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

open, seeing nothing.
    ”I am so sorry, Susan,” he whispered.
    In his mind, he saw her as she had been. Lovely. Young. Full of life. A childlike enthusiasm at the prospect of her first trip abroad. Delighting in everything she saw.
    They'd gone to London first. She'd never been there. She adored it, she said. Thrilling to all the sights that he barely noticed anymore. She made them fresh again. From London, they boarded a boat train, reaching Paris by early evening, Zurich by the next morning, then on to Landquart at the foot of the Engadine Alps. She was in heaven, every moment of it.
    As he sat by her bed, whatever the direction of his tght, Bannerman's mind would drift back to that train ride. She was so happy then. So excited. She'd met new friends. They were charmed by her. They exchanged addresses. One couple, Americans, promised to visit them in Klosters. He hoped they would not come. Not to see her like this. Her father would be enough to deal with. He was coming. Anton had arranged it. Bannerman wanted him there even less but he could not decently have prevented it.
    “Our choice,” Anton Zivic had told him, “was to fly him there under escort or to leave him to his own devices. The man is barely rational. This way we will be better able to control him.”
    “Who else are you sending?”
    There was an edge to the question. Zivic, on his own authority, had dispatched the team of Carla Benedict and Dr. Russo to be in place before he and Susan reached Klosters. Bannerman, he had decided, could pretend all he wished that he was just another American on holiday, but someone had to be a realist.
    “Molly Farrell and Billy McHugh,” he answered. “Until your mind is clear, I suggest you leave all operational decisions to Miss Farrell. If there is a confrontation between yourself and Mr. Lesko, I have instructed Billy to deal with him.”
    “Anton, I don't want him harmed.” Enough is enough.
    “That may not be your choice, Paul. Lesko knows who you are.”
    “From whom? You told him?”
    “He has his own sources. The man has been busy. So have we. Miss Farrell will brief you when she arrives. In the meantime,” Zivic warned, “Lesko is certain to conclude that his daughter's present condition is a result of her involvement with you.”
    “We don't know that,” he answered, stung. “The father made enemies of his own. This is more their style.”
    “The father,” Zivic pointed out, “will be no more willing to see himself as the cause of this than you are. This is human. It is foreseeable. You should assume, therefore, that it is foreseen by someone else as well. Until we know who that is, let us try not to oblige him.”
    Zivic was right. Bannerman knew it. And he knew that he was not thinking clearly. Trying to put this on Lesko's head may have been human but it was also stupid, not to say petty. Still . . .
    “Mr. Bannerman?” A nurse, a different one, touched his shoulder. He turned. “There is a call for you,” she said. “It is a Mr. Lesko.”
    Bannerman took it in a private waiting room. He picked up the phone and said his name.
    “This is Lesko.” The voice was pitched low, little more than a hoarse whisper. Bannerman could hear a rage, and a hatred, held barely under control. In the background he heard a flight announcement in English. The father was calling from Kennedy Airport. “How is she?” he asked.
    Bannerman told him all that the doctor had said. Coma. Waiting for tests. Twenty-four hours would tell. He chose not to mention the battering of her face.
    “Who did it?” Lesko hissed.
    ”I don't know.”
    “Then fucking guess. Who did it?”
    “Mr. Lesko”—Bannerman sighed—“it depends on whether this was done to you or to me. Nobody had anything against Susan. I don't know whether she had worse luck being my friend or your daughter.”
    Lesko took a breath. He had the sound of a man biting his tongue. “What about who did the hit? You got anything