The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (69 page)

     
Shit.

   
Hardly one man in a hundred, she thought disgust
edly, wouldn't have followed meekly at the thought of
his balls sprayed all over the sidewalk. She had to pick
one who'd been neutered.

 
“Let go,” he repeated, “or shoot.”

 
She considered it. But his muscles were tensed and
ready. Without a killing shot, not possible where the
gun was pointed, those knuckles could snap her spine. His eyes promised it. But she was not about to release
the gun. And she couldn't dangle here all morning. She
decided. Carla drew back her head.

“Fuck you,” she snarled. She slammed her forehead
against his nose. Once, then again. In the same moment
wriggling violently, tugging on his gun to free it from
his pocket. That was a mistake. For an instant it became
knotted in the fabric of his pocket. His right hand came down and covered hers. She could feel his thumb close
over the hammer. With her other hand, still pinned
against him, she clawed desperately at the soft flesh
around his crotch but now, with a growl, he seized her
hair and tore her free of him.

People around them had stopped. Some were shout
ing. But she saw only the face of the big Swiss, advanc
ing on her now. She feinted a jab with her fingers at his
eyes, then threw a spinning kick against the side of his
knee but her footing and her leverage were poor. He
had her again. One hand gripped her coat and the other
slammed a fist into her ribs. She gagged.

“Stop this.” A shouted voice in German. A woman.
Carla, blinded with pain, could hear the sound of blows
against the big man's back. A clattering sound. Like an umbrella. The big man raised an arm to ward them off.
Another man, a passerby, seized it. Now still another
grappled with him. The big Swiss was shouting, trying
to explain. Carla heard the word
meuchel
.
Assassin. She
freed herself and aimed a final well-timed kick. Josef
Brugg gasped and sank to his knees.

She turned to her rescuers so that they might see
what this beast of a man had done to her. Her face was
streaked and splattered with the blood from Josef's nose
and from her own tears. She backed away from him as if
in terror, now breaking into a run as two men seized
and pummeled him.

Down the Promenade she ran, searching through
the crowds and the falling snow for the red shopping
bag, peering into every shop she passed. Susan Lesko,
damn her, had disappeared.

Paul Bannerman tried reading, he tried watching
television, but mostly he paced. From the silent tele
phone at one end of the room to the terrace door at the
other. Watching for each arriving train. Hoping to see
Susan among those walking from the station. Wanting to
go to Davos, to look for her, not wanting to leave the
phone in case she called.

The only call had been from Carla. She'd lost Susan.
But so had the man who'd been following her. No, Carla had no idea why. Or who he was. Possibly a policeman.
Possibly
something worse. She had watched him for a while after failing to find Susan. As soon as he freed
himself from the people who were berating him, he rushed to the nearest phone and reported. To whom?
Who knows. Should she watch him or keep looking for
Susan?

Look for Susan, Paul told her. She doesn't know Davos. The way to bet is she'll stick to the shopping
streets. You find her, get her back here no matter how
much you have to tell her.

He watched one more train arrive, then picked up his phone. He dialed three Westport numbers before reaching Anton Zivic at the clinic.

“Anton,” he said, after relating the substance of
Carla's call from Davos, “Is it possible that Susan's fa
ther arranged to have her watched?”

“By the Swiss police, you mean?” Anton sounded
doubtful. “I suppose it's possible. Policemen around the
world do favors for each other, but. . . .”

“Is there a way you can ask him without alarming
him?”

Anton sighed meaningfully. Unless Lesko was in fact
having her watched, the answer was clearly no. “In any
case, he's asleep. We agreed it was best to keep him
here. I had to use chemical means.”

Paul sucked in a breath. He knew that he was reach
ing. And that Anton could hear the edge of desperation
in his voice. “Anton, see if you can bring him around.
Ask him. Just be ready to put him back under if you
have to.”

“You'll stay by your phone?”

“I'll be right here.”

Elena, too, was pacing. First the call from Uncle Urs
telling her of the attack on Josef—that he had been
bested by a small woman, to say nothing of being bela
bored by the umbrella of a Swiss grandmother—then another, telling her that Raymond Lesko had called,
asking about a man seen following his daughter. Was
this, he asked, the man Elena said she would send to
watch over Susan?

Uncle Urs had assured him that this was the case. But
he thought it wise to say nothing of the attack on Josef.
Or of the woman who attacked him even though she too
seemed more intent on protecting the daughter than on harming her. Very possibly, thought Uncle Urs, this woman is a member of Bannerman's group. But Lesko
was in far too agitated a state to deal with conjecture.
Moreover, said Uncle Urs, his speech was slurred and his head did not seem clear. He may have been intoxi
cated. No cause for alarm, Uncle Urs promised, as he took down the number where Lesko could be reached.

Elena was in her kitchen, helping her cook prepare
the evening meal, when the phone rang again.

“Elena?”

His voice seemed pained. “Uncle Urs. What has hap
pened?”

“Terrible news. Someone has tried to kill the girl.
They may have succeeded. Josef saw the ambulance
and went to investigate. She has been taken to Davos
Hospital.”

“Oh, God.”

“She was found
….
beaten. Then someone threw
her off the footpath that leads down from the Schatzalp.
Do you know the place?”

“I know it. Yes.” The mountain restaurant, reached
by cog rail or hiking path. “Could that woman have
done this?”

He hesitated. “Perhaps. I don't think so.”

Elena heard the hesitation, and the other before he
had said
beaten.
What was he holding back? Surely she had not been raped. Not on a hiking trail during a snow
storm. “Uncle Urs, what are you not telling me?”

A silence. Then, “It was done with cocaine, Elena.”

She couldn't speak.

“Cocaine was forced into her mouth. She was made to swallow it.”

Elena closed her eyes, placing one hand against her
kitchen doorjamb as if for support.
“Trafficantes”
she
whispered. She knew two others whom they had killed
in this manner. She had heard of a half-dozen others.
She'd heard of none who survived.

Elena stepped through the door, closing it behind
her so the cook could not hear.

It was always done for vengeance. But it was seldom
the guilty who were murdered in this way. First came
fam
il
y. Loved ones. Wives and even children. This was
vengeance against Lesko? After two years? Did they
wait for the daughter to be in Switzerland where her
death would touch Elena Betancourt as well? She gath
ered herself.

“Uncle Urs, listen to me. Call Davos Hospital. Tell them they must carefully examine the girl's vagina for evidence of a suppository. If they find one it is also
cocaine. It is there to kill her if the other does not.”

“I understand.”

“The man, Bannerman. Does he know?”

“By now, I think. Josef gave the Klosters address to
one of our friends on the police.”

“The father. We must tell the father.” How she
dreaded the thought.

“I will do it, Elena. He gave me his number.”

“Tell him
…
whatever I can do, whatever he
needs
…
”

“I will see to it.”

Urs Brugg promised to report all developments,
then broke the connection. He would call the father
now. And he too would offer assistance. He had an idea,
however, that this Mama's Boy and his associates would
be providing more than enough.

By the time the last direct sunlight began creeping
up the eastern slopes, Paul Bannerman was becoming
more angry than worried. Angry at Carla for losing Su
san. Angry at Susan herself. In the end, he was sure, it
would turn out that his whole day of pacing and waiting
had been for nothing. She'd show up laden with shop
ping bags. Saying she had lost track of time. He would
point out that all she had to do was look out a window to
know the sun was going down. And the Swiss public
phones were not so mysterious that an American col
lege graduate couldn't at least reach an operator.