The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (53 page)

“No, Elena. That came out wrong. I heard that you
protected Susan when some of your people wanted to
get even with me through her. It's just that Switzerland
keeps coming up.”

The line was silent.

“That was decent of you. Protecting her, I mean. If I
knew a way, I'd make it up to you.”

“It is not necessary.” Another long silence. “And
what of you, Mr. Lesko? You are well?”

“Not too bad. I'm not a cop anymore.”

“I know. I have inquired. You are a. man not easily
forgotten, Mr. Lesko.”

“I don't meet too many like you, either.”

“Well . . . good bye.”

“Wait a second. If I need to call you again, how do I
get you?”

“As you did this time, I think.”

“Direct-dialing would be quicker.” To say nothing of
cheaper.

“Perhaps it is best we keep some distance between
us, Mr. Lesko.”

“I guess.” He tried to envision her. Back straight.
Chin high. Eyes direct and a little sad. “Listen . . .
Elena. . . .”

“Yes?” Her voice was small, expectant. But he had no
idea what he wanted to say to her. Or why he wanted to
keep her on the phone.

“You take care of yourself, okay?”

He heard the soft sound of her breathing.

“Mr. Lesko,” she said finally. “If you wish it, I can
arrange to have your daughter watched while she is
here.”

Lesko hesitated, then realized he was doing so. “I'd
appreciate that,” he said. He told her where Susan
would be staying.

As he replaced the receiver, his expression distant,
he turned toward Robert Loftus and saw a look of
amused amazement on the other man's face.

“What's with you?” he scowled.

“What's with me?” Loftus shook his head as if to
clear it. “What's with you and Elena?”

Lesko threw him his coat. “Come on. We're leav
ing.”

“You're blushing, Lesko. I'm fucked if you're not blushing.”

“No, asshole, it's called getting mad.”

“You see Elena exactly once, you shoot everybody
around her, and now you look like you want to ask her to
your Junior Prom.”

Lesko looked for something else to throw. Instead he
snatched up his own coat. “You got a car outside?”

“Around the block, yeah.”

“Let's go. You're driving me to Scarsdale.”

“Talking to you is one thing, Lesko. But once they
see us together, I'm dead.”

“You're going to show me how to get inside. The
talking's over.”

Susan hated to leave London, having seen so little of
it, but was even more reluctant to cut into her three
weeks in the Swiss Alps
.
We'll come back, Paul promised
her. If you get tired of skiing, or if we get some bad
weather, we can always fly back and wait it out. Can we
really? Anything you like, Paul told her.

But one fantasy at a time. Here it was Sunday morn
ing and, dressed in their costumes from Harrods, Susan
and Paul entered Victoria Station and followed the signs
to the waiting Orient Express. Other passengers had
already arrived, their heads turning toward each new
arrival, cameras ready for those who came in 20's dress
and for any celebrities that might appear. Several pas
sengers snapped Susan's picture. Paul grinned gro
tesquely into several lenses until Susan noticed and
jammed her elbow into his ribs.

The Orient Express was actually not one train but
two. One for the English leg of the trip, the other for the
longer continental portion. The first, called the British
Pullman, was entirely made up of vintage dining cars,
their exteriors painted in tones of brown and cream
which gave them an antique sepia look. On the inside,
however, each car had its own distinctive design and
history dating from the late 20's. Paul had chosen a car
that had been a particular favorite of Winston Chur
chill's who had used it to entertain visiting heads of
state. A steward seated them in upholstered wing chairs
facing a table set for lunch. Champagne was poured at
once. A light lunch of Scottish salmon was served as the
train whispered through the Kentish countryside to
ward the Channel port of Folkestone.

Arriving at Folkestone, the British Pullman eased onto a long jetty extending out over the tidal basin and delivered them within yards of a British Ferry the size
of a small cruise ship. Once aboard, they were escorted
to the vessel's first class lounge. Paul steered Susan to
the port side of the lounge and a booth which offered
the clearest view of the Channel coast and the white
cliffs of Dover.

Their fellow passengers, who had thus far been
speaking in hushed voices as they might in a museum,
enlivened considerably with the service of tea and cock
tails on board the ship. Most gravitated toward the
sound of their own language in search of kindred travel
ing companions. Obvious honeymooners endured coo
ing questions and surreptitious snapshots before escap
ing to the promenade deck. A group of luxury train hobbyists began arguing the merits of the Orient Ex
press versus Spain's equally fabled Andalusian Express.

The passengers, Susan guessed from the accents she'd overheard, were about one third American and
another third British, the rest being a mix of other Euro
pean nationalities. About one woman in five was in
some sort of 20 s costume including a few that were
genuine antiques and several that appeared to be de
signer originals commissioned for the occasion. Most
were
,
like her own, made up of selected accessories,
such as the one worn by the woman from Harrods who,
with the man from the Grosvenor lobby on her arm, was
now crossing the lounge in their general direction.

“Hello there.” The woman's eyes lit up in sudden
recognition. “You two mind if we share your booth?”

Paul stood as the man extended his hand. “Name's
Ray Bass,” he said. ‘This here's my wife Caroline.” Car
oline offered her hand in turn. “Seein’ as how we've run
into each other all over London,” she smiled, “seems
time we met.”

Susan liked the Basses instinctively. It pleased her
that Paul, normally shy among strangers, seemed en
tirely comfortable with them as well. The first few min
utes of conversation showed Ray and Caroline to be
outgoing, warm, enthusiastic and down-home funny.
Down home, as it turned out, was Lumberton, Missis
sippi where they owned a pecan farm and New Orleans
where they kept a town house. Questioning them,
Paul
learned that the Basses took two or three vacations a
year, the most recent being to China, not counting occa
sional weekend theater trips to New York. For all their
easy charm, however, Susan could not help being mildly
disappointed that
the first new people she met were
Americans. Caroline Bass seemed to read her mind.

“Truth be told,” she drawled, “I sorta hoped you'd
be English. Lady Twiddlethorpe or some such. And this
handsome feller would be James Bond even if he does
wear bowls of chips on his head in hotel lobbies. On the
other hand, I know you didn't come on the Orient Ex
press just to meet a couple of Mississippi farmers.”

“See?” Susan nudged Paul. “James Bond. Everyone
thinks you look mysterious.”

”Um, I think the word Caroline used was ‘silly.’ ”

“What line are you in, Paul?” Ray Bass asked.

“I'm a spy,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, good,” Caroline clapped her hands. “And you're on a caper, right?”

“Darlin’,” Ray corrected her. “Detectives have ca
pers. Spies have missions.”

“Well, whatever it is, what is it?”

Paul leaned close, dropping his voice. “I could tell
you. But then of course I'd have to kill you. Suffice it to
say that civilization as we know it depends on my get
ting the formula to my contacts in Switzerland before
midnight tomorrow.”

“That's if you can get past the KGB, of course,” Ray
offered.

“No problem. Susan here will use her body to dis
tract them.”

“Paul . .
“
Susan punched his leg.

“Hey, this is gettin' good,” Caroline said in a stage
whisper. “Do you know which ones they are?”

“The honeymooners,” Paul nodded gravely. “No
one ever suspects honeymooners.”