The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (18 page)

Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online

Authors: John R. Maxim

“You can prove that?”
“Not in a court of law, perhaps. My evidence would be ruled inadmissible. But I have tapes that leave no doubt.”
“Then why don't you leak them? Let the press destroy him.”
“This is a nation of laws, Paul. I want it done correctly, no matter how long it takes.”
“If this is true, I'll sentence him myself. How is Roger involved?”
“For your sake, I've tried to believe that he's been an unwitting dupe. But after intercepting that call . . .”
“I'll want to hear the tapes. All of them.”
“Only,” Reid's voice became firm, “if you'll promise to work closely with me on this. Your people and mine. I can't have you going off half-cocked.”
“Show me the proof and you've got a deal.”
Reid closed his eyes. “I'm pleased, Paul. Very pleased. We should never have been adversaries.”
“Palmer, I'm going to call an immediate council meeting here. Then in, say, two hours, let's have a conference call. Will you be there?”
“Depend on it.”
“Palmer?”
“Yes, Paul.”
”I owe you one.”
Lesko put down his extension. He stared disbelievingly at Bannerman. “What the hell was all that?” he asked.
Bannerman rubbed his eyes. “Apparently, he wants me to kill the secretary of state.”
”I heard. You believe any of that shit?”
“No.”
“What was that about me blaming you, which I do, and threatening to kill you, which so far I didn't?”
Bannerman stood up, stretching. “Reid likes to hedge his bets. If you go home to Queens he'll probably look you up, show you evidence that I ordered the attacks on Susan and Elena to frame him and try to get you to kill me. You wanted a way to get at Reid, there's your opening. All you have to do is go wait for your doorbell to ring.”
“What evidence would he show me?”
Bannerman shrugged. “More tape recordings. We've had any number of phone conversations over the years. He's taped them all. So have I. Give a good editor half a day and Reid could play you conversations proving that I'm a child molester.”
“That's what he'll do with Clew and Fuller?”
“Same sort of thing. Yes.”
Lesko pondered this. “Let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“You two do this all the time? In that whole conversation, neither one of you hardly said a word that was true.”
“Except I know when I'm lying and when I'm not. I'm not sure Reid knows the difference anymore.”
“You don't get tired of that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You made up your mind?”
“Yes. If Anton and the others agree.”
“I'm in, right?”
“If you do it my way. And you do as you're told.”
“You get first shot. You miss, it's my tum.”
“Fair enough.” Bannerman checked his watch. Half past three. “Be back here in two hours.”
“What happens then?”
“Happy hour.”

-13-

 

Charles Whitlow, a small, windup toy of a man who seemed to flit rather than move, quietly replaced his extension and, raising his chin toward Palmer Reid, applauded him using the fingers of one hand against the back of the other. That done, he cocked his head, smirking, toward the third man in the room. The man answered with a sneer and a hand to his crotch. Whitlow rolled his eyes.

“Enough of that,” muttered Palmer Reid distractedly. He sat, one fist against his mouth, staring at the phone on his desk.

Whitlow allowed himself one more smirk in the direction of General Oscar Ortirez.
Pig of a man,
he thought. The Bolivian had arrived in a black business suit that was at least a decade out of style. His embroidered white shirt, already stained, had a collar a full size too small. The necktie was atrocious and four inches wide. Someone, thought Whitlow, probably had to show him how to knot it. Pity they didn't show him how to bathe. Skin shines like a dead fish.
And he had not stopped harping about the failed attempt on Elena since he got here. Machine pistols, he screamed. Two little Jew popguns against a heavy Mercedes on an open highway. One team of gunmen. No cross fire. No chase car. And you wonder that she is still alive? Why should she
not
be alive?
It was hardly Whitlow's fault. He found the best people he could in the time he was given. If Ortirez had not made his appallingly stupid call to Elena, trying to rub her face in the death of the Lesko girl, who, lest we forget, was not dead either, we might have proceeded at a more orderly pace. Even with all that, the attempt should have succeeded. Who would have expected a man like Russo to shield her with his body? And Ortirez is a fine one to talk about the choice of personnel.
“The Carmodys are the very best,”
he said.
“They never miss because they never quit/
9
he said. Well, where are they, then?
As for his whining complaint that he should have been told about Bannerman, that Bannerman was something more than a Connecticut travel agent, it was simply none of his business. Everyone he's ever been asked to remove was
something more.
That was the point, don't you see, in removing them.
No matter. It seems that this mess is about to sort itself out after all. With only one thing to be regretted. It might no longer be necessary to sacrifice Ortirez. To show Bannerman his corpse. Pity, after bringing him all this way.
“General Ortirez,” Palmer Reid's voice snapped Whitlow out of his reverie. He had brought his knuckle to his mouth. He was biting it. Always a good sign, thought Whitlow. ”I would like a few moments alone with Charles.”
Whitlow glanced at the man in the dreadful suit. He had stiffened. Flat, stupid face. Pig eyes. ”I am here to be consulted,” Ortirez raised his chin. ”I will stay.”

