Bannerman's Law (24 page)

Perhaps Lisa would find her.

Perhaps Alan and Barbara would help.

₂₀

Ca
rl
a Benedict had stood for twenty minutes inside the
front entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel hoping that the
silver Honda would appear.

There could be no doubt that it had been following her.
It had made a U-turn on Rodeo Drive too quickly for her
to get a clear loo
k
at the driver and another southbound
car had immediately blocked her view of its license plate.
She thought that she might have seen it once more, several
blocks behind, as she approached Will Rogers Park but,
if so, it had broken off once more. She could only proceed
to the hotel, a logical destination given her heading, and
see if it approached looking for a blue Chevrolet among
the Lotuses and Lamborgh
ini
s.

She was reasonabl
y
sure that its solo occupant was not a policeman. He might have been a reporter who, having
seen her at Lisa's apartment, decided to see where she
was staying and try for an interview later, and then lost
his nerve when he realized she'd spotted him. She hoped
not. She wanted to believe it was someone who had reason t
o be wary of her. Someone who could answer a question
or two about why Lisa's apartment had been burglarized.
And he would have answered. One way or another, he
would have answered. But she saw no sign of that car.
She went to the front desk and asked for her messages.

“
Miss Benedict
?”

She turned at the sound of her name. A massive young
man, late twenties, in an ugly sport jacket, shirt too tight,
pale skin, bad haircut, stood grinning, nodding, in the man
ner of a shy schoolboy. Her eyes narrowed. At first she
did not recognize him.

“
It's Yuri
,”
he said, tapping his chest.
“
Yuri Rykov
.”

If nothing else, she knew the voice. Slavic yet soft.
Too high for his bulk. Still, it seemed impossible. Not in
California. Certainly not in the
Beveríy
Hills Hotel.

He saw the light come into her eyes. He bent closer.
“
You know who was here
?”
he whispered.
“
Jane
Fonda
.”

Her head moved slowly sideways. He took it to sug
gest doubt.

“
It is true. One hour ago. Look
.”
He reached into his
pocket and produced a book of matches which he held
very carefully.
“
Here
.”
The grin returned.
“
She wrote her
name for me
.”

Ca
rl
a began to weep.

His face fell. Lieutenant Yuri Rykov, aide to Colonel
Leo Belk
i
n of the First Chief Directorate, KGB, did not
know what to do. She brought a hand to her mouth, her
chest heaved. He stepped closer, placing his great hands
around her shoulders, awkwardly, his eyes nervously scanning the lobby. He did not so much embrace her as attempt
to conceal her. He would not have imagined that the fa
mous Carla Benedict, whose autograph he also had and
treasured, could so lose possession of herself.

He felt her trying to regain control. She was holding
her breath, then breathing deeply. One hand, holding mes
sage slips, gripped his belt. The other crushed the lapel of
his jacket. He did not mind. But people were looking.
They would smile and look away, satisfied that there was
no unpleasantness here, only, perhaps, an emotional en
counter between loved ones. Still, he did not think it ap
propriate that Ca
rl
a Benedict be seen like this.

Carla didn't care. Nor did it matter to her, for the mo
ment, what the KGB was doing in Los Angeles or why Yuri had been there waiting for her. She knew only that his was the first friendl
y
face she had seen in two days,
not counting that of Molly Fa
rr
ell. She had not seen him since their first meeting, more than a year now, when he
wore the uniform of a limousine chauffeur and had helped smuggle a wounded Paul Ba
n
ne
rm
an back into Westpo
r
t
after the Ma
r
bella mission. No, there was one other time.
He and Belk
i
n had come back to Westport. They met with
Paul and Anton. She was not invited. But she saw him
at Mario
'
s afterward, devouring bacon cheeseburgers and
reveling in the presence of Billy Mc
H
ugh, John Waldo,
Janet He
r
zog
.
.
.
names he had known and regarded with
awe since he was a recruit.

Under a different teacher, she supposed, he might have been taught to despise them. But Colonel Belkin insisted
otherwise. These are consummate professionals, he said. The best of the best. Respect them, earn their respect and,
in time, their trust. Then much can be accomplished. Belkin had freely admitted that this was his goal although he
expressed it with considerably more reserve than his young
aide who was, after two days in Westport, hopelessly star struck.
And now, God help us,
she thought, gathering her
self,
he has even met Jane Fonda.

