The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (64 page)

Reid raised a staying hand. He could do without an
image of that young girl nailed
to
a door or whatever
other gesture might be in favor with those animals these
days, The shine of anticipation on Whitlow's Him
m
ler-esque little face was sufficiently graphic. But Whitlow,
Reid supposed, had done well. The girl's death will be
seen as a case of Lesko's chickens coming home to ro
o
st.
Lesko, in a killing rage if all goes well, will look first to
Elena and then to Bannerman, who led Susan into
harm's way and then failed to protect her. Whitlow is right. They'll all be
feeding upon themselves within a
matter of days. Pity he hadn't thought of a way to leave
a trail leading back to the State Department.

He touched his fingers to his lapels. Wrinkled. He
could never wear this suit again. Ever.

“He put his hands on me, you know,” he said dis
tantly.

“Sir?”

“That man, Fuller. He put his hands on me.”

“For heaven's sake.”

“Can you imagine such a thing?”

”A basketball player, sir.” That would seem to ex
plain it.

“Has it occurred to you, Charles, that he might be
protecting Bannerman because he fears him?”

“U
m
...
as opposed to using him, sir?”

“He fears him, Charles. And he hates him. Given a
chance, he would probably punish Bannerman any way
he could.”

“Sir. . . .”

“Well done, Charles. Very well done, indeed.” Per
haps, he thought, his heart quickening again, there
could be a way to lay that trail after all.

CHAPTER
21

In the solarium of her Zürichberg villa, Elena stared at
her still-unfinished painting of the distant mountain
scape. Two days ago she was pleased with it. Now she
was not. It had lost its
...
serenity. Each stroke of the
palette knife she'd added since her call to Raymond Lesko seemed somehow more severe, more jagged.
Even putting Brahms on the record player had not
helped.

The telephone rang. She glanced at her watch. Les
ko's daughter, she assumed, must have arrived safely in
Klosters. She wiped her hands and picked up the re
ceiver.

“Elena?”

“Yes, Uncle Urs.” She listened to the familiar grunt
ing sounds that said he was settling into his wheelchair
for a conversation of some length. A fall while rock-
climbing had fractured his spine some twenty years be
fore. He was head of the family then and even more so
since. There were those, not least Urs Brugg himself,
who considered his fall a mixed blessing. The Brugg family's holdings had more than quadrupled during the
two decades in which they had received his full atten
tion.

“Josef has called from Klosters,” he told her. “The
Lesko girl and this Bannerman have arrived. Josef
pointed them out to two of our friends with the police of that canton. They will watch out for the girl as best they can. Josef has taken a room from which he can see both
the station and their apartment.”

Elena frowned. “So much trouble, Uncle Urs? I
asked Josef only to. . . .'*

“This man, Bannerman,” he interrupted her. “You
asked me to make inquiries. You say you know nothing
of him?”

“Only what the girl's father said. That this man is his
daughter's friend and Palmer Reid's enemy. What have
you learned?”

“Would it surprise you that this young man, also
known to me as Mama's Boy, has for more than ten years directed an elite mercenary group that was em
ployed by various European governments as well as by
American counter
-
intel
li
gence?”

Elena was stunned. “You know him?”        

“Only by reputation. I've heard stories of Mama's
Boy over the years but I never knew his true name until
today. My information is that his entire group scattered
three years ago and then reassembled in a community near New York where they are said to live in peace.
Make of that what you will.”

“You say he worked for the Americans.” Elena was
becoming alarmed, “That means he worked for Palmer
Reid.”

“He did, but only in a broad, organizational sense.
When I asked whether Bannerman might now be allied
with Palmer Reid, the question was met with laughter.
Lesko was right. They are clearly enemies.”

Elena remained troubled. “You have confidence in your sources, Uncle Urs?”

“One is German Intelligence, one is Interpol, the
third is KGB. All say the same. All say that Bannerman is
a man to be feared, and yet they speak of him with respect.”

“What of the Lesko girl? How is it that she is in
volved with such a man?”

Urs Brugg let out a breath, the equivalent of a shrug.
“She cannot be involved in Bannerman's past because she is so young. But it's difficult to imagine that she
knows nothing about it. Is she a stupid girl, Elena?”

“Lesko's daughter? I would not think so.”

“All these names.” Urs Brugg sounded puzzled.
“Raymond Lesko, Susan Lesko, Elena Brugg, Palmer
Reid, and now this Mama's Boy, Paul Bannerman. They
f
loat in the air bumping against each other. It seems that
they should connect and yet I am assured that they do not.”

