At Sword's Point (9 page)

Dragging himself out of bed the next morning was a major effort. Drummond's head pounded like an out-of-balance washing machine, the residual effect of the drugs used by the Mossad agents the night before. He sat with his head in his hands for a few minutes, then picked up his watch from the nightstand next to the bed.

9:45. He was late.

Taking a deep breath, he stood up and headed into the bathroom. Five minutes under a hot shower didn't make him feel like a new man, but at least it reassured him that he was going to pull through. He didn't want to think about the night before. Not yet.

Towelling off and dressing quickly, Drummond was ready to head out the door by ten. The rain lashing against the sliding glass doors sent him back to the closet for his Australian rain slicker and bush hat. The dark brown waxed-linen coat was perfect for a heavy rain in Los Angeles. Lightweight, ankle-length, and with a shoulder cape that reached to the elbows, it kept him comfortable, dry, and stylish even in the worst downpour. Throwing it on over his gray double-breasted suit, Drummond headed down to his BMW parked under his beach-front condominium.

Once he was through the security gates and out onto Pacific Coast Highway, Drummond picked up his cellular telephone and called his office.

"Hi, Alicia? I'm running late—yeah, stayed up late reading that Mossad garbage and overslept. Be there in about an hour."

Drummond clicked off the phone and pointed the car in the general direction of Santa Monica. Despite the relative lack of traffic, he kept the speed down to a modest fifty miles an hour. Tuning in KFAC, he let the classical music drown out the slapping of his windshield wipers as he decided what to do about the events of the last twenty-four hours. The question looming large in his mind as he sped along the coast toward the Santa Monica Freeway was whether or not to report last night's kidnapping.

Gluckman, Trostler, Meier, and Rubinsky probably had ironclad alibis for last night. Even if they didn't, Drummond reasoned, after yesterday's confrontation in his office, any action on his part could be made to look like an attempt to get even for blowing the whistle on his Nazi connections.

Drummond had just turned down Lincoln Boulevard when it dawned on him: he'd been set up.

The whole thing, from Meier and Trostler's clumsy shakedown in his office to the report handed to IAD. The whole thing was a setup so they could grab him, question him about Kluge, and deny any of it ever took place if he complained to the cops.

Besides, who'd believe it, even if none of them had an alibi? He could just imagine it.

"Okay, Captain Drummond. Now, about this business with the Nazi vampires…"

The police psychiatrist would have a field day. The bastards were clever, goddam 'em. Drummond decided he'd have to give them that much. And they weren't after Kluge just because he was a Nazi. Israeli vampire killers? Naaah.

Pulling off the freeway a few blocks from Parker Center, Drummond slithered his way through the traffic, crawling along in the heavy rain to the underground parking structure beneath his office. He put the red BMW in its usual parking place, then headed up to homicide on the second floor.

Yesterday's mound of paperwork was still waiting for him. Tossing his coat and hat on the chair nearest the door, he settled down unenthusiastically to deal with it, a part of his mind still preoccupied by what had happened the night before. Half an hour later, he had worked his way through half a dozen field reports when Sandy Morwood stuck his head around the door. "Hey, John, you headed out for lunch?" the agent asked.

"No, not today." Drummond looked up from his paperwork. "I didn't get in until after eleven, and I've got to get all of this off to payroll by three-thirty."

"Okay then," Morwood said. "Can I bring you back anything?"

"Sure. A big cup of the white clam chowder and an iced tea." Drummond opened his desk drawer and fished out two dollar bills. "This ought to cover it."

"Got it," Morwood said, taking the bills from Drummond's outstretched hand. "Hey, you haven't got an umbrella, have you?"

Drummond grinned and shook his head. "No, but you can borrow my hat and coat, if you want."

"Thanks," Morwood said, scooping up the slouch hat and waxed-linen rain slicker. "Oh, I almost forgot. This came in for you on FLASH this morning." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that he tossed on Drummond's desk. "It's from some bank in Austria." Putting on Drummond's hat and slicker, he headed out the door.

