The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (59 page)

“Loftus? Don't hang up. I want to know more
about
…
”

“I'll be in touch. You sit tight, damn it.”

“Loftus,” he shouted. “Do not fucking hang
up. . . .”

Loftus broke the connection.

Loftus stood thoughtfully at the open-air phone out
side a Mobil gas station on Scarsdale's Main Street. He'd
considered telling Lesko that the sniper from this morn
ing was one of Bannerman's Westport friends and there
fore one of his. But then Lesko would know both too little and too much about Bannerman and was likely to
go charging off to Europe like a wild man. Let him stew,
he'd decided. It would make Lesko crazier when Loftus
needed him crazier.

Off to one side, away from the lights and the traffic flow of the pumps, his car waited with its lights on and
motor running. Another car was behind it. Doug Poole
waited in the second car, his face toward Loftus, his
expression pained. Loftus walked over to him.

“You better get back to Westport,” Loftus told him.
“Find a motel room and stay there; the closer to the
middle of town, the better.”

“They said you can come, too,” Poole looked up at
him, the agony of what he'd done showing in his eyes.
“Colonel Zivic said we can even keep our weapons.”

“You go,” Loftus shook his head. “Anyone ever asks,
I told you to maintain the surveillance there. You don't
even know about Burdick.”

“Mr. Loftus
…
I'm really sorry.”

“Don't lose any sleep over Burdick. We don't need
people like that.”

“I mean about telling them. I don't know how to explain it. They were like really good friends. Even
now, except for you, I feel like they're the only friends I
have.”

“Get going,” Loftus ordered gently. “Check in with me when you're settled. Let Zivic know where you are at all times. If you get lonely, they'll probably let you
hang out at Mario's.”

Loftus watched him go. He watched for any sign that
Poole was being followed. There was no one.

He didn't blame Poole. He wasn't even sorry Poole
talked to them. Poole was young, not much hard experi
ence, involved in his first killing. Even a good killing
would have been rough on him, but Donovan's was
murder, pure and simple. The result of a
slap to an old
man's ego as much as anything. Knowing that had torn
Poole apart. Zivic had seen that. The fear. The vulnera
bility of just sitting there outside Zivic's shop all day.
Add a dose of hero-worship, some patient questioning, a
touch, maybe even a hug, from Molly Farrell. A sand
wich made by Billy McHugh himself. Three of the best operatives in the world treating him as an equal. Believ
ing him. Offering their friendship if he wanted it. Their
protection because he needed it. The funny thing was, Loftus thought to himself, they'll probably keep their word. Crazy world. The good guys are the bad guys. The bad guys are the good guys. Except what the hell
did all this make him?

Seventy-five yards away, in the parking lot of an all-
night supermarket, the man named Gorby stripped off
his earphones and disconnected the shoulder stock of a
parabolic microphone. There was a large, open brief
case on the backseat at his side. A tape recorder, red eye
glowing, lay inside. Gorby shut it off, then snapped the
microphone parts into felt-covered spring clips and
closed the lid.

“That little creep, Whitlow, was right,” said the man
at the wheel, half-turning. “This is bad shit.”

The driver's name was Walter Burns, the other half
of a team called in to dispose of Burdick's body, remove
all evidence, and restore the ambassador's bathroom to
its prior condition. They'd done this many times.

“It's worse than bad,” Gorby muttered. “Sounds
li
ke
old Bob has been working both sides right along.”

“Hard to believe.’^

“We just heard it.”

“So? What's first?”

“Loftus, but not here. He's probably headed back to
the Pollard house. We'll give him a few minutes.”

“Do me a favor, okay?” Walter Burns said. “No more
bathrooms. It took me three hours to replace the tiles after Burdick. Not on Pollard's rugs, either.”

“Why don't we just lay down some newspapers? Lof
tus asks what we're doing, we'll say we want to work the
puzzle.”

“I don't need sarcasm,” Burns told him. “Just a little
consideration.”

“Shit,” Gorby grumbled. “Come on, let's go.”

“And no head shots. Not unless it's near a hose.”

“What do you want from me? A
Good Housekeeping
seal? Start the fucking car.
”

Amid the wine-fueled gaiety of the bar-salon car
after dinner, as the train hummed on toward the Swiss
frontier, the inner voice that had often caused Susan to
wonder about Paul became stilled.

They'd dined by themselves, having declined an in
vitation from the Basses to share a table. This time it was
Susan who begged off. She more th
a
n enjoyed their
company
but this was a special night and she wanted at
least this part of it to themselves. During the meal, and
during the fashion parade that preceded it through
each of the dining cars, Paul pointed out a countess, an arms dealer and an Italian film actress. It was not until
he identified a fallen-away mullah and a Russian KGB
agent in drag that she realized he was making it all up.
She would have thrown a roll at him if so many people
were not eyeing them as well.

“What do you think they're saying about us?” she
asked him.

“The men are thinking how lucky I am and the
wives are threatening to pour wine in their laps if they
don't quit staring at you.”

Silver-tongued devil.

But it brought a smile to her face that lasted through
dinner.

Now, taking coffee and liqueurs in the bar car, a
group of passengers had gathered around the baby grand singing show tunes. Somewhere in the mix,
louder than the rest, Susan could hear the unmistakable
baritone of Ray Bass. They picked up their liqueurs and
moved closer, acknowledging smiles and greetings as
they passed. The Italian pianist was standing at the bar,
a Campari in his hand, smiling down on Ray Bass, who
had bought him a drink as the price of taking over the
keyboard.

“Hey there, Paul,” Caroline Bass waved them on.
“You play this thing?”

”A little,” he shrugged, smiling.

“Well, slide in and take a turn. Ray here thinks if it
aint foot-stompin', it ain't music.”

Paul wavered but Susan pushed him forward. Ray
Bass making room, Paul sat, thought for a moment, and
then with his right hand picked out the first four bars of
Cole Porter's “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

“The very thing.” Ray Bass clapped his hands and
burst into song, making Paul rush to catch up. From that
song he swung into a Cole Porter medley, playing tunes straight through if the passengers knew the words, stop
ping at sixteen bars if they didn't, giving Susan a solo of
“Night and Day,” which Susan sang without hesitation
in a confident glee-club alto.

Susan hadn't known that Paul could play. Another
new dimension. On the other hand, he hadn't known
that she
could sing, either. Or know that she could play a fairly decent guitar. Someday she'd surprise him with
that.

Later, after a nightcap with the Basses and a British
couple celebrating an anniversary, everyone said they
hoped they'd meet again soon, and she and Paul retired to their cabin. Susan would have liked the magic of the
train to have gone on forever, but their stop in the
morning would come early. And it would still be a
while, Susan hoped, before they let the train rock them to sleep.

     
“Susan.” He turned her and held her as she began to
undress. “I do love you, you know.”

     
“Me, too.” She loosened his tie.

     
“And I want you to trust me.”

    
“Shush.” She touched her fingers to his lips.

    
“I mean, I know you wonder about me sometimes.”

    
“Paul, dearest . . .” she began on the studs of his
shirt.

    
“But please don't wonder if I'd ever hurt you.”

     
She leaned her cheek against his chest. “Will you
shut up now?”

He'd told her, several weeks earlier, about the up-
and-down motion of the train's aging springs. For two
tired people, the springs were everything they could
hope for.