Bannerman's Law (33 page)

“
That drops it to zero
.”

“
We do have friends, Carla
.”

”I have one
,”
she said, pointing
.
“
But he's not Ger
man. Drive
.”

Molly brushed a hair from her mouth. That was Carla,
she thought. All focus. One thing at a time. She was like
a cat moving through tall grass. Eyes front. Oblivious to
everything but dinner. Never thinking to watch her back. It was, Molly supposed, what made her so dangerous. It
was also why Paul never let her work alone.

Molly noticed a large storefront, painted yellow. The
sign said
guns bought, sold
&
traded
in three-foot let
ters. Speaking of which
.
.
.
“
Did Anton say anything
about sending John Waldo
?”

“
He's already here
.”
She gestured vaguely.
“
Some
where. Probably looting a store like that one
.”

Molly blinked.
“W
ho asked for hi
m?’'

“
Paul sent him. Paul and Billy are on their way
.”
She looked at her watch.
“
They're landing about now. Half of
Westpo
r
t will be here by Thursday
.”

“
Nice of you to share this with me, Carla
.”

No answer.

“Why this sudden decision to come. Do they know
something we don't
?”

Ca
rl
a shook her head. She shrugged.

“
And didn’t Anton say we should wait for them?
”

Again, no answer.

“
Carla
?”

Molly eased off the accelerator. Carla felt the car
slowing.

”I like you, Molly
,”
she said quietly.
”
I mean that
.”

“
Well, I'm glad, but
...
”

“
But this is about my sister. Don't fuck with me. I
mean that, too
.”

Molly said nothing. She thought about turning back. Heading for the airport. But Carla, she knew, would proba
bly fight her for the keys. Or take a cab.

What would Paul say?

Stay with her, probably. Keep her out of trouble.

And you can't leave Yuri hanging.

Take care of your own.

But later, he'd have
Carla's
ass for this.

He'd have to wait in line.

₂₅

Yuri Rykov took his time.

He made two slow passes of the mission-style apart
ment house, keeping it in sight, ready to close on any
on
e—m
ale, probably youn
g—w
ho stepped from its lobby.

He saw only one woman, going in, carrying groceries.
A light flicked on in a first-floor apartment. In others he
could see routine movement, kitchen activity, the glow of
television sets. He parked Colonel
Belkin's
rented Ford in
the lot of a store that sold hot tubs and made his way
toward the entrance, memorizing the several cars parked
at the curb.

There was a row of doorbells, about twelve. The second
one from the top, 2-A, said
Hickey
in faded ink. He tried
the front door. It opened. The lock, he saw, was long
broken. He went in, tested the rubber clad stairs for
squeaks, settled his full weight on them,
and liste
n
ed. A
baby cried somewhere. Music played. A television audi
ence laughed. He climbe
d
the stairs.

One door on the second floor was well ajar. Rykov
glanced at the pattern of letters on the others. The open
door was 2-A. As he approached, slowly, he saw a glint
of something that had been traced on the varnished wood
of the door. It was, he realized, a face. A have-a-
ni
ce-day
face. A smile. Except that the eyes were crosses instead
of dots. He touched a finger to the smile
,
it came away
stained red.

Silently, Yuri stepped inside, closing the door behind
him. He saw the body at once but he ignored it. It was
no threat to him. He waited, listening in the dim light. He sensed no other movement. He heard no sound of breath
ing. Rykov moved forward, crouching slightly, his thick
arms crossed in front of him in readiness for sudden attack.
If it came, he hoped for a knife. He did not fear knives.

The kitchen, the hall closet, were empty. The living
room, though cluttered, offered no place of concealment.
He checked the bedroom, all closets, the bathroom. He was alone, except for the man whose bloody smile matched the
one on the door.

