Free The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) by John R. Maxim Page A

dance.
    “Did you hear what I said, great lady?”
    ”I heard it.”
    “And when your detective has suffered enough pain, I will make you a present of him as well. I will save you for last, Elena. I will . . .”
    “Do I hear the laughter of children, Ortirez?” she asked calmly.
    The line went silent. He had covered his mouthpiece.
    “Ortirez, do you know what a perpetual trust is?”
    He said nothing. Even his silence, she thought, sounded stupid.
    “It is a fund of money that carries out one's wishes even after death. This fund will contain two million Swiss francs. Do you know how much that is in pesos, Ortirez?”
    “Tell me about your fund,” he said, attempting scorn, “and I will laugh at you.”

“Oh, the bounty will not be on your life, Ortirez. That would be merciful.”
    He waited.
    “First it will be for the eyes of your children and the noses of your women. I will keep them here in a box where I can count them. Next it will be for your disease-ridden cock, Ortirez. I will dry it and frame it so that those who come to my house may make jokes about the great General Ortirez.”
    At six in the morning, Helge shook Bannerman awake. He bolted to his feet. She calmed him. The cowboy, she said, had called again. Again he asked if Susan Lesko had yet regained consciousness. She told him she had not. Bannerman composed himself. He thanked her.
    He stepped inside the curtain that surrounded Susan's bed. No change. He tried not to look at her face, at the bruises and swelling. It would anger him, make him hate. He needed his head clear. At any moment now, their friends from the train would come walking through the front entrance. He took a towel from her nightstand and dipped it into a small pitcher of ice water. This he dabbed against his face. It was better.
    But he was still not ready for them. No word from Carla or Russo. Those coming from Westport would not arrive for three hours at best. Until they were in place, he could not leave Susan's side. He hurried to the washroom where he freshened himself, then to a vending machine where he bought two cups of coffee in plastic containers. He settled in to wait.
    It was not yet sunrise when the killers came.
    Ray and Caroline—he in his cashmere topcoat, hat of Irish tweed, his expression pained, compassionate, she in a silver fox, eyes wide, questioning, caring. In Ray's hands, a thermos of coffee and a box lunch with the logo of Zurich's Dolder Grand Hotel on it. A nice touch, he thought bitterly. He put it aside. Then he hugged them.
    He declined their offer, several times repeated, of croissant sandwiches and good Swiss coffee to replace the metallic brew he'd taken from the machine. It was vile but it was coffee. And it contained no chemicals that might, at the very least, have caused him to sleep.
    For three hours they sat or paced, making small talk, sharing words of encouragement. Caroline Bass busied herself gently brushing the tangles out of Susan's hair, running a piece of ice over her parched and swollen lips. Bannerman stood by the bed, watching her every move, doing his best not to seem unduly suspicious. They were cool. He had to give them that. And patient. They also seemed thoroughly genuine. In their eyes, their actions, he could see nothing but kindness. No unspoken signals flashed between them. None of those searching looks that often follow a lie. There were moments in which he almost began to doubt that they were anything other than what they seemed. Perhaps it was his own fatigue, his own guilt, that led him to embrace suspicions that might not outlast a good night's sleep. Adding to the doubt was the fact that he had never heard of them. A folksy husband and wife hit team of late middle-age seemed likely to have been the subject of an anecdote or two over the years. On the other hand, the only Americans he knew much about were those who had worked Europe and the Middle East. And, in addition, Ray and Caroline gave no sign of having heard