The Council of Ten

by Jon Land

  Drew kept his speed in check throughout the drive to Miami, not wanting to attract the attention of any radar-equipped troopers. He arrived in the city limits a little past four o’clock and got off 95 at the Biscayne Boulevard exit. From there he drove to Collins Avenue, cruising it from one end to the other to maintain the security the car provided. Finally, he opted for a hotel toward the northern end billed as the Ocean Palm, which boasted an olympic-size swimming pool on its marquee. He paid for the night in advance and was relieved to learn that the hotel featured room service as well as the pool. He didn’t plan to spend any time outside of his room, especially in restaurants or coffee shops where he would have to linger for too long at a time.

  Sunday night in the room wore on forever, Drew keeping one eye on the fuzzy television and the other on the door, expecting Miami Vice to come crashing through at any second. He tried to force himself to sleep but couldn’t even though his body felt exhausted. After a few hours of uneasy slumber in the rock-hard bed, he rose, figuring he might spend a few hours after dawn by the pool where the fresh air might recharge him. But the rain came before the sun had a chance to and Drew resigned himself to watching the patterns it swept on the windows.

  By nine o’clock he had eaten breakfast and tried Masterson’s private number a dozen times without results. Something was clearly wrong. The only way to find out what was to pay a visit to DEA headquarters. If Masterson had betrayed him, there were plenty of avenues open. But if Masterson had himself been betrayed …

  Drew chose not to complete the thought. He had returned the rental car the day before some miles from the hotel and had come back in a cab to avoid possible connections. The police might somehow be able to trace the car to Miami and the rental agency, but Miami was a big city and by the time they got a line on him, Drew would hopefully be long gone one way or another. He called a cab from his room to take him to the Miami headquarters of the DEA.

  The building was located on Northwest Fifty-third Street. It was a modern, three-story design, nestled comfortably amid at least two dozen virtually identical structures, all enclosed by neatly cropped hedges in a Koger Executive Center row. There was little to tell him it was the offices of the Drug Enforcement Agency, and he might easily have tried a few of the other buildings first, had not the driver left him off right at the door.

  He had little trouble learning where Masterson’s office could be found and only slightly more in sliding past building security into the elevator. The compartment was crowded and Drew was among the first to exit on the second floor. The door to Masterson’s office up the hall was open, with his full name printed clearly in bold black letters.

  Inside, a secretary was packing materials into boxes. She looked up, startled.

  “Is Agent Masterson in?” Drew asked her.

  Her face showed first shock and then sadness. Her words emerged flatly. “Agent Masterson was killed.”

  Drew felt a thud to his stomach, but he wasn’t surprised at all. “When?” he managed.

  Of course, the answer would be Sunday—yesterday—which would explain why the plan had gone so wrong, why he had been set up and then abandoned at Too-Jay’s.

  But that’s not what she said at all.

  “Wednesday,” came the secretary’s almost tearful response. “It happened last Wednesday.”

  The rest was a blur. Drew backed out of the office without further words.

  Agent Masterson was killed last Wednesday and I met him on Friday.

  Confusion tore through him. Outside the headquarters, he managed to find a cab that had just dropped off someone else. He spent the ride back to the hotel with his head pressed low and his breathing rapid, an all-encompassing fear battering his senses. Somewhere in all this lay a perverted sense of order.

  Masterson was not Masterson, which meant …

  Which meant what?

  Drew shivered. Everything had been a setup. No, not everything. The fact that Masterson had been murdered seemed to indicate that his grandmother had indeed contacted the real agent. Both had been killed as a result, the other grandmothers, too, and who knew how many others.

  And drugs were somehow to blame; drugs, the only common denominator.

  But what of the letter? All the facts contained in it might have been true, yet that didn’t mean his grandmother had written it. Yes, the letter must have been a plant, a plant used to make him contact the fake Masterson at the conveniently provided number. He should have known that his grandmother never would have written such a letter, never would have risked involving him in something like this. But he had fallen for it, and the rest had fallen into place naturally. Out of fear for his own life and desire to avenge his grandmother’s death, Drew had done exactly what had been expected of him.

