The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (89 page)

In the silence, Anton rose to his feet.

He walked over to the waiting champagne and
picked up two glasses. Billy passed out others. Anton
handed one to Molly Farrell and raised the other.

“To Molly,” he said. To Molly who had once demon
strated to him, in a wooden phone booth in Rome, that
she was a woman to be taken seriously.

“To Molly,” they answered.

Lesko, his headphone still at his ear, his mouth open,
said, “What the hell
...
was that what I think it was?”

“I believe,” came the voice of Urs Brugg, “it was a
promise being kept. Paul?”

“Yes, Mr. Brugg.”

“You will come visit me one day?”

“I'd like that, sir. First chance I get.”

“Mr. Lesko?”

“Yeah. Yes, Mr. Brugg.”

“You especially. I think we should talk.”

“Well, you see, I hardly ever get over to. . . .”

“I gather your horizons have broadened consider
ably in recent days. Come see me, Mr. Lesko.”

“I have some things to work out. But maybe. Yeah.”

Molly broke that connection as well.

John Waldo, who in his mind saw Palmer Reid's life
less body, eyes wide, blood from both ears, and two
more like him—whoever they were—darts in their brains, messing up the rug, would rather have seen a
simple hole in his forehead. That's the trouble with the
world, he thought. All this high-tech shit. You lose the
personal touch.

“And you,” he jabbed at Billy's arm. “You keep say
ing you don't like games.”

“Who said that?”

“You do. As long as I've known you.”

“Yeah, well,” Billy refilled Waldo's glass, “you gotta
grow with the times.”

EPILOGUE

Palmer Reid's obituary appeared in Sunday's edition of
The New York Times.
An outstanding career. One of the
original Cold War warriors. Served his nation under
seven presidents. Died suddenly. Cerebral hemor
rhage. Alone at home. Working at his desk.

The funeral service was held three days later. Roger
Clew witnessed the lowering of his casket, then was
immediately flown to Connecticut. He appeared at
Paul's office. Paul led him to the soundproofed confer
ence room.

The Secretary, Clew told him, was furious. The act was insane. It could well cost Paul every friend he had
in Washington. What would happen if the wrong person
got his hands on Palmer Reid's files?

“How do you know I don't have them?” Paul asked.

He didn't. Nor did he much care who did, if they
existed at all. The question was for the benefit of the
wire that his old friend might just possibly be wearing.
Wire or no, it had its effect. Roger gazed longingly in the
direction of Paul's liquor cabinet. Paul opened it and
poured two scotches.

“Okay,” Clew appeared to surrender. “What's done
is done. I won't say we're not relieved in some ways.
Still. . . .”

“The paper said he died alone.” Paul handed him his
glass.

“If he didn't,” Clew curled his lip, “would you mind
telling me how you managed to get Whitlow and a Bolivian general in the same room with Reid and then
get all three to pick up separate booby-trapped tele
phones? That was neatly done, Paul. Even for you.”

Bannerman said nothing. He had assumed one of the
eavesdroppers to be Whitlow, but had not dared hope
that the other might be the man who, according to
Lesko and Elena, had sent the Carmod
y
s after Susan.
Both bodies, obviously, had been quietly removed along
with all physical evidence that they'd ever been there.
They would, he imagined, be kept in cold storage until
more convenient and unrelated deaths could be ar
ranged for each of them. In any case, Paul was not
inclined to correct Clew's assumption that no part of
the massacre had been left to chance.

“Roger,” he asked, “why did you come here?”

Clew sipped his scotch. “To chew you out. And then
to tell you we covered for you.” He leveled his eyes on Paul. “And to say that you now owe us one hell of a
favor.”

“Roger
…
” Bannerman stared at him thought
fully.

”Yo.”

“All this we and us business. Palmer used to talk like
that, too. Whatever went wrong with him, you want to
try very hard not to catch it.”

Roger Clew started to speak, but he saw the look in
his old friend's eyes.

“Cheers,” said Paul. He lifted his glass.

On the following day, Anton met with Robert Loftus
and Doug Poole. Poole had asked to stay permanently.
Anton, gently but firmly, said no. Roger Clew would see
that Poole could return to his job without prejudice.
Loftus, however, could remain until reconstructive sur
gery, already arranged by Anton, could be completed.
His wife and children, however, would have to return to their lives. Roger Clew had also guaranteed their safety.

