The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (86 page)

‘The Swiss have a message for you, too. Theirs is, ‘You even think about going back after who ever hit
Russo and the Lesko girl and they'll lock you up for ten
years.
”

“I'm not going after anyone. Not in Europe.”

“You already got them?”

“Come spring,” he said, “the ones who
attacked
Su
san might turn up. Or they might not. The
Elena
am
bush was by two other men and a driver. I'm not inter
ested in them. They're just shooters. Europe's full of them.”

“You figure it's Reid? Behind all this, I mean?”

“There is that chance.”

Clew moved his chair closer, “That's what I want to
talk to you about. We're about to force Reid out. He's
nuts. If the secretary had his way we'd haul him off to a
rubber room at St. Elizabeth's, but the man's got all
those files. We don't want you doing anything until we
have our hands on them.”

“For that you chased me to Europe?”

“There's more. Him out of the way, we want you to
come back to work.”

“No chance, Roger.”

“I'm not talking like before. Not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?”

“You have a hell of a team here, Paul. It's an awful lot
of talent not to be put to good use.”

“What do you consider good use?”

Clew brushed aside the question. “And I don't have
to tell you there are lots of shitty people in the world.
The worst of them always seem to be just out of reach.
Just the other day I heard the attorney general telling
the secretary how frustrating that is.”

“And you want us to start killing them off.”

Clew raised his brow. “I didn't say that. Barton Fuller certainly didn't say that.”

“I'll try to pay closer attention. What did you say?”

“That
sometimes
…
occasionally
…
we could
use specialized help that is not answerable to any civil
hierarchy. That maybe sometimes your people could
use a little exercise.”

“When that happens I'll take them jogging.” Paul
pushed back from the table, disappointment plain on
his face. “Someone probably said that to Palmer Reid once. Haven't you learned anything from it? Anyway,
I'm not interested.”

“Whatever you say, Paul.” Roger folded his arms.

Bannerman looked at him suspiciously. Nothing's that easy.

“As long as I'm here,” Clew asked innocently, “and we're through talking, you mind if I just think out loud
for a couple of minutes?”

“Be my guest.”

“The room isn't bugged, is it?”

“Now
you're asking?”

“You see why I need professional help. Quiet now.
Let me think.” Roger Clew leaned back in his chair and
began talking to the ashtray. “In addition to his own
group, Mama's Boy is now wired into the Brugg family
of Zurich, which incidentally has a lot of juice over
there, and to the Betancourt family of La Paz which—
who knows?—could also be useful. He's also wired into
Raymond the Terrible Lesko, who reminds me of Billy
McHugh except he knows more words. This is the basis
of a considerable network.”

“I barely know Lesko. I hardly know the Bruggs at
all.”

“I'm not talking to you.” He focused again on the ashtray. “Now, Bannerman doesn't want to be back on
the payroll, for which I don't blame him because he's
retired and besides he's independently wealthy having
ripped off a few million of federal funds and a few prime
pieces of Westport real estate. But we're not even going
to mention that. No hard feelings.”

“Roger
…
”

“We're going to stay friends. We're going to stay in
touch. And, if I ever have anything bothering me, I'm
going to come see him, cry on his shoulder, maybe just mail him a newspaper clipping. And likewise, any time
Paul Bannerman needs a favor, boy, I'm going to be
right there.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“The trouble is, Lesko reminds me that it's hard to
have a network with the Bruggs as long as there's a
federal Jane Doe out on Urs Brugg's niece and another
one from New York as a material witness to some old
shooting. So by Monday, there won't be.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Roger.”

“What are friends for?”

“Maybe I owe you one.”

“I'll try to think of something.”

“One, Roger. Just one.”

Late Friday afternoon. Westport.

Raymond Lesko had not been in Westport thirty-six
hours before his patience began to wear thin. Four New
York policemen with assorted weaponry had joined him
at Greenfield Hills. They fell to discussing tactics, agree
ing with Lesko that it made no sense to let an enemy
pick the time and place for an assault.

In the halls and washrooms of Greenfield Hills,
Lesko had also picked up two rumors. One was that
Palmer Reid had holed up in his Maryland home, where
he had established an elaborate command center. The
house was heavily guarded, the streets patrolled. The
second was that the same long-distance shooter who
was such a show-off on Lesko's street in Queens had been dispatched to a street in Chevy Chase, Maryland.

With these rumors in tow, he confronted Paul Bannerman at Luxury Travel Limited.

“Your guy's down there to hit him, right? You prom
ised me a piece of it.”

“He's just there to observe,” Paul raised a calming
hand. “As for Reid holing up in his house, he often does
that when he's nervous. It's good that he's nervous.”

“So? What happens now?”

Until Roger Clew's visit, the answer to that had been
clear. Roger's friendship was valuable. That of the Sec
retary of State even more so. Still
…
“I haven't de
cided,” Paul told him.

“What's to decide? You know he's behind what hap
pened to Susan and Elena.”

“I don't know it. I think it.”

“But you got no question about Donovan.”

“None at all.”

“What more do you want?” Lesko threw up his
hands. “We just sit until he drops a bomb on Westport
with a signed confession taped to it?”

Paul shook his head. “He won't move yet. Not until
he's sure where you are and where Loftus is. He's prob
ably not even sure where I am.”

“Bannerman,” Lesko slid into a chair. “I want this
guy. I'll work with you or I'll do it alone. But I want him
dead.”

Paul said nothing. He seemed to sigh.

“Hey, look,” Lesko leaned toward him. “The last few
days I heard a lot about Mama's Boy. All of a sudden
you're not acting much like the guy I heard about. Does
Susan, by chance, have anything to do with the
change?”

A small shrug.

“I hear you're thinking about hanging them up, is
that true?”

“More or less.”

“Well, if you think backing off is suddenly going to
make you better son-in-law material
…
”

“I don't.”

“Then what do you say you get off your ass?”

“You're a smooth talker, Lesko.” Bannerman
reached for a pad and scribbled an address. “That's where Reid lives. You want to go after him, be my
guest.”

“You don't think I will?”

“I think you might. You won't last a day.”

Lesko reddened. He stood up, paced the office,
struggling to control his temper. “You got a better idea,
let's hear it.”

Bannerman looked at him coldly.
“I
don't need you,
Lesko. Try to understand that. If my problem was in
some New York back alley, you'd be the first one I'd call.
You're
tough and straight-ahead. Reid is devious, cow
ardly and probably crazy. But he'll dance rings around
you.”