The Council of Ten (21 page)

What he later came to view as his greatest blessing occurred one dismal night when a jack gave way while he was changing a tire and the wheel crushed his hand. They cut it off at a local hospital, and a few days later a doctor arrived with a catalogue detailing Teeg’s choices for prosthetic devices.

Teeg said he wanted a hook.

He had used it many times since to good advantage. It had become his trademark in the select world of the hired assassin. Add to this a hugely muscled frame that towered just three inches under seven feet, and the result was what many referred to as a human monster. Teeg’s reputation spread and began to precede him. He was far too recognizable and not very subtle, the hook being his favorite means of dispatch. He had begun to fear that his services were no longer required by anyone when he first met up with the white-haired man.

They had been together off and on ever since, seven years now, Teeg being summoned whenever his skills were required. That turned out to be frequent enough to suit both of them and Teeg was allowed to work any way he chose. The white-haired man knew Teeg better than anyone alive, but Teeg figured it cut the other way as well. The man’s white hair gave the illusion of age, but Teeg knew it was due to some sort of chromosomal deficiency, the same one that had made the man’s flesh retain its ghostly tint no matter how many hours he sat in the sun.

Still, he tried. Every day when he was in a warm climate, the white-haired man would sit out in the sun, although the effects of its rays on his pallor were minimal at best. He was a big man compared to most and well muscled, although to Teeg, few others seemed either large or strong. He would never dare cross the white-haired man, though, for reasons other than his reputation. Teeg hated the way the man’s eyes digested him, analyzing his every motion and action as his mind deciphered whatever report Teeg had come to give. They were deep-set eyes, almost sunken, very light, and somewhat almond-shaped. Eyes, Teeg had often heard, formed the mirror of the soul. If that were the case, he tried not to imagine what lay within the white-haired man, although he was certain that whatever it was held the basis for their fond association.

Today he blessed the fact that the white-haired man’s sunglasses were hiding his milky lenses.

“Did Selinas have much time with Jordan?” he asked Teeg suddenly.

“From what I’m told, no. And even if he did, he had uncovered nothing that could harm us.”

The white-haired man smiled. “I’m glad I had you make sure the bastard died slow. He betrayed us. Death in itself was not sufficient punishment. He had to suffer.”

Teeg flexed his hook. “He suffered.”

A cloud rolled before the sun and the white-haired man stripped off his sunglasses. “So, between the time he escaped from the marina and the time he was arrested, we have no idea of Jordan’s whereabouts or who he might have spoken with.”

“He could not possibly have hurt us.”

“What was he doing in Bay Harbor when the police finally found him? That, too, disturbs me. But it is his escape we must concern ourselves with now and the parties behind it. We must proceed on the assumption that he has inherited a guardian angel and we—a fresh enemy.”

“Have you informed Europe?” Teeg raised, hoping for the sun’s return so the white-haired man would put his glasses back on.

“I will inform them when this Jordan matter is finished and not before. He must be dispatched with all due haste. Our mistakes must be rectified, even if that means the identity of his guardian angel remains a secret.” He paused. “Jordan will go to Nassau. He knows that’s where it began for his grandmother and thus where it must begin for him.” Milky eyes were boring into Teeg’s. “And end.”

The sun peeked out from the corner of a cloud and shone off the giant’s hook. “Consider it done.”

Corbano smiled.

Chapter 18

DREW ARRIVED IN NASSAU
early Thursday afternoon. The rest of his stay in Colombia had been spent with Trelana’s people rehearsing the part he was going to play. As
narcotrafficanté
Adam Balazar seeking to continue a thought-to-be discontinued drug smuggling chain, there were things he could and could not do, say and not say.

Drew’s cover required the use of commercial flights that seemed forever off schedule. He finally arrived more than six hours late and took a cab from Nassau Airport to the Cable Beach Hotel and Casino. The complex’s expanse amazed him. His grandmother’s postcards could not do justice to the twin wings containing almost 400 rooms each. Nor could they accurately display the ultramodern sports complex located across the street from the hotel whose facilities could be freely enjoyed by guests. A brief walk of barely fifty yards would place him on the beautiful white-sand beach bordering the hotel, and, of course, its casino was renowned the world over.