  But how could they have known he would blackmail the fake Masterson into helping him? And if Trelana’s eventual killer was theirs, why had they needed Drew in the first place? So much left for chance, so much that didn’t make sense no matter how hard he tried to think.

  Stop! Block it out for awhile. Let it come on its own.

  But the thoughts kept coming at him, smashing against each other and driving him to the brink of madness. The fake Masterson wanted the drug lord dead and, more, wanted Drew to do it and then, yes, be killed for his efforts. A dead pigeon made the perfect pigeon. But Drew had crossed them up by failing to complete the hit, necessitating a contingency plan that had allowed him to survive. But why again was it so important to involve him in Trelana’s—

  Wait. What if Trelana hadn’t been responsible for Doris Kaplan’s death at all? What if she had died instead at the hands of whoever or whatever was behind the fake Masterson? Trelana could have been as much of a pawn as the grandmothers themselves … and now Drew. Morris Kornbloom had reason to believe that the women were involved in something, but he had no idea what.

  Morris Kornbloom! He had told Drew to call him if he needed him. Well, he certainly needed someone now, someone he could trust to help him out of this.

  The taxi deposited Drew outside the motel. Mindlessly, he paid the driver and went straight to his room. He switched on the noon news on a local Miami television station while he searched his wallet for Kornbloom’s number. So far, the murder of Arthur Trelana was receiving plenty of mention, but the primary focus was the lack of leads. Drew could help them. Legally, after all, he was guilty of nothing more than a self-defense killing. He had nothing to hide now. He would call Kornbloom, and the doctor would help him make the right contacts.

  He located the doctor’s number and dialed it.

  “Dr. Kornbloom’s office.”

  “Dr. Kornbloom, please.”

  There was a pause.

  “All his patients are being referred to Dr. Feinstein,” the woman said faintly.

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m just a friend and I need to speak to him.”

  Another pause. “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you, but there was an accident last night. Dr. Kornbloom was struck by a hit-and-run driver. He died this morning.”

  The receiver slid from Drew’s hand. Morris Kornbloom was dead, killed in what appeared to be yet another tragic accident. Kornbloom had met him, knew him, delivered the letter they had somehow planted. That made Kornbloom an unwitting part of the setup and thus a potential trace back to them. So, they had erased him.

  Just like they had erased Trelana and the grandmothers.

  Just like they would try to erase Drew.

  Drew ran his hands over his face. He had fooled them all by surviving at Too-Jay’s, but they wouldn’t be giving up the chase so quickly. They could have been waiting for him to show up at DEA headquarters, could have followed him back here!

  Drew’s attention was drawn all at once to the television screen. The picture displayed on it was of him! He jumped up and turned the volume louder.

  “… TWENTY-SIX-YEAR-OLD ANDREW JORDAN OF WASHINGTON, DC, BEING SOUGHT AS A SUSPECT IN THE MURDER OF PALM BEACH DEVELOPER ARTHUR TRELANA AND TW
O ASSOCIATES ACCORDING TO POLICE …”

  No! Drew wanted to scream at the screen. It’s not like that!

  But he knew it would do no good. The enemy had played their next card. The police knew him. They thought he was a killer.

  There was no place to run.

  Selinas had been waiting at the Miami Airport bar, this time in the Eastern terminal, for thirty-five minutes when his contact finally arrived. All the booths were occupied, so Giblet was forced to take a seat at the bar.

  “I saved you a stool,” Selinas told him, motioning to the one next to his. “It wasn’t easy. Morning rain must have delayed a lot of flights.”

  “The weather’s been better.” Giblet settled himself down and maneuvered his stool closer to Selinas. “We have another matter requiring your attention.”

  “Four in such a short period of time. That’s quite unusual, almost unheard of.”

  “The circumstances call for it.”

  “So must the objective. Who is it?”

  “We have no location for him except the general Miami area, and time is crucial.”

  “Isn’t it always? Just tell me who the target is.”

  “A young man named Andrew Jordan, but he goes by the name of Drew… .”