* * * *

Outside it was raining harder than ever, and the few pedestrians on the street were huddled under awnings or slogging resolutely on despite the rain. Looking at the soggy people crowded together waiting for a steamy RTD "people mover," Morwood was glad that Drummond had loaned him his rain gear. He liked Drummond's sense of style. Pulling the slouch hat farther over his eyes, he stayed just under the overhang that sheltered the apron outside Parker Center, waiting until the pedestrian light had changed before dashing out into the downpour to cross Los Angeles Street.

Half a block away, a man in a baggy black raincoat stood under the awning in front of a travel agent's, watching the figure in the brown waxed-linen rain slicker and slouch hat splash along 1st Street and run into a restaurant called the Nightwatch. Turning up the collar of his coat, he stepped out into the rain and walked in that direction.

Morwood stamped his feet as he came in out of the rain, but he didn't take off Drummond's rain gear. Despite the weather, the restaurant was packed with its usual clientele of cops: those going off duty, who stopped in for a coffee and some conversation with pals working the same shift, and the staff from police headquarters across the street, who wanted to stay in touch with the constantly changing L.A. street scene.

Morwood found an empty stool at the counter and sat down, waiting for Paula to find a moment to take his order. Staring at his reflection in the mirror in the back of the cold box, he pulled down the brim of his hat and turned up the collar of the rain slicker. Squinting his eyes, he imagined himself Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti Western.

"Go ahead, punk, make my day," he muttered to himself, as a stocky man in a baggy black raincoat entered the Nightwatch and walked past him, headed toward the telephones in the back of the restaurant.

The stocky man fished in his pocket for some coins, inserted them in the phone, and dialed a number. He waited a few seconds, then spoke briefly into the receiver before replacing the handset. Turning back to the counter, he pulled a small Uzi machine gun out from under his coat and holding it muzzle down, close to his leg, walked toward the door. As he passed by Morwood, he brought the gun up and fired a short burst into his back.

The force of the bullets' impact drove Morwood forward, sending him sprawling over the counter. The last of the empty brass cartridges cascading from the Uzi hadn't hit the floor before all hell broke loose. From a dozen different directions, policemen drew their pistols and opened fire. The man in the black raincoat tried to make it to the door, but he was already badly wounded. Staggering forward, he crashed through the steamy glass door and lurched toward a convertible waiting at the curb, its top down in the heavy rain.

Behind the wheel of the convertible, Trostler watched Meier burst through the glass door of the Nightwatch and stagger toward the getaway car. Bringing his hand up even with his shoulder, he pointed his pistol at his mortally wounded partner and fired two quick rounds into his head. Then he dropped his weapon on the floor of the car, gunned the convertible into traffic, and headed toward Los Angeles Street and Parker Center.

From inside the restaurant, half a dozen officers poured out onto the sidewalk, firing after the speeding car. Using a two-handed combat stance, one of the policemen cocked his gun and, taking careful aim at the back of Trostler's head, squeezed the trigger of his service revolver. The 130-grain hollow-point bullet smashed into the back of Trostler's skull like a sledge hammer hitting an egg. The car slewed sideways on the rain slick street and jumped the curb, skidding through a rank of newspaper racks before slamming to a halt against a telephone pole, the dead Mossad agent slumped over the steering wheel.

* * * *

Drummond waited patiently on hold until Nance Hamilton was able to take his call. Drumming his fingers idly, he wondered how much longer it would be before Morwood put in an appearance with his clam chowder. At this point, his headache could be as much from hunger as from aftereffects of the drugs of the night before.

"Hi, John. How was Europe?" Nance Hamilton's voice sounded as if the sun was shining wherever she was, though her office was only down the street.

"Europe was great," he said. "In fact, I'm thinking about buying some property there and wondered how much I've got in the money market account with your office." Drummond stared out the window at the dark gray sky and lashing rain.

"Well, pushing a couple of magic buttons here at my desk…" Nance Hamilton paused for just a moment. "A smidgen more than four hundred thousand," she said. "Do you want to convert to another currency?"

"Yes, i think so. I'd like to put two hundred fifty thousand into an Austrian bank. What's the best way to do it?" Nance Hamilton was probably the smartest trader in L.A., and Drummond knew he could rely on her advice.