She took his hand, guiding him past the entrance to the
Polo Loung
e—t
ugging at him when he strained to look
for celebrities insid
e—a
nd toward the door leading to the
bungalow path outside. She needed to get to a mirror, repair her face. He would not need to tell he
r
why he'd
been there waiting for he
r
because, as she walked, she
read the second of the two crushed message slip
s—t
he
first being from her father.
“
Stay by your phone
,”
said
the second.
“
Wait for Belkin or Rykov. Do
not
go out. Bannerman
.”

She blinke
d
at it, curiously. It did not say
please.
The
message conveyed none of Paul's usual warmth or polite
ness. He had instructed the operator to underline
not.
Paul,
for some reason, had shed his skin. He was being the scarier Paul again.
Which means, she assumed, that he's either
learned something about Lisa's murder or, more likely,
he's somehow heard about that mess at Lisa's apartment.
Well, she shrugged, if she had to have a baby-sitter she
could do worse than Yuri. He was a good-looking kid,
tough but no goon, and some of
Belkin's
polish was bound
to have rubbed off on him. She would take him back to
her bungalow, check in with her father, get weepy again
and then, with any luck, have him fucking her brains out
within thirty minutes.

Henry Dunville had been dozing. Hours had passed since Ruiz had last given him an injection for the pain.

He was sitting upright
,
knees drawn, his back against
the padded wall on a cot that was the only furniture in
the basement isolation room where they had left him. He
could not lie down. When he tried, his broken ribs
screamed and he felt as if all the blood in his body was
trying to squeeze out through his eyes.

He heard the bolt being thrown. His head snapped up
at the sound. The sudden motion made him cry out.

“
Who's there
?”
he choked
.
He tilted his head back as if he migh
t
see from beneath the bandages.

Ca
r
leton the elder winced at the sight. Over Henry's
right eye, blood had soaked through and become caked.
There was blood over the left eye as well but it was pinkish, still seeping. Pin
k
tears flowed over his chin and onto
his shirt.
“
It's your father, Henry
,”
he said.

A great sob burst from his chest. More pink tears.
“
Fa
ther? Do you see? Do you see what that bitch did to me
?”

”
I see. Yes. I'm very sorry, Henry
.”

“
That
cunt.
That fucking cunt
.”

The language caused Carleton the elder to stiffen. T
h
ere
was no excuse for it.
“
Henry
...
try to remember who
you are
,”
he said.

Henry's mouth fell open. Here he was, like this, and
his fucking father is talking about manners. He bit his lip.
“
I've got to get to a hospital
,”
he rasped.
”A
real one
that knows abou
t
eyes
.”

“
You know that's impossible
,”
his father answered,
not unkindly.
“
Even if they could help you, which they
can't, how would we explain your condition
?”

“
But they
can
help
,”
he cried. He tilted his head once
more and pulled at the gauze covering his left cheek.
”
I
can see light
,”
he said. ”I can even see movement
.”

Ca
r
leton the elder stepped toward him. He fished the cheap revolver from his pocket and held it close to Henry's right eye. He waggled it. Henry gave no sign that he
saw it. But the gun's mechanism made a faint clicking
sound and Henry heard it.

”I saw that
,”
Henry lied.
“
See? You tested me and I
saw it
.”

“
What, Henry? What did you see
?”

“
Listen
,”
he pleaded, his voice becoming desperate.
“
You could say that I'm a patient here. That I see visions
or something. That I went out of my head and tried to
blind myself
.”

“
Henry
.
.
.
they'd want your records. I can't help you
that way. They can't help you at all. Pleas
e
accept that
.”

A wail began low in Henry's chest.

“
Oh, for heaven's sake
,”
his father muttered.

Henry raised a hand. It said that he was gathering him
self. He waited until his breath returned.
“
So what am I
supposed to do
?”
he managed.
“
Stay here? Stay like
this
?”

“
You might. But you might also want to end your pain. Don't you think that might be better, Henry, all things
considered
?”

”W
h
a
.
.
.
you mean
.
.
.
?
”

“
Yes, Henry. I'm afraid I do
.”

“
Oh. Oh, that's great. I'm like this and that's all you
can think about? Henry the inconvenience. Henry who you
never gave a shit about. You'd love that, wouldn't you,
you bastard
.”