The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (44 page)

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Authors: John R. Maxim

BOOK: The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)
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Before he realized it, he had reached the Roman bridge. He went under it. He hid there, soaking his hand in the cool running stream, washing his face, drinking deeply.

A fluttering sound. Distant. He recognized it. A helicopter. He climbed the bank and looked, his first thought that it was searching for him. But no. There were two. One landing, the other waiting its turn. In the distance he could see Ronny Grassi, on the beach, waiting for them. His grip tightened on the machine pistol, the knuckles of his good hand turning white.

Tucker watched.

A man, bearded, was helped out of the second helicopter. Now two women, one young, the other with both her arms in slings. A second man, very large, almost Tucker's size, was helping them. Tucker rubbed his eyes.

“McHugh?” he whispered.
He wasn't sure. Something different about him. He'd wait. Get a closer look. They were moving toward the courtyard now.
He watched as the party disappeared behind the beach house and then came into view again. Much nearer. He could hear their voices. They had reached a table. They were sitting. He still could not see the big man clearly. His eyes were blurring from the effort. And they hurt. He felt his brain pressing against them from the rear. He needed something. Calm him down. He patted his pockets, felt the outline of some pills. They were bennies, he remembered. Not what he needed now. He could have used some dust to clear his head. Or some dillies for the pain. But he swallowed them anyway. All three of them.
The choppers.
Why hadn't he thought of them? The speed helped after all.
Screw grabbing a car. All he had to do is get to that table. Grab Grassi by the throat. Tell the rest of them he'd kill them if they moved. Which he might do anyway. Especially McHugh, if that's him. Blow both his ears off. Then his nuts. Drag Grassi down to the beach to that chopper. Get it to take him someplace. Ireland, maybe. France.
He didn't know. Someplace.
Throw Grassi out on the way. Make him beg first. Then hear him scream until he bounced.
Shit.
Then what?
Where could he go that they wouldn't find him?
You know who'd know?
The Englishman. Up in that house. And the other two with him.
Pilot could set that chopper down right outside. Street's wide enough. And it levels off up there. Make Grassi tell him what was going to happen to them. How he set them up.
Stupid?
You call me stupid, you fucking wop?
I'll show you who's stupid.
“Of course I’m glad to see you,” Bannerman insisted. It was not quite the truth. It was not quite a lie either. But he made no move to embrace her.
“You're sort of glad,” she corrected him, accurately. ”I understand. I don't blame you.”
Billy had gone down with him, after handing him his pistol. At first, Bannerman had refused it. Susan was likely to hug him, at least touch him. She would feel it.
“She's got to get used to it,” Billy told him firmly. “Now's as good a time as any.”
Bannerman tucked the weapon into the small of his back. He slipped into a blazer. But she had not hugged him. She greeted Billy first, kissing his cheek. For Bannerman, she waited. He kissed her lips, lightly. She touched only his arms. Billy realized that she knew. He excused himself and walked up the path that led to the courtyard restaurant.
They stood in silence, watching him go. Bannerman took a deep breath, his expression stern, hands on his hips, one thumb pressing on the butt of his pistol to keep it from showing.
She poked at his arm. “Say you're glad to see me. This time, mean it.”
“Who brought you here, Susan? Urs Brugg?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And your father let him?”
”I didn't give them much choice. Come on, Bannerman. Say it.”
“Susan, we need to talk.”

She held up a hand. “Do I know why you're here? The answer is yes. Do I understand that you'd rather I stayed home, pretty in pink, keeping the home fires buming? Yes again.”

“The fact is—”

“The fact is,” she interrupted, “I'd probably be doing just that if Molly hadn't hustled me out of town. That doesn't mean I would have liked it. Say you're glad to see me anyway.”

“Fact is, I guess I am.”

“That's progress.” She made a show of examining his waistline. “Now say, ‘I know you grew up with men who carry guns, Susan, so I'm not going to stand here like a dummy trying to hide the one in my belt anymore.’ ”

He closed one eye. “Susan—”
”I think this is where I say, ‘Paul—be careful. Come back to me.’ ”
He looked skyward.
“Or I say, ‘Paul, why can't we let the police handle those three?’ But I already know the answer. You're Mama's Boy. You don't do courts.”
“Susan—” He stepped closer to her.
”I know what you're going to say. Don't.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you sure we need two of us for this conversation? Why don't I go back upstairs and you can finish it by yourself.”
“I'm not leaving you.”
“Fine.”
”I mean it, Bannerman. I know too much. The phone calls. The blinking lights. Fortress Westport. I'm even on the run now so your pals in Washington can't—What did you say?”
”I said fine. We'll work something out.”
“No more secrets? All or nothing at all?”
“We'll see about
all.
But you're right.
Nothing
is no longer an option. Why don't we talk about it over brunch.”
“Brunch?” She stared at him, blankly.
”I have to go up and say hello anyway. We'll get something from the buffet. After that, let's find you a swimsuit and go down to the beach.”
“Brunch.” She repeated the word, tasting it.
He's here to kill three people, but only after brunch.
That's right, isn't it, Paul? You're going to shoot them?
Uh-huh. Try the Eggs Benedict
And it's your basic execution, right? I mean, we're not talking gunfight at the OK Corral here.
You got it. Care for a sticky bun?
No thanks. Too heavy. We're going swimming, remember?
Oh, yeah. Then maybe while you're dressing for dinner I'll
run out and blow those suckers away.
Oh. Okay. Good plan, Paul
Thanks, partner. Glad you came.
Oh, well.
She took his hand.
In for a penny, in for a—

She heard the sound. Like a New Year's Eve noisemaker.
Brak-brak-brak.
Not loud. Not at all like gunshots. But she saw, in Paul's eyes, that they were. He mouthed an order—
Stay here
—raising a fist as if to back it up.