They connect, thought Elena. It is only a question of
how. It would be reckless to believe otherwise. But it
would be equally reckless to act upon so little informa
tion.

“Elena?”

“Yes, Uncle Urs.”

“You will tell me someday why this girl is our con
cern?”

“Someday, yes.” When I understand it myself.

“This Lesko must be a man of great charm. He is
handsome as well?”

“He
is…
a
man.”

“Aha. Not so handsome. Then he is a romantic?”

“Good-bye, Uncle Urs.”

“Of course it is none of my business but
…
”

“Uncle Urs
…
” She cleared her throat. “Thank
you.”

“Good-bye, Elena.”

For a long moment, Elena's fingers stayed on the
receiver as she thought about Lesko and the wisdom of dialing his number. She should tell him, perhaps, what
Uncle Urs had learned about the man who was with his
daughter. Or she could tell him simply that his daughter
had arrived and was well. But the first would only alarm him, possibly to no purpose. As for the second, a simple
report, what would she say next? What more could they
say to each other? An exchange of banalities at best.

Perhaps, someday, she would write him a letter.

Perhaps he would answer.

Susan had just finished unpacking, hanging out wrin
kled clothing, and was about to take a quick, hot shower
before dressing for the mountain, there having been no
shower aboard the overnight train, when the phone
rang. She picked it up and heard her father's voice.

“Hi, daddy,” she said brightly. Then, suddenly con
scious that her breasts were exposed by the traveling
robe she'd thrown on loosely, she covered herself. It was
silly, she realized, but she closed the robe anyway.

“Hey, sweetheart. You got there okay?” His voice
echoed through the cable.

“We got in two hours ago. Daddy, it was wonderful.”

She listened as he assured her that he had no particu
lar reason for calling, just to see you're okay,
didn't lose your luggage or anything like that. . . ,” A
long pause. “How's it going with your friend?”

“His name is Paul, daddy.”

“Yeah, right. Paul.”

“I'd let you say hello but he's down stowing our skis
and checking in with the lady who manages the build
ing. The
fact is, I'm sorry you missed him.”

“He, um, still reminds you of me?”

Susan thought she heard a certain pregnancy behind
the question but she chose to skip past it. “More than ever. Listen. While I'm over here, you get out and see
people, okay? And I don't mean just boozing every
other night with Mr. Donovan. If I ever get a few dollars
together I'm going to take you on the Orient Express
and introduce you to a countess.”

“I could picture it. I'd hold out my pinkie drinking
tea and I'd probably poke her in the eye.”

“Come on, daddy,” she scolded mildly. “I told you
not to talk about yourself that way.”

“Yeah, well, you just take care of yourself, all right?
Ski slow.”

“We're going up as soon as I change. They're fore
casting heavy snow tonight and tomorrow so we're get
ting in a few runs today.”

“Make sure you dress for it. Don't catch a cold.”

“Love you, daddy. I'll send lots of postcards.”

“Good-bye, sweetheart.”

The phone rang again as she turned on the shower. A
Mr. Zivic calling from Westport. She covered herself
again. Nice-sounding man, very apologetic, spoke with
an accent. Very reluctant to disturb either of them but
he was unable to find some airline tickets Paul was to
have left for him. No problem, said Susan. He has your
number?

She stepped into the bathtub, smiling over her fa
ther's call. Ski slow. Don't catch cold. He was sounding
more and more like Uncle David these days. It would be
early morning back there. A little after four. The time
when daddy's gremlins came. That might explain it.
Maybe Uncle David had dropped in on him again. She paused thoughtfully in the midst of lathering herself as it suddenly occurred to her that the other call had been made at around four in the morning as well. Her father
she could understand. But a routine call about som
e
airline tickets?

Anton Zivic, Paul told her, was an antique dealer in Westport. A nice man, a valued client, but a chronic
worrier. Sorry about getting a business call, he said, not
twenty minutes after walking in the door. He hoped it
would be the last.

But, though Paul tried not to show it, the intrusion had noticeably soured his mood. During their walk to
the gondola, skis slung over their shoulders, she did her
best to pull him back up, to make his eyes, not just his
mouth, go soft again. In the end, more than any playful
ness or cajoling, it was her undisguised delight in virtu
ally everything she saw that made the difference.