Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online
Authors: John R. Maxim
“By any chance,” Lesko asked quietly, “could Bannerman be walking into something he doesn't know about?”
“Such as what?” Brugg frowned, now annoyed. ”A trap, Mr. Lesko?”
“Such as. Yeah.”
Another breath. ”I value Mr. Bannerman more than you know. I also like the man. The answer is no.”
A knock at the door. Lesko heard it open behind him. He kept his attention on Elena's uncle.
“What difficulties?” Lesko asked.
“He did not elaborate. You just came from there. You have no idea?”
Lesko shook his head. Unless it was that crap about the car bombs. Maybe Hector Manley's posse came looking for him. He doubted it. No use mentioning it.
“It is good she's coming.” Elena smiled. ”I have much to learn from her about her father.”
“Sure. Get acquainted.” He shuffled his feet. “That would be nice.”
“Well.” She shrugged, beaming at him, her expression untroubled, content. “Are you two enjoying your chat?”
“Very much,” Lesko answered. He turned toward Urs Brugg. He was the kindly uncle again. Smiling affectionately, nodding.
“Dinner is in five minutes,” she said. With a wave of her fingers, a last glance at Lesko, she stepped from the room.
Urs Brugg watched her go. “Your daughter,” he said. ”I look forward to meeting her as well.”
Lesko gave him a look. Not unpleasant. Simply to let him know that Lesko knew that he was seizing on a convenient change of subject. “This thing in Spain,” he said, “we don't want to talk about that at dinner, do we?”
“For Elena's sake, no.”
“I'm going down there. First thing tomorrow. I'm not
going to wait for Bannerman to call. I want you to help me do it, and I want a gun.”
A weary sigh. “For what purpose, Mr. Lesko?”
”I want to believe you're being straight with me,” Lesko told him, “so I will. Maybe I even like that son of a bitch too. For
Susan's
sake, I'm going to keep an eye on him.”
“He does not need you, Mr. Lesko. Truly, he does not.”
“So he keeps telling me.” Lesko looked at his watch.
“Two minutes until dinner, Mr. Brugg.”
-24-
The BMW covered the distance, Marbella to Puerto Banus, in less than five minutes. Bannerman kept one eye on his rearview mirror. There were two cars well behind him. When he turned off the Cadiz road, both kept going. He shut off his lights and watched them. One sped on. The other was slowing. It made a U-tum. He continued forward. The town, if it could be called that, was little more than a warren of buildings, all housing shops and restaurants, that stretched in a wide arc around the harbor. Access to the waterfront by automobile required a pass, available only to those who had boats there. He would need to park the car outside, leaving it unattended. Ahead of him, near one of the pedestrian passages to the waterfront, he saw the lights of a discotheque. A dozen or so young people lounged on the sidewalk outside. He stopped near the disco. Billy got out and promptly vanished into the passage. Bannerman approached two teenage girls. They were chatting idly, sharing a cigarette. Tearing a $100 bill in half, he asked that they finish their conversation in the backseat of the BMW, watching it for him. He offered one of the halves. They would get the other when he returned. They looked at him, not quite masking that special contempt in which young Europeans hold the indecently rich. They took it nonetheless.
He had made his selection by the time Billy appeared. Billy took a seat, saying nothing. He appeared puzzled.
“What is it?” Bannerman asked.
Billy hesitated. “You remember Kurt Weiss? Skinny guy? Used to race cars?”
Bannerman nodded. They'd used him on occasion, once for surveillance and twice as a driver. Bannerman had not seen him in five years. Last heard of, he was working for an arms dealer named Grassi. “You saw him?”
”I think so. I'm not sure.”
“Tailing me?”
“No. But maybe some other guys were. I'm not sure about that either.”
“What did you see?”
”A guy's walking along, same direction as you. You turn, he keeps going. But then another guy is walking along, same direction as you. You turn again, same thing happens.”
Bannerman shrugged. “It might be nothing.”
“Yeah, but if that was a tail, that many guys, add to them that car that turned around, it means they must have this place covered like a rug.”
“KGB?”
Billy made a face. “Them we expected. This feels, I don't know, like something else.”
A man strolled by. Abruptly, Billy turned in his chair, staring hard at him. The man never looked back. But his cheek was twitching under Billy's gaze. He walked on.
“There's another one,” Billy said.
Bannerman had to agree. An innocent passerby would have glanced at Billy, if only involuntarily.
“You know what I think?” Billy leaned closer.
Bannerman waited.
“We should split an order of paella. You should eat some, get back in the car, and get out of Spain. You've been seen. You made your point. Leave me here, I'll hook up with Johnny Waldo, and we'll be in and out of that house before you're two hours away.”
Bannerman shook his head. ”I want you with me. Let's leave the plan as it is and see what develops.”
“The plan,” Billy argued, “was before we saw those two sitting out in the open like they didn't have a care in the world. They were even backlit, the way the moon bounced off the glass behind them.