He had barely turned away when she saw the pistol. It seemed to leap into his hand, his thumb already working its safety. He raced, in stocking feet, toward the courtyard where she'd left her father. He made no sound at all. She had not even seen him kick off his shoes.
She kicked off her own and followed.

-28
-

The Algerian raised his binoculars. Something had happened at the Puente Romano.
He'd heard nothing. Too great a distance. Nor could he see much within the hotel's grounds. But on the beach, strollers had suddenly stopped. Sunbathers in folding chairs, spread out to the left and right in a pattern that seemed too precise to be random, were, as if on signal, springing to their feet and turning toward the hotel.

Now, on each side, a person waving. Gesturing. As if directing traffic. The rest hesitated. Now a few moved toward the hotel. Others toward the two helicopters, one on the landing pad, the second on the sand fifty yards distant, as if to guard them. About half stayed where they were. At their posts.

Yes. They were definitely not tourists. He could see no weapons but nearly all carried beach bags or had towels draped suspiciously over their hands.

The Englishman should know of this, he thought. Even if it came to nothing. A fight, perhaps, between rival gunmen. Grassi was known to cause such fights. It was good, for that reason, that they kept to this house. Too many of those others despised the Englishman. Some would have mocked him. One or more would surely have challenged him. And the Englishman, who was a coward, would refuse. He would walk away, back to his room, to his bath, where he would try to scrub the shame from his body. He would make threats, take an oath of vengeance, but it would come to nothing. All he would do, he would send Erna to find a young woman and he would scrub her until blood seeped through her skin. Her screams would make him feel like a man again. Today, perhaps twice a man. Today he had two. Soon the screams would start.
No, thought Amal Hamsho. He would not interrupt the Englishman. Not for this. He would keep silent. He would wait. He would take his share of Grassi's money and then, he had decided, he would take the Englishman's share as well. And Erna's, which the Englishman kept in any case. He would cut both their throats. He would buy drugs. In Barcelona. But this time he would sell them. He would—
The Algerian turned at the sound behind him, his hand on the Uzi slung under his arm.
One of the Americans, one of the lesbians, had entered the room. Her shirt was gone. She wore nothing at all. The tape on her wrists still in place. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Behind her, the door to Erna's room. The American, too frightened to speak, pointed to the table on which the contents of her knapsack had been strewn. Amal watched, saying nothing.
“She—she sent me,” the woman stammered. ”f—for these.”
Hamsho saw where she pointed. Two plastic devices. Powered by batteries. One very thin, the other very fat. These things disgusted him. Erna disgusted him. As did this woman.
He crossed to the open door. He saw Erna there. On her bed, face down, also naked. Legs spread wide. The right one was quivering, as if in anticipation of the things the American would be made to do to her. Hamsho spat, although inwardly.
Strange about that leg, he thought. He had watched men die, and women, and their legs trembled in that way as the life went out of them. Sex and death. The beginning of life and the end of it. Are they so alike?

He sensed a presence at his shoulder. He glanced. The American, her toys held against her breasts, stood close to him, waiting for him to let her pass. He hesitated. Something about her. Her expression. There was a new light in her eyes. The fear seemed gone. What had replaced it? Was it lust? Why no more fear? Was it possible that she had come to believe that she had found a friend in Erna Dietz? A protector?

Foolish woman. She would soon learn how much—
Erna.
She was making sounds. Bubbling sounds. And the leg now more than trembled. It was in spasm. This was not passion. This was—
He felt a tickle at his ear. And the colors of the room exploded. He heard a screech. High and shrill. It seemed to come from within his brain and push out against his eyes. The room tilted crazily. His arms, before him, flapped like wings. He wanted to bring them to his head, to the pain, but they would not obey. Now his whole body floated. The naked woman with him. Her breath on his face. He felt her hand against his ear. There was something there. It was hurting him. She pulled at it. Another screech. A popping sound. Now she was showing it to him. Something long and thin. He tried to focus. He could see only that she was moving it, down past his face, under his chin. He felt it there. Hurting him again. Stinging his tongue. The roof of his mouth. His nose. They all screamed. More lights, red lights, as it pierced his brain. Then his eyes rolled back and there was blackness.
In that first minute, before the shots were fired, Billy thought he was dead.
He had rounded a curve in the path leading to the courtyard, his way hidden from view by the thick tropical gardens. And there was Tucker, crouched low behind a shrub, holding a machine pistol aimed squarely at his heart.
Tucker, he realized, had heard his footsteps. Had been waiting for him. And yet he seemed stunned. Billy saw the tables up ahead. Lesko there, facing in their direction but his attention on the woman seated to his left. Billy understood. From this distance Lesko could have been himself.
Billy watched his eyes, waiting for the confusion to pass and for a decision to be made. He braced himself. His one chance—leap sideways into the thickest foliage and roll. He would surely take a hit, maybe several. But if he could free his own weapon, get off one shot, just one, that was all he would ask.

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