It was the pool area, however, that held the greatest interest for Drew, and he planned to head down to it as soon as he had checked in and changed. His pocket held a gold coin that Trelana had instructed him to hand over to the pool attendant as a signal that would set the links in the chain back in place. It was the same signal used by his grandmother in her excursions here. He would be following many of the procedures she had, leading ultimately to the penetration in the line, Trelana’s prick in the bag of white powder, that had cost her life.

Drew was given a room on the third floor with a spectacular view of the crisp blue ocean. The corridor was exceptionally long and he passed at least fifty other rooms en route to his own. He noted that such a length might be a problem if a quick exit from the hotel was mandated, but he would have to live with it. Twenty minutes later he stepped out into the pool area, which was only sparsely inhabited. This was not prime season in the Bahamas. Had it been, all chaise longues would have been taken hours earlier.

A tall, thin pool attendant bearing an armful of towels approached with a smile.

“May I pick you out a choice spot, sir?”

Drew fished into the rear pocket of his bathing trunks for the gold coin. “Yes, thank you.” And he handed the coin over.

The attendant’s eyes widened briefly, then regarded Drew. As fast as it had vanished, his smile returned.

“Right this way,” he offered and Drew followed.

The attendant arranged his chaise longue to make sure it was facing the sun and draped a huge towel over it. He handed another to Drew and started to take his leave.

“If there is anything else I can do …”

Drew thanked him and sat down. He was all by himself in the back left-hand corner of the pool area. The spot itself was obviously some sort of signal to alert someone to his presence. It was just a question of waiting.

Fortunately, among the supplies Trelana had obtained for him back in Colombia was a tube of suntan cream, which Drew smeared over his face and body. The last thing he could afford now was a sunburn, and he had no idea how long he would have to wait here under the burning sky before someone made contact with him. At last, he settled back and closed his eyes, squeezing his arms against the lounge armrests and trying to look the part of the contented tourist.

He actually dozed off for a while and might have fallen into the deep sleep that had eluded him last night, if a shadow hadn’t suddenly blocked out the sun. Drew sat upright quickly, his eyes squinting against the brightness.

A waiter in a white jacket hovered over him holding a tray. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But I have your drink.” And Drew noticed the frosty Piña Colada perched on his tray.

“But I didn’t order one.”

“Yes, you did, sir,” the waiter told him gently. “The order was called in some minutes ago.”

Drew realized he had been stupid not to play along from the beginning. “Yes. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

The waiter set the tall drink down on a small wrought iron table within Drew’s reach, placing a napkin down first.

“If you’ll just sign here, sir.”

Drew did and the waiter departed. He realized he was frightfully thirsty and the Piña Colada looked like the perfect solution, in addition to being connected somehow to his eventual contact. Sipping its thick contents through a straw, he noticed the napkin had writing on it; not on the top or bottom, but on one of the inner folds. Drew reached for the napkin and unfolded it. Its message was simple:
Potters Cay. Sunset tonight
.

Drew dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and went back to his drink. Potters Cay was another landmark he remembered his grandmother speaking of frequently. It was one of the must-see attractions of Nassau, a lively, colorful, open-air market located beneath the Paradise Island Bridge. Fresh fruit, fish, and vegetables were available on the Cay in a wide selection. Midday, if the wind was right, the fresh smells passed inland for miles. The Cay was packed with shoppers daily, natives as well as tourists, who came to watch the local fishermen go about their daily ritual of shelling conch. Potters Cay ran perpendicular to the bridge, perhaps a half mile long or a little less. Almost all the shops closed before sunset. It would be emptying out by the time Drew arrived tonight.

He leaned back and finished his drink. There would be no more rest for him now; his mind was at work again. The note on the napkin didn’t specify a particular shop on the Cay. That indicated the people he would be meeting already knew what he looked like, who he was. That bothered him. Everywhere he went, someone had the advantage over him. He had to resign himself to that, he supposed. This was their world, after all, not his.

