Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online
Authors: John R. Maxim
Billy pointed to the surface of Bannerman's tray table. There were a series of 5's on it, traced with Bannerman's finger using the condensation from his cold drink. Bannerman had not realized he was doing it. He nodded. “Among other things.”
”I do that too,” the bigger man told him. ”I write
Angela
a lot.”
Angela DiBiasi. His landlady.
“Sometimes I write . . .
Mr. and Mrs. William Me-
Hugh.
Just to see how it looks. You ever do that?”
Embarrassed, Bannerman wiped the letters away. “No. Not lately.” Not since he was fifteen. He folded his napkin. “What did you tell her, by the way, about this trip?”
“She knows you get free tickets to places. And you're my friend. Sometimes you take me with you, that's all.”
“Would you ever tell her about your life? What you've done?”
“Like what?”
Bannerman glanced meaningfully at the heads of a couple in the seats in front of them. “Like . . . um . . .
what you
do.”
Billy understood. “What good would that be?” he asked.
”I don't know.” He wished he hadn't brought it up. “I've never been . . . with someone . . . this long before. I don't think I'm very good at it yet.”
”I never been with someone at all, not counting hookers. And not counting your mom.”
Bannerman said nothing. Billy gasped. He brought a hand to his mouth. ”I didn't mean—”
”I know what you meant,” Bannerman said gently.
Billy was silent for a long moment. “She used to teach me things. Nice things. Did you know that?”
“You told me.”
”A lot of people . . . they were afraid of me. Because of things they heard. But not Cassie.”
”I know.”
“She was trying to teach me about art. All kinds. Paintings and statues.”
Bannerman remembered. The first time he'd ever set eyes on Billy was that day in Vienna when he'd gone to see the blackened remains of the house on Gruenstrasse where his mother and two men were murdered. Billy was there. Covered in soot to his knees and elbows. His clothing soaked through from a steady rain. Eyes moist, yet cold and dead. Holding a charred art book he had found under a collapsed section of roof. She had bought it for him. He had left it with her so he would not lose it. Or get it dirty. He still had that book, Bannerman knew. But before the pages had fully dried, eight men were dead. Five by Billy. Two by himself. One a suicide. It might have been more had not the Americans sent Roger Clew, a reluctant innocent, to negotiate a peace.
“You remember that day I first saw you?” Billy asked. “One look at your face, one word out of your mouth, I knew who you were.”
”I was just thinking about that myself.”
“Lot of people came by from the cemetery. She had a lot of friends. But with me, she was special.”
Bannerman had not seen anyone else. Perhaps a passing car or two. “How long had you been there?”
”I don't know. Couple of days.”
“In the rain?”
Billy shrugged. “No place else to go. Till you came.”
“But these friends ... no one tried to ... ?”
“They were scared, I think. I wasn't in a good mood. But Johnny Waldo brought me a dry coat. I ruined it on him.”
Bannerman grunted. A month or so later, Waldo drove up next to the car of an American agent who was involved in the killing and put a bullet through his head. As Billy said, his mother had a lot of friends.
Billy was still talking. Mentioning others who came to Gruenstrasse. Some names were familiar, others not. Some were long dead. Through his own drifting thoughts, Banner-man thought he heard the name of Roger Clew. That couldn't have been. The better part of a year had passed before Clew had even—
“Did you say Roger? He was there?”
”Uh-uh.” Billy shook his head.
Bannerman rubbed his eyes. Roger was too much on his mind of late.
”I said his boss. Guy Clew works for.”
“Bart Fuller?”
Billy nodded. “Clew worked for him back then too. But mostly all he did was go to trade shows for the State Department. He was nothin' until they got him to—”
Bannerman interrupted him. He knew all that. “What about Fuller? You're saying he was at the burial?”
“And then the house. Yeah.”
“What connection did he have with my mother?”
The bigger man frowned. He seemed uncomfortable with the subject. He tossed one hand to show that it had no significance.