He knelt beside it. The eyes and mouth were open. The
mouth had been stuffed with what looked like wadded
tissue. The jowls flapped loose and open like those of a
hound he owned as a boy. They had bled very greatly.
The rear-most molars were visible. The cuts, he realized,
had been made while the man still lived. He saw two
puncture marks on the chest. These, he thought, had not
killed him either. Not quickly, at least. Someone had
wanted to watch this man die. The eyes, it struck him
,
were those of a madman. Or a man drive
n
mad by the
horror of what he must have watched being done to him.
Tears, still damp, streaked over his cheekbones and made
pools in his ears.

He noticed that the body had been dragged several feet.
He saw marks made by heels and a trail of blood that
seemed to have come from between this man's legs. He
rolled the body onto its side and saw another wound. The
flesh of his buttocks and thigh were torn, certainly by a
bullet. The fabric of his trousers were scorched at its point
of entry. The smell of cordite remained. It seemed to have

been fired from this man's own gun. He saw the empty holster tucked inside the belt.

Now Yuri saw the gun. A revolver. It lay at the base
of the dead man's couch as if it had been tossed or kicked
aside. He picked it up. Blood on the barrel
.
One round
had been fired.

Rykov shuddered in spite of himself. Ca
rl
a had said
that the man who called her, who said he had done this, had the voice of a boy. The voice, perhaps, but this was
no boy. To seize a man like this, to pin his arms, to hold
him down and butcher him so, great size and strength would be required. Even he would have had difficulty. The dead man was not so small.

Outside, close by, Yuri heard the sound of tires scuffing at a curb. Carla, perhaps. He approached the window from
one side. It was not Carla.

He saw two men. They sat in a car, a white Lexus,
making no move to step out of it. The one in the passenger
seat was speaking into a telephone or radio. Both men
were looking straight ahead. It seemed to Yuri that the car
ahead of them, a silver Honda, was of special interest. The
passenger nodded. He put down his phone. The driver
stepped from behind the wheel. With gestures, he told the
second man to stay. The passenger protested. The driver insisted. Now he closed the car door after him. He did so
gently, as if to make no sound. He wore a raincoat. He
reached under it, adjusted something at his belt, and
walked toward the front entrance.

The second man stayed. He sat there, the engine run
ning, looking up at Yuri's window. Yuri, unseen,
stepped back.

The two, thought Yuri, had the look of policemen. But
the car was wrong. It was too expensive. Also, they had
separated. Policemen, on business, always stay together.
He knew that from American television.

Yuri had a sense that the man i
n
the raincoat was com
ing to this apartment. If so, he had no wish to be found
there. True, he had diplomatic status. Of a sort. But it
would not prevent publicity. Le
o—C
olonel Belk
in—w
ould be
embarrassed, his mission compromised, and Captain Yuri Rykov, he thought, would be in very hot potatoes.

He wished now that the two had entered the building
together. He could jump from the window. It was only
four meters. Then he would stay, close by, to warn Ca
rl
a
when she came. But he could not jump. If the man in the
car was police, this would look very bad.

Yuri crept to the door. He listened for a moment, then
carefully closed the bolt. The door had a chain as well.
He chose not to use it. It would give evidence that someone was inside. The wood, in any case, was old and dry.
The chain, even the bolt, would prevent nothing.

He put his eye to the peephole. His right hand still held
the revolver. He thought of putting it back where he'd
found it. But if this man now quietly climbing the stairs
was indeed a policeman, and he was coming to this door,
there would be time enough to put it down. If he was not
a policeman, it might be good to have it ready.

The man, Yuri's age, well dressed, approached the
door. He stopped. He seemed to be listening. Yuri, his fingers lightly touching the knob, felt it turn from the
outside. Through the peephole, Yuri saw what seemed to
be another move toward the man's waist. Yuri shifted his
position, hoping to see whether the man held a gun. The
floor squeaked. The barrel of his own revolver tapped
lightly against the door.

The man smiled.

It was a pleasant smile. Friendly. He took one step
back and waved at the peephole with his fingers. Some
thing large and black came into view. Yuri's brain
screamed a warning. He ducked sideways.

