The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (52 page)

“Bannerman? Very. But not to you and not to your
daughter. Believe that, Lesko. But if you want to be
sure, the cleanest way to end all this is to take out Reid.”

“And Reid's right now in Scarsdale?”

“So's Burdick.”

“Come on upstairs.” Lesko opened the laundry
room door. “You're going to take that wire off my phone
so I can make some calls.”

Loftus held back. “You tell anyone else about this,
Lesko, and you do it without me.”

“Relax.” Lesko reached for his arm. “I had in mind
my old pal, Elena.”

CHAPTER
17

At Ambassador Pollard's house in Scarsdale, Frank Bur
dick sat in the darkened library restlessly switching
from one cable-TV offering to another. He'd chosen a
seat from which he could see the headlights of any car
turning into the driveway.

He didn't like this. Reid going back home to Mary
land. Leaving him alone with Loftus and Poole, wher
ever the hell they were. Poole would be no problem but
Loftus was sure to give him a lot of shit about the Dono
van thing. Burdick could already hear it. You work for
me,
Burdick. You don't do anything except through
me.

Yeah, well
,
bullshit. You have a complaint, take
it to Mr. Reid. He says do something, I do it and I don't
shoot off my mouth to him. Anyway, Loftus, you're al
most history. Yesterday you shot off your mouth to him
once too often.

“It's clear upstairs.”

The words, the voice, shocked him. He froze. Some
one was behind him, off to his left, somewhere near the
staircase. Very slowly, he eased his right hand toward
the gun under his armpit. Drop and roll, he told himself.
Use the chair as cover. His fingers closed over the butt
of the weapon.

”Uh-huh.”

It was a second voice. Directly behind him. A gloved
hand settled upon his shoulder. Slowly, carefully, Bur
dick spread his own hands in front of him.

“Your name Frank Burdick?”

The voice made him shiver. “Yeah. Look I. . . .”

“Stand up now, Frank. Walk over to those stairs.”

Burdick obeyed. He saw the man by the staircase
now. Short. Dressed all in black. A fringe of gray hair
showing from beneath a wool knit cap.
It's clear up
stairs,
he'd said. He'd been there. Burdick could not believe it. Both these men had been walking through the house all this time.

“Who are you guys?” he asked.

“Walk.” The man behind, his hand still on his shoul
der, guided him forward. This man was bigger. Much
bigger. Burdick knew that from the size of the hand and
the direction of his voice. It was downward.

One in front, the unseen man behind, they led him
to the master bedroom, and then through it into the
ambassador's dressing room and bath. The man behind
reached around and took Burdick's gun. The one in
front turned on the shower.

“Get in,” he said.

The words struck his stomach like a blow. This was
about Donovan.

“Look,” he tried to take a step backward, “this whole
house is wired like a bank. You guys are already on
videotape.”

“Thank you. Get in.” The man behind pushed him.

Burdick reached a hand into the spray from force of
habit. It was cold. Another push. He stepped into the shower, arching up onto his toes as the spray went
through his shirt and flattened it against his
skin
. He
turned his head now to see the second man, and this
time his stomach throbbed like a drum.

“You . . . you're Billy McHugh,” he sputtered.
“Oh, God. Hey, listen. I'm not the one you want. I just
do what they tell me.”

“Get wet. All over.” Billy lowered Burdick's gun to
his side. He held it loosely, carelessly, as if the need for it
had passed. Burdick saw that and his terrified mind found hope in it. Maybe this wasn't what he thought.
Maybe they weren't going to leave him in the shower
the way he left that old man.

“Now get your face wet,” John Waldo told him.

“Oh, Jesus . . . Jesus . . . please.”

“Will you stop?” John Waldo's voice was pained.
“And don't splash out here. That's how you get
mildew.”

,That was funny, Burdick's brain screamed. They're
messing around. They're only trying to shake me up so
I’ll
tell them. . . .

“Frank,” Billy took a step closer, “wet your face. I
have to ask you again?”

“Okay
…
okay.''
He
closed
his
eyes
and
turned
his
face into a spray that felt like sleet. “But you gotta give
me a chance. It wasn't me. I'm the one who said don't do it.”

“Frank
,
wash your mouth out.”

”Wha . . . ?”

“Gargle, Frank.”

He did, face up.

And then his head exploded.

In Zurichsberg, an elegant suburb overlooking the
city and the lake beyond it, a telephone rang. Near it, a
woman in a painter's smock stepped back from a pal
ette-knife oil of a mountain scene and wiped her hands.
She reached for the receiver.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Good evening, Elena.” It was the voice of a cousin on her late father's side. He spoke in the Swiss-German
dialect of the Züricher.

“Good evening, Josef.”

“Elena, are you aware that an American has
been . . . ?”

”A Mr. Lesko,” she interrupted. “Yes, Josef. I have
been told.”

“He seems to be calling every Brugg in the Zurich directory, asking each of us to get a message to you.”

“I know, Josef. Thank you.”

“This Lesko. He is a friend? He has the voice of a gangster.”

“He is neither. Do not concern yourself, Josef.”

“You don't want his message?”

“It is only his phone number, no?”

“To me he said more. I wrote it down.”

“What is it?”

“He said, Tell Elena this is about my daughter. Tell
her she once said there wil
l
be no lies. Ask her if that still
goes.’ ”

“Did you tell him you know me? That I am here?”

“It is obvious that he thinks you are. It is possible that
my manner on the telephone confirmed his belief.”

“It's all right, Josef. Thank you.”

“This is trouble, Elena? Do you want your body
guards again?”

“There are two sitting in my kitchen right now. Un
cle Urs has already sent them over, whether I want
them here or not.”

“Mr. Lesko?”

“Yeah.” His mouth suddenly went dry. “Yes.”  

“This is Elena speaking.”

Her voice. The sound of it caused a stirring inside
him that he had not expected. “How
?”
''He
paused
to swallow, glancing toward Loftus with a look that was
part acknowledgment and part self-consciousness.
“How are you, Elena?”

“I am well. What is it about your daughter? Has she
been harmed?”

“My daughter's okay but she might be in danger.
Another man, a friend of
mine,
has
just been killed. The
killing is connected to what happened between you and
me and your involvement with a man named Palmer
Reid. I know there's no reason why you should help me. But I have been told things and I have to know that they
are true before I act upon them.”

“Tell me then.”

Lesko sat back. With one eye on Loftus he gave her a
five-minute summary of all that Loftus had told him. He
mentioned Paul Bannerman, characterizing him only as
an enemy of Reid's and a friend of his daughter's.

“I know nothing of this Bannerman,” she told him.

“How about the rest of it?”

“It is true. We functioned under Reid's protection. In
return we paid him millions. How does this endanger
your daughter?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just nervous. You're in
Switzerland. She's on her way to Switzerland.”

“And you fear that I might harm her.” Her voice
sounded weary. Maybe hurt. Lesko wasn't sure.