But he was a
narcotrafficanté
and that made him a member.

This time of year, the sun in the Bahamas didn’t set until nearly eight o’clock. Drew took a cool shower in his room, trying to reduce the effects of the sun’s heat, and dressed casually before heading for Potters Cay. The walk to the Paradise Island Bridge was short, but he wasn’t in the mood for it, so he spotted a cab in front of the hotel and had it deposit him near the start.

The lights of Potters Cay loomed beneath the bridge, but not many people were walking it now and few shops were open to serve them. The stands of various sizes were still in place, but their contents had been boxed up and taken away by the proprietors until tomorrow. A few of the more vigorous merchants continued to push their wares, announcing specials in a variety of languages.

Potters Cay, a long, thin island itself, was accessible from the bridge by a dual set of wide steps running down from either side. The steps were often so packed with people they resembled a midtown Manhattan traffic jam, but at this time of day that was hardly the case. Drew strolled to the center of the bridge and descended alone.

The lingering smells of fish, fruit, and vegetables found his nostrils immediately. It was a fresh scent that sent hunger pangs surging through him. With no sure destination in mind, he planned to simply keep on the move. Those who had contacted him by the pool would spot him before too long. Staying on the move made him less conspicuous.

Drew walked up the Cay. Several people moved by him, mostly blacks, which made them natives either closing up shop or coming to make offers for the day’s leftover perishables. There were only a few tourists left. The bustling, hectic atmosphere of the Cay during daylight hours vanished once the sun went down. It was almost eerie now and sinister, lined with dark shadows and crevices.

Drew stepped up his pace. Ahead lay a large conch shop where the daily catch was still being sold and a few fishermen continued the process of shelling their mussels. He stood and watched them work, their hands scarred from years of toil with jabbed nets, turning a strangely curved, razor-sharp blade into the conch shell and emerging with a chunk of meat.

Suddenly a black man in a white shirt was standing next to him.

“You enjoy the drink I sent you by the pool this afternoon, captain?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the shelling.

Drew swung and held fast to his calm. “It was refreshing. I owe you one.”

“My pleasure, captain.”

“I always pay my debts.”

The man turned toward him for the first time. The whites of his eyes were yellowy.

“We better talk, captain. I got a place back on the mainland.” He hesitated. “That agreeable?”

“Why not?” Drew returned and together they moved to one of the staircases that led up to the bridge.

The man led him back across but then away from Nassau center where his hotel was located to an area dominated by cheaper motels interspersed with shanties occupied by locals. There were several small shops on the streets as well and the man took Drew up to the front door of one.

“In here, captain,” he announced, opening the door and leading the way through a darkened gift shop toward another door in the rear.

The man unlocked that door as well to reveal a sparsely furnished apartment. He turned up the wick on a standing kerosene lamp. Obviously the luxury of electricity had not reached this part of Nassau yet, at least for locals.

“My home is yours, captain,” the man offered nonetheless and Drew stepped in just after him.

He heard something shuffling to his right an instant before a powerful set of arms that felt like bulging steel bands grabbed him from behind and choked off his air.

“Best not to move, captain,” the man said with a smile.

Chapter 19

DREW STARTED TO STRUGGLE
but quickly abandoned the effort. His captor was a good head taller than he and seemed incredibly strong. Escape this way was impossible. And being held at the throat meant every forced motion stole more of his breath away.

The man with the yellow eyes turned up the flame of a second kerosene lamp on what looked like a kitchen table. Two more blacks rose from it and moved to the sides.

“Bring him over here,” the yellow-eyed leader instructed.

His captor half dragged, half carried Drew toward the table and plopped him down in a chair. Drew was free for an instant before the giant clamped his head back and held him by the hair. He caught a glimpse of a massive bald dome and shiny white teeth. The giant was obviously enjoying himself, shifting his huge hands laced with scar tissue under Drew’s chin and over his head to keep him from moving.