That had surprised Bannerman as well. It bordered on suicidal. But even professionals relax at times. And it did not have the look of a baited trap. The bait would have been just as effective if they showed movement behind drawn blinds without the risk of being picked off from below. Glenn Cook, with a night scope, could have finished them with two bullets in as many seconds from the roof of the Puente Romano.
”I should have stayed up on that hill,” Billy brooded. “I'd have left them in their chairs. By the time they started to stink we'd all be home in bed.”
“Or you'd be dead. We didn't see the other shooter. He could have been covering us. And this whole thing could have been staged.”
Billy waved for the waiter. “There's a lot of that going around lately, isn't there.”
“It does seem that way.”
“Now it's Urs Brugg?”
”I hope not. But maybe.”
The waiter came. He took their order, nodding approvingly at Paul's choice of a fino to start and a vintage rioja with their paella. He returned with the sherry two minutes later.
“Senor Bannerman,” he said as he set down one glass. *'Señor McHugh,” he said, as he set down the other.
Billy's eyes became hooded. Bannerman smiled an acknowledgment. The waiter seemed pleased with himself.
“It is my honor to tell you”—the waiter dropped his voice, his tone at once confidential and respectful—“that Señor Grassi sends his compliments and insists that your meal be charged to his account.”
“That's very nice of him.” Bannerman nodded politely. “Did he say, by chance, how we might return the favor?”
The waiter beamed. “He says that you must not hurry your meal, but, if you are so inclined, perhaps you might join him for a nightcap at his hotel.”
“Which is, I take it, the Puente Romano?”
“In the bar, sir. Yes.”
“We'll be delighted.”
At the reception desk of the Puente Romano, Bannerman collected his room key and asked that their bags, his own and Billy's, be sent to their suite. The keys to the BMW had been left with the doorman. He would park it. Sometime before dawn, John Waldo would crawl beneath it. He would tape two automatic pistols to the forward edge of the gas tank. While there he would check for explosives and voice transmitters. He would open the trunk, let the air out of the spare tire, and place two more weapons plus extra clips inside it. Through the night, he would be somewhere nearby. Neither Bannerman nor Billy would ever see him. Nor would any man or woman who threatened their safety.
Three messages awaited him. The first, a reminder from Ronaldo Grassi. The second,
“Call Anton
—
clinic,”
The third, a telex from Urs Brugg dated two hours earlier. It read,
Arriving tomorrow, noon latest, with Lesko. Could not be helped. Susan arriving Zurich same morning per Anton
Zivic.
Bannerman stared at this last. “You won't believe this,” he muttered to Billy.
“You won't believe
this,
”
Billy answered, looking toward the bar. ”I see Grassi. Also almost everyone else.”
Bannerman turned toward the bar. The first thing he noticed was the crowd. Hard to see how many because the bar was nearly as tropically lush as the grounds outside. Every table seemed occupied. Many faces, all turning toward him. Some saluting as they caught his eye. Some holding thumbs up. He recognized nearly all of them. In the center, seated in a peacock rattan chair, was the arms dealer, Grassi, a beefy, coarse-looking man, gold ascot, blue blazer, hands raised as if he were about to applaud. He did applaud. The others joined him.
Billy shrugged. “You wanted to be seen? You're seen.”
Bannerman, his expression glazed, moved toward the bar. Billy stayed at his shoulder, his own eyes dancing from table to table, reciting the names of men and women he recognized.
Bannerman listened, gathering himself. He knew all but a few of the faces, most of the names. For whatever reason, they had assembled here from all over Europe. A few Americans. Expatriates. Several Germans, French, and Danes. Two Israelis, both female, one of whom had been Molly Farrell's instructor in explosive techniques. They were, with a few exceptions, contract agents, working for one Western government or the other, usually for several, occasionally for a Warsaw Pact country depending on the nature of the job. Among the exceptions were two Englishmen, formerly SAS commandos. Last he'd heard, they were bodyguards retained by the royal family. Good men. Dull job. Another exception was Grassi: Italian born and Brooklyn raised, he had moved back to Rome. A dealer. Weapons, spot market oil, laundered cash, possibly drugs although he denied it. Mob connected, but his own man. A high roller, lived well, also lived long because he was known to keep his word. Provided work, at one time or another, for half the people in the room. So had Bannerman.
Bannerman worked his way toward him, taking outstretched hands as he went, exchanging greetings. Only a few greeted Billy other than with silent nods. Most were afraid of him. Some had seen him work. The rest had heard the stories.
Seated at Grassi's table, following his progress, was Kurt Weiss. Billy had been right. He was probably Grassi's driver now and one of his bodyguards. A second man, younger, late twenties but almost totally bald, a neck wider than his head, had not taken his eyes from Billy. In his expression Bannerman saw ... he was not sure. Interest, certainly. No fear. A hint of envy. Perhaps a challenge. He made a mental note to keep himself between them. All three rose to their feet. Grassi made the introductions. The younger man's name was Tucker. American. Southern accent. Another bodyguard. Surly. Said little. Bannerman asked Kurt Weiss about his wife and son. They were well, living near Salzburg. Weiss grinned broadly, flattered that Mama's Boy remembered. Tucker all the while stared at Billy.