"Gold is the best, John. We'll buy bullion here and exchange it for bullion there. The transaction will cost you less than traveler's checks." There was just a hint of smugness in Nance's voice. "Best of all, its untraceable—just in case."

"The bank in Vienna will accept a gold deposit?" Drummond asked.

"Best banks in the world are in Austria; they love gold." Nance Hamilton made the word "gold" sound seductive. "Just give me the account number, and the transaction will be complete in two hours."

Drummond read her the numbers provided by Eberle's sister at the Vienna Credit Bank and thanked Nance for taking care of the transfer of funds.

"Don't mention it, John," she laughed. "That's what the point-oh-five percent is for."

Drummond set down the phone just as Commander DeGrazzio walked into his office, looking grim.

"John, Sandy Morwood's been shot." Anxiety tinged DeGrazzio's voice. "Some bastard blasted him in the Nightwatch."

Stunned, it took Drummond several seconds to respond. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, but he could be a lot better. His bullet-proof vest stopped the slugs, but there's a lot of bruising and possibly some damage to the spine from the impact."

"Then, he was hit more than once?" Drummond asked, relieved that at least Morwood hadn't been killed.

"I'll say. He took a short burst from an Uzi at about six inches."

"Jesus, that sounds like a professional hit." Drummond shook his head. "Any idea who'd want to take out Morwood?"

DeGrazzio put his hand on Drummond's shoulder, "Nobody."

"What do you mean?"

"They were after you, John. The hit man was one of those Mossad agents we had in here yesterday. His partner was waiting for him at the curb, but he never made it to the getaway car."

Drummond sank back in his chair. "But, how could— Jesus. He borrowed my rain gear."

"That's right," DeGrazzio said. "We figure that they spotted Morwood wearing that Australian rain slicker of yours, followed him into the restaurant, and blasted him." DeGrazzio looked at Drummond and breathed a heavy sigh.

"There's something else you should know," he said. "One of our guys popped the driver of the getaway car. When they pulled his body out of the wreck, this fell out of his pocket."

DeGrazzio produced a small black plastic device with a short aerial and a red micro switch.

"What is it?" Drummond said, though he knew in the pit of his stomach what the answer would be.

"It's a detonator. The bomb squad is down in the basement right now, defusing a couple of pounds of Semtex that's stuck to the chassis of your car." DeGrazzio put the detonator back in his pocket. "Just a guess, but they probably planted the bomb last night. You must've pissed them off more than we realized."

"Apparently so. But, why, Joey? What's it all about?" Drummond asked.
And why did they let me go last night, if they were just going to kill me today
? he added to himself.

"That's what Chief Lopez wants to know," DeGrazzio replied. "He's waiting for us in his office now."

Assistant Chief of Police Red Lopez had an FBI agent with him when Drummond and DeGrazzio arrived at his office.

"Special Agent Harris Raymunds," the black man identified himself, as he and Drummond shook hands.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," Lopez said when the formalities had been exchanged. "Agent Raymunds has been filling me in on the background of the two dead bodies we just sent over to the county morgue. I think you might be interested in what he has to say."

Raymunds' expression was almost wistful as he settled back into his chair and glanced at Drummond.

"The two dead men were Moishe Trostler and Abraham Meier, as you probably know from yesterday. What you may not know is that they were members of an elite Israeli death squad that's an unofficial part of the Mossad. Their usual task has been to hunt down and kill suspected Nazi war criminals, and until recently they'd confined their activities to central Europe and South America.

"Today's shooting is the first instance of their operating in the United States—as least as far as we are aware of. Its obvious that their intended victim wasn't Agent Morwood but Captain Drummond. The question is: why?" Agent Raymunds tucked his mahogany-colored hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "Can you shed any light on the subject, Captain Drummond?"

"No, Agent Raymunds, I can't," Drummond replied. He was not about to tell a federal agent about Nazi vampires, or last night's kidnapping—and the latter thought made him wonder again why they hadn't simply finished him last night while they had the chance.

"Well, then, for the moment," Raymunds continued, "I think we'd better get you as far out of town as possible, until Washington can sort this out with the Israelis." The burly black man turned to Chief Lopez. "If you've no objections, that is."