“Billy,” Bannerman turned in his seat. “Don't you think this is something I should have known about?”
“It was private. With Cassie. It was none of your business.”
Bannerman blinked. “Are you saying they were lovers? My mother and Bart Fuller?”
“Not like you think.”
“How many ways are there, Billy?”
“He just liked being with her. Nothing ever happened. Your Mom told me so. Also I followed them a couple of times, just to make sure she wasn't being set up or anything. They took walks, mostly. You know how you can hold a woman up so high you're even afraid to hold her hand? He was like that.”
“Did you ever speak to my mother about him?”
”I told her I followed them. She wasn't mad.”
“What did she say about him?”
“She liked him. But he was married. And neither one of them wanted to screw that up. I'm trying to tell you, it was nothing. It was . . . there's a word.”
“Platonic? An infatuation?”
“Both of those. Yeah.”
“Did you talk to him after the funeral?”
”I never talked to him. Well . . . once, maybe. I'm not sure.”
“Tell me about the
maybe.
”
“And the man who called,” Bannerman said quietly, “you think that was Barton Fuller.”
”I didn't know his voice. I only thought so.”
“Why?”
“But if he was not involved, how could he have known all those names?”
”I don't know. He knew them.”
“Could it be,” Bannerman pressed, “that he was part of it? That he knew about the raid but didn't realize they intended to kill her? And had ... I don't know ... an attack of conscience afterward?”
Bannerman nodded slowly. Yes. They would have.
The Americans knew of, and occasionally employed, three Viennese who were former members of Heydrich's Einsatzgruppen—killing squads—during the war and had since built new careers as policemen with the help of forged identity papers. They were given the job. They, in tum, hired the two German gunmen, kept escape routes open and created a diversion.
”I told you,” Billy was trying to doze, ”I don't even know it was him.”
“But it would make sense. They couldn't risk letting an American consul get killed. After it happened, he realized why they wanted to keep him away.”
“Maybe.”
“And he had to know that you were close to her. Why else would he have picked you to call?”
Billy took a breath. “Like I said—”
”I know. You don't know who it was. But weren't you curious?”
McHugh looked at him. “You don't think I would have dusted him if I thought he was part of it? I mean, even thought it?”
“How could you be sure he wasn't?”
“Like I said,” he answered patiently, “no one fingered him. No one even mentioned him. They would have.”
“You've seen him on television a dozen times since then. What about his voice? Was it familiar?”
Billy grumbled. “You know what you sound like?”
Bannerman waited.
“You sound like that kid I picked up sixteen, seventeen years ago. You wanted all the answers. You wanted everything neat. It doesn't ever come that way. You go with what you got.”
Bannerman sat back. He stared through the window. There would be time enough, he thought, to ask Barton Fuller. Perhaps he'd see the answer in his eyes.
Not that it mattered, necessarily. After all these years. Except that it might explain a few things. Such as why Palmer Reid never tried harder than he did to retake West-port. Fuller might well have blocked him. But why? Out of sentiment for Cassie Bannerman? Somehow he doubted that.
“Hey.” Billy nudged him.
”Hmm?”
“Forget Fuller. Get some sleep.”
“Sure.”
He might have done it out of emotion . . . bereavement . . . hatred. Bannerman could understand that. It was how he himself had begun. And look where it led. Each time, it became easier. More impersonal.
“You hear me?” Billy said.
“Yeah.’’
“Get som.e sleep.”
He wondered if it had become easier for Barton Fuller as well.
Bannerman closed his eyes.
-21-
“
David?”
whispered Lesko.
No answer.
This is so goddamned dumb.
His plane had landed before seven. The sun was no more than a grayish glow to the east. He'd passed through immigration without incident, looking beyond the glass booths to the place where Elena had been waiting the last time he came. There was no one. Just the backs of other passengers following the signs to baggage claim and customs. He had nothing to claim, nothing to declare. Just the clothes on his back and the small overnight bag he'd carried on board.