The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (55 page)

The bartender had a look. Like a cop's but not quite.
The lady bartender, too.
Lesko wanted to ask Loftus about these people but
Loftus was suddenly driving away with Katz and Dono
van still in the backseat. They must have dropped him
off right at his bed because that's where he was.

He rubbed his eyes.

Shit!

He didn't bother looking at his clock. He knew what
time it would show. He did look at the side of the bed
where Elena had been and immediately felt stupid for
it.

What was today?

Sunday.

Susan would be on that train somewhere. Probably
safe enough. But it would be another whole day before
he could give her a call. And before Elena could start
keeping an eye on her.

CHAPTER 18

At Boulogne, on the coast of France, the blue-and-gold
carriages of the Continental stood waiting on a track
inside the terminal of the Channel ferry. At the en
trance to each of the restored sleeping cars, a young
steward, also in blue and gold, waited to show the pas
sengers to their cabins. Paul and Susan's steward—his
name was Andrew—handed Paul a cable message and directed him to a telephone kiosk just inside, cautioning
him that the train would depart in fifteen minutes. It
took Paul six of those minutes to get through to Anton
Zivic.

Zivic used another four to tell him about the bug on
Susan's phone, his subsequent lunch with Doug Poole, Poole's revelation of the Donovan murder, and Zivic's
decision to execute an immediate reprisal against
Palmer Reid's man, Burdick. Anton, knowing that pub
lic phones at border points are sometimes tapped, kept
his language as obscure as possible while still conveying
the sense of what had occurred. A man had died, Paul
understood, and now another, because Palmer Reid
imagined a conspiracy between himself and Susan's fa
ther.

“Do you think the father is in danger?”

“I will see to him,” Anton promised. “But you be
careful. Perhaps the reprisal scared the Old Man off but perhaps not. With your permission, I would like to send
Mama's Boy some traveling companions.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Paul couldn't bear the thought of it. “Colonel, you might give our friend at State a call.
Have him ask the Old Man why these two are dead. The
question alone should be enough to make him put his
activities on hold. Otherwise, use your own judgment.
Don't feel you have to consult with me.”

A brief silence on the line. Paul instantly regretted having said that. Anton was right to alert him and he
was not a man who needed hand-holding.

“There is another reason for this contact,” Anton
told him. “The bartender is anxious that you know he
acted on my authority.”

“Tell him he did fine.” Paul heard a rapping against
the glass of the terminal window. It was Susan, pointing
at h
er
wristwatch.
He
held
up
one
finger.
“Listen,
Colo
nel
,
will
you
check
out
a
couple
of
names
for
me?
A
Raymond and Caroline Bass from Lumberton, Missis
sippi. Both in their late fifties, early sixties. He's about five nine, full head of graying hair. They're passengers
on this train.”

“You think someone else has sent traveling compan
ions?”

“Not at all. It's just nice to know who your friends are.”

“I'll call you in Klosters.”

“Only if you have to, okay? And Anton . . .” Susan
was jumping up and down. “Tell Billy I'm proud that
he's my friend.”

Bannerman ran for the train.

On
Lesko's street in Queens, on a rooftop four build
ings away and down the block, Glenn Cook of
Westport’s
Sundance Ski Shop sighted through the
scope of an Armalite carbine at the traffic turning off
Queens Boulevard. Two delivery trucks came through,
then several older cars, a lunch wagon, then two late-
model cars, but they were driven by women.

A new-looking Chrysler turned onto the street.
Charcoal brown. Driver, a man in his mid-thirties wear
ing a business suit. Perfect, he decided. Glenn Cook
squeezed the trigger.

The brown Chrysler veered wildly, braking first and
then accelerating before its wheels could be straight
ened. It slammed into the rear quarter-panel of a car
parked at the curb.

Glenn Cook fired again.

He collapsed the stock of his Armalite and jammed it
into a sling underneath his ski parka. Picking up his
brass, Cook walked unhurriedly across two more roof
tops and then disappeared down a stairwell.

From a gas-station phone booth two blocks away, he
punched out Palmer Reid's Maryland number, spoke
three sentences to a recorded message and hung up.
Then, after stopping for a container of coffee and two
chocolate doughnuts, he drove back to Westport.

Susan was enthralled. She barely heard a word as
Andrew the steward demonstrated the switches and
knobs of their private compartment She stood with a
glazed Christmas-morning smile as he explained their
dining car choices, and the hours of service, then col
lected their passports. He'd no sooner closed the door
behind him than Susan let out a whoop that had several
startled passengers peering out into the corridor.
“Americans,” the steward explained with a smile.

“This,” she announced, semi-composed for the mo
ment, “is the single most romantic thing I've ever seen in my life.” Every panel, every fitting, every thread of
fabric was exactly as it had been a half-century before.
On a table near the large
viewing window sat a bucket
of iced champagne and a mound of Iranian caviar the
size of an ostrich egg. From a baseboard grille she could
feel the heat of a charcoal stove rising against her legs.

“You don't know the half of it.” Paul grinned at her
pleasure. “This particular car sat out World War Two on
a siding in Lyons. It was used as a
brothel for German
officers.”

She closed one eye. “Are you making that up?”

He shrugged. “I'm sure they've changed the sheets since then.”

“And repaired the springs?”

“I guess we'll find out.”

Susan ran her fingers over the embroidered settee,
then over the wall above it, trying to imagine where the
other bed was and how this day cabin converted into a
sleeper. She decided to let Andrew worry about that.
Her eyes darted about the compartment, resting for
only a moment in one place before dashing to another.
Another whoop. A jump up and down. A wave through
the window to some passing French children, who
smiled and waved back.

“I wish you'd climb out of your shell,” he said dryly,
“show a little enthusiasm.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said happily. She dipped a
thumbnail into the caviar, ignoring a low groa
n
from Paul. “Does everyone get all this?”   

“Nope,” he smiled. “Only when you special-order
for a special lady.”

Paul opened a set of curved mahogany doors that
revealed a hidden wash stand and towels. “If you want
to freshen up before we dress for dinner, I'll go and take
a short walk. There's not much room for both of us to
move around in here.”

“I don't want to wash up now. I want to explore.”

“You wouldn't like some time to yourself? To un
pack?”

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head. “Let's go check out the
bar car. No, wait. We have champagne. You have to
make a really romantic toast.”

“I'll open the bottle.”

“And then how about a quickie?”

”A quickie what?”

She batted her eyes, pretending to blush.

“Susan,” he made a show of wincing, “one has quick
ies in the backseats of cars or in apartment elevators.
One does not have quickies aboard the Orient Express.”
He reached for the door latch. “You make yourself com
fortable. I'll be back in three minutes.”