Lesko stayed in Westport those four days, waiting for
the fallout that never came, watching over Susan as the
predicted aftereffects of her cocaine overdose faded into nothing worse than lightheadedness and night
mares. On the fourth day he sent his cop friends homes
with thanks. He spent the fifth day teaching Billy M
c
Hugh to shoot pool and helping him paint his landlady's
kitchen.

On the sixth day, Susan, her own face nearly healed,
announced that she was going home. Lesko, carrying
her suitcase and ski bag, took her to New York City by
train and saw her safely to her Manhattan apartment.
He asked if he might stay the night. She said she needed
time alone. Lesko took a cab to his Queens apartment.

Susan, on the morning of that sixth day, had consid
ered calling Allie Gregory. She needed a friend. Some
one she could talk to. But there was so little she could
tell
Allie. A part of her was afraid that if she began
talking at all, she wouldn't stop. Worse, still another part
was afraid that if she did, Allie would not be surprised.
That Allie, or more likely her husband Tom, was also a
part of this . . . thing
...
in Westport. So far, she
hadn't met anyone here who wasn't. She went home.

But three days later she was back. She took the train
to Westport, crossed the tracks to Mario's sat down and
ordered lunch. She came again the next day. And the
next. And the next.

It was early afternoon during the third and final
week of her vacation time. The lunch crowd at Mario's
had thinned. Susan entered, waved hello to Billy Mc-
Hugh, and took a small table by the front window. Billy
caught Molly Farrell's eye and gestured with his head.
Molly picked up a menu and walked to Susan's table.
She pulled out a chair and sat.

“Susan. This is getting a little dumb,” Molly said, not
unkindly.

“I know it is,” she nodded.

“Why don't you just go over to his office and get it
over with?”

“He knows I'm here, doesn't he?”

“Except for today, yes.”

“I keep hoping he'll come and have this out. If I go
over there I'll get mad, or say something stupid, or God
forbid I'll start crying in front of his travel agents. I do
better in restaurants.”

“Speaking of which, what can I get you?”

“Just a salad, I guess.” She took a bread stick from the
basket and bit off an end. “Can I ask you something
personal, Molly?”

“Sure.”

“How do you stay like you are? I mean, with every
thing you've done.”

Molly looked into her eyes. She did not see a re
porter there. Only a hurt young girl trying to under
stand people like them. “You grew up with policemen,”
she answered. “Some get better, some get worse. We're
not all that different.”

“And like policemen, you're only comfortable with
your own kind?”

“As a rule, that's true. Sad, sometimes. But true.”

“And you've never seen an exception?”

”A few. But I've seen some real disasters.”

“Molly,” Susan touched her hand, “I would just love
to be able to turn off what I feel and walk away from
this. My father's trying to do the same thing. I don't
know if you noticed, but he's in love with a woman who,
two years ago, he'd have happily sent to prison.”

“I could see it,” Molly nodded. “He's struggling with
it, just as you are.”

“And like Paul is?”

“I think so.”

“Then why doesn't he have the guts to come and
talk it through? Damn it, I'm going to keep coming here until he does or until I lose so much respect for him that
I don't care whether he comes or not.”

Molly rose to her feet. “What kind of salad?”

“Hello, Susan.”

She'd seen him come in. He stopped first for a few
words with Billy. She kept her eyes on her plate, which
she'd barely touched. Now that he was here, standing
over her table, all the words that she had imagined
saying to him were gone. There was nothing. Except
that she was getting mad.

“You're a real pain in the ass, you know that, Banner
man?”

“
'Um
…”
' He placed a tentative hand on the
empty chair. “That's basically what Molly said. Also
that if
I don’t
come over of
my
own accord, she'd get
Billy to drag
me
over. May I sit down?”

“If you like.”

“Have you had lunch?” He looked at the salad.

“
No, and I don't want to dance, either. Sit down.”

Paul obeyed. He, too, on his way over, had thought
about what he'd say. And what she'd say. So far, Susan was not following the script. “Susan,” he said carefully,
“can we start by trying to be friends?”

“I hate that word.” Bannerman glanced toward Billy
as if for help. Billy turned his back.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Why don't you start? The
way this is going, I'll never get any of the good lines.”