Reid bit harder. Whitlow saw his eyes drift toward the door and then beyond it in the direction of the armed guards who were stationed in his foyer.
Do it,
thought Whitlow.
Call them in. Have them club this oily brute to his knees as a
lesson in deportment.
But he did not.

“Events, General Ortirez,” Reid said, uncoiling, “have progressed beyond the limits of our relationship. I must
now
deal with a matter that is vital to the interests of the United States.”
Ortirez spat. It was more than a gesture. A spray of brownish droplets arced onto Palmer Reid's carpet. “This is shit,” he said.
Reid stiffened. “What did you say?”
“What you are doing,” Ortirez repeated, “it is shit. I stand here listening as you make an allegiance with this Bannerman. You say his great enemy is now his friend, his great friend is now his enemy. Is Bannerman so great a fool that he believes you?”
“He is not a fool,” Reid said evenly, although he seethed at the insult. He had just, brilliantly he thought, improvised a strategy that he wished he'd followed from the beginning. ”I will show him evidence. Even then he will doubt it. I will show him more. At best, yes, he will make an attempt on the life of the man who seeks to deprive you, not to mention your poor country, of your only source of wealth. Then I will destroy him.”
Ortirez heard him. “And at worst?”
“The doubt will remain. The secretary of state will know that and he will fear Bannerman. Whatever protection Bannerman now enjoys will be withdrawn. My hands will then be untied. I will destroy him.”
Ortirez pursed his lips as if to spit again, but Whitlow gasped “If you don't mind.” And he did not. “This, too, is shit,” he said. “You make big plans, big schemes, you and this
maricon.”
He cocked his head toward Whitlow who rolled his eyes in response. “Always you say, when I do this my enemy must do that. And when your enemy does something else, you say it is because he is a fool and you make more big schemes. I tell you how I make a scheme. I say, I will shoot my enemy in the head and when I do that he must die. Do you know what happens? I shoot him and he dies.”
P
almer Reid could feel hot liquid rising in his throat. There would be no use, he realized, in explaining the meaning of finesse, the concept of
ruse de guerre,
to this mestizo who would still be walking on all fours had not a few drops of Spanish blood managed to trickle into his veins. No use in pointing out that the true art of diplomacy rests on placing one enemy against another. That as we speak, Bannerman, the Bruggs of Zurich, and Lesko, wherever he is, are beginning to circle each other like so many snarling beasts. And that now, to that melange, have been added that bumpkin Barton Fuller and his toady Roger Clew.

And you, General Oscar Ortirez, will indeed become my
gesture of goodwill toward Mr. Bannerman. Your body, deliv
ered to the town line of Westport, a signed confession pinned
to your nose, will serve as proof of the guilt of some and the
duplicity of others. And if your body is not enough, if there
should be any lingering suspicion that any member of this
intelligence body was in any way involved in profiting from the sale of drugs, if Elena should live to place such a charge
at my doorstep, then I, to my horror, will discover that I have
had a traitor in my midst. At my right hand. Placed there by
none other than Barton Fuller. His agent. The architect of his
cruel attack on that innocent girl. One Charles Whitlow. He
too will confess. Readily. These pansies never have much tolerance for pain. He will be found in his home, his diaries and
financial records in his personal safe, a tape recorder at his side into which he will have blubbered his guilt before taking
a fatal overdose of the same vile substance with which he
attempted to destroy the moral fiber of this great nation.

Reid looked at his watch. Twenty past four. What did Bannerman say? Two hours. He would be calling at six.
“This is shit,” he heard Ortirez say again.
Reid wet his lips. His eye drifted toward the place on his prized Persian carpet, a gift from the Shah, where drops of Ortirez's spittle still glistened. For that alone he would . . .
Six o'clock.
At six it would be set in motion. This time, his way.
Good man, that Bannerman. Priorities not where they should be but a good man nonetheless.
It was true, you know.
They should never have been adversaries.
Spilt milk. No help for it now.
The flowers.
They were what did it, he realized suddenly. Showed Bannerman who his friends are. Made him call, one American to another, ask for help.
The flowers, yes. They were a masterstroke.
“Mr. Brugg? This is Paul Bannerman speaking.” “How are you, Paul?”
“I’m well, sir. How is Elena?”

“Recovering nicely. Her spirits are as high as I have seen them in two years. Your Mr. Lesko seems to have been the best medicine.”

Bannerman tried to imagine being cheered by a visit from Lesko. He chose not to comment. “Mr. Brugg, I'm about to place a call to Palmer Reid. Please stay on the line but say nothing at all. Just listen.”
“Am I to hear a confession?”
“It will be more in the nature of a repentance, sir.”
”I will listen.”
The sign on the door of Luxury Travel Limited said Closed. Through drawn blinds, Lesko could see movement inside. As he reached for the door, a latch clicked loudly and it swung open. The Russian, Zivic, smiled and stepped aside. Lesko heard the door shut tight behind him.

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