He heard a dull crack, like a hammer against soft wood. Bits of the door exploded inward. Splinters gouged his
cheekbone. A bullet fragment took part of his ear. Three
more cracks stitched the door at the level of his chest. A
bullet broke his right arm, another smashed his ribs. Yuri
reeled backward, tripping on carpet, crashing to the floor.

He heard a new noise, much louder. A foot against the
door. It flew open. The man in the raincoat ducked behind
the frame and looked in. The smile, if anything, had broad
ened. Seeing Yuri down, he entered, both hands thrusting
a pistol before him. The silencer was longer than the
weapon itself and fully three inches wide. The man fol
lowed it through the door, training it on Yuri. He was
about to shoot again, squarely into Yuri's chest when he hesitated, squinting. He was looking at Yuri's face. Confu
sion. The eyes drifted further. They saw the other set of
feet, the body in line with Yuri's. They saw what was left
of Joseph
Hickey's
face.

Yuri tried to raise his revolver. The arm that held it
was useless. With the other, he snatched at the silencer,
feeling its heat. He pulled hard. The man fell to one knee
but he did not let go. Yuri's thumb found the hammer.
He squeezed. The man could not fire. Yuri twisted it. The
man squealed; his fingers were breaking. He turned his
head toward the window and screamed a name. His mouth
and his throat were now inches away from the powerful
hand that gripped his weapon. The long silencer was bend
ing. Yuri released it. He snatched at the man's throat. A squawk. He dug in his nails and ripped. Part of the throat
tore free.

Footsteps on the stairs.

The man in the raincoat tried to crawl. Numbed fingers
still held his weapon. Yuri rolled, swiftly, painfully, on
his ribs. His left hand, wet with blood and tissue, clawed
at the revolver held in his right. He fumbled for the trigger.

A second man appeared, framed in the doorway. He
saw one man on his side, another on his back. He saw his
partner on his knees, blood streaming down his raincoat,
heard his wet choking cough, saw him trying to raise his
weapon. His own pistol had no silencer. He had heard no doors opening, no shouts from other tenants. He chose to
wait but he kept his sights on Yuri's chest.

The man in the raincoat saw Yu
ri
rolling back toward
him and now he saw the revolver held in a bloody
hand
.
He swung his silenced weapon to Yuri's head and pulled
the trigger. The bent silencer exploded. Thin shards of
steel sprayed the room. The bullet, deflected, raised dust
a foot from Yuri's head. The man in the raincoat cried
out and fell backward. Yuri extended his left arm and fired twice. The noise was shocking. One bullet tugged at the flowing raincoat, missing the man. The second struck his armpit as he spun to avoid it. He fell against the window,
smashing it.

Yuri swung his revolver toward the man in the door
way. The man fired first. He had aimed at Yuri's face
but
his shot struck Yuri's gun, slamming it back against his
jaw. The room filled with flashing lights. Yuri was float
ing. He sensed, rather than saw, that the man from the
doorway stepped into the room and rushed to his partner.
He was pulling him to his feet. More gagging sounds.
Dimly, he heard footsteps moving to the place where the
man named Hickey lay. He heard words.

“
Holy fucking Christ
,”
is what Yuri thought was said.
It struck him as an odd expression.

He remembered nothing after that.

Su
mn
er Dommerich did not know what to do. Too
much was happening.

He had been sitting in his car, watching to see who would come, when the big man drove by twice, looking at the apartment, and then pulled in right next to him in
the parking lot of the hot tub store. For a second there,
he thought that the man knew.

Dommerich was wearing his hat. The sign was on his
roof. He was invisible. Pretty much. Even so, that was too
close. Wouldn't it be funny, he thought, if Car
l
a came
along after him and parked right next to him also. He'd
probably blush or something. Maybe give himself away.
So, when the man walked dow
n
to the entrance of
Hicke
y's
building, Dommerich started his car and moved
it across to the Exxon station where he pretended to be
putting air in his tires.