well . . . you see, I hardly ever get over to . . .”
”I gather your horizons have expanded considerably in recent days. Come see me, Mr. Lesko.”
”I have some things to work out here, but maybe, yeah.”
Molly broke that connection as well.
John Waldo, who in his mind saw Palmer Reid's lifeless body, eyes wide, blood from both ears, and two more like him—whoever they were—steel darts exploded inside their brains, messing up the rug, would rather have seen a simple hole in Reid's forehead. Not that he'd take anything away from Molly. She was a sweetheart and all. But that was the trouble with the world today. Too much high-tech shit. You lose the personal touch.
-14-
Palmer Reid's obituary, with photograph, ran for three columns in the Sunday
New York Times.
An outstanding career. One of the original “cold warriors.” Served under seven presidents. Died suddenly. Cerebral hemorrhage. Alone at home. Working at his desk.
Leading Roger Clew to the soundproof conference room, Bannerman listened patiently to five minutes of well-rehearsed obloquy. The secretary, Clew told him, was furious. The act was insane. It could well have cost Paul every friend he had in Washington. How are they to trust him again? How are they to work with him, if from now on
they won't
even be able to pick up a telephone without wondering if they've annoyed Paul Bannerman in some way?
“Then the solution”—Bannerman made a time-out sign with his hands—“is
not
to work with me. They could simply leave us alone.”
“Go ahead, Roger. Play it.”
Palmer Reid's voice. Then Bannerman's. A phone call. Reid saying . . . that it was Fuller. Reid trying to set him up. To get Bannerman to ... that was it. It wasn't the computer at all. Relief flooded over him. But Bannerman still watched closely. He could only hope that whatever Bannerman saw in his reaction would pass for shock and disbelief. He nodded that he'd heard enough. He pressed the “stop” button.
“There's one more,” Bannerman said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a second cassette. This he snapped into the machine. Again he waited as Roger Clew listened. Clew's eyes, ever widening, told him that he'd reached the instant in which Palmer Reid died. Bannerman shut off the machine.
Clew could not speak for several moments. His mouth was dry. “May I have these?” he asked finally.
“The first one. Not the second.”
Clew let out a breath, then nodded. “Did you . . . even begin to believe it? What he said about Bart Fuller?”
“And you.”
“The unwitting dupe,” Clew nodded.
“No.”
“But he claimed he had proof. I know he didn't. But when Bart Fuller hears this,” he held up the first tape, “he's going to ask me what it was.”