  Chapter 10

  THE LIGHTS ON HOYSTER street in Prague seemed inviting as Elliana Hirsch walked slowly through the most active nighttime section of the city. Her trips to Prague in the past had left her with a romantic feeling for the city. Perhaps it was the strange juxtaposition of vitality and repression that Prague was able to manage. Communist by force rather than choice, Prague had nonetheless been able to maintain the flavor and feel, although subdued, of a western city. Take away an occasional patrolling military policeman serving Czechoslovakia more than the Soviet Union and a stranger might never have known that this was a Communist stronghold.

  Tonight people walked with faces tilted down to shield them from the weather. An arctic blast of winter had made its presence felt early, with winds whipping up through the streets and whirling about the first true snowfall of the season.

  Elliana trudged through it thinking how little she liked the cold and winter in general. It had not been hard for her to get into Prague. The Mossad could cut off her contacts, but she still maintained her covers and papers. Perhaps these could be voided as well, but she knew that Isser, Moshe, and the others would not want her falling into enemy hands. So, leaving open the various avenues of transit she had developed over the years was a kind of compromise. But no help would be coming from her superiors if she landed in trouble. And, worse, whatever fear of retribution did to keep possible enemies from making bold moves against her would now be lifted. No matter. She did not plan to stay in Prague long.

  The city’s cleanliness impressed her as always. Not a single scrap of litter, not even a cigarette butt to be found on the streets. Well, Communism must have its advantages, too. She continued to walk warily en route to a bar that in English translated into Friends and More. Its owner was known only as Annatoly, a genuine character, one of the most colorful sorts in the entire city.

  Little was known of the mysterious Annatoly. Even gender was a mystery. The best information had it that Annatoly was a woman trying very hard to be a man. Ellie had met him/her only once before and had been unable to make up her mind on that occasion. Nor did she care. What mattered was that, man or woman, Annatoly was a storehouse of information, using it in trade whenever the need arose. Friends and More was one of the few aboveboard locations in Prague where prostitutes, drugs, and just about anything else could be obtained for the right price. Officials mostly turned a deaf ear and blind eye to the establishment. Annatoly was too outrageous to be accepted but too popular not to be tolerated.

  Elliana had helped “Annie,” as Annatoly was called by friends, out of an especially tough spot once when a pair of assassins Annie had turned in managed to escape and return in search of revenge. Ellie interceded. The assassins were tried in a higher court, their bodies, to the best of Ellie’s knowledge, never recovered.

  Elliana maintained a chain of people like Annatoly all over the world who owed her such favors. Mostly these were returned with the passing of vital information when it surfaced. Annie was one of several Ellie had put on the trail of the Council of Ten specifically, telling them the kind of things to look for. Annatoly’s call that she had found something had reached Elliana just before Moshe had.

  Ellie held the top of her coat together to shield her neck from the cold as the wind whipped up again. Thankfully, Annie’s bar was just one more block away and Ellie turned off Hoyster Street onto a narrow avenue where Friends and More was located. Communist restrictions prohibited even Annatoly from posting a large sign or marquee, but the soft sound of music and the mixed garble of voices told Ellie that her sense of direction had been accurate. The entrance was made of solid wood, windowless, and formed a door to an altogether different world.

  There was no doorman and Ellie was able to slip inside unhindered and unnoticed. The room was smaller than she remembered, most of the patrons crowding in small groups around circular tables. Others stood packed into the aisles, men conversing uneasily with women maybe to make a deal, while more lined up for drinks at the bar. The lighting was typically dim. Smoke pooled in clouds at the ceiling. It was much like an American or Israeli bar, except for the restrained voices and low-tipped eyes. Many patrons clearly didn’t want to advertise their presence.

  Elliana eased her way through the crowd, smiling politely and saying “excuse me” in Czech when required. She was aware of the eyes of numerous men checking her out as if to guess her price, but she met the eyes of none as she pushed forward toward the bar. It was warmer up there and she pulled one of her arms from its sleeve when she finally gained the bartender’s attention.

  “A triple vodka with no ice,” she told him.

  The man eyed her quickly and nodded. That had been the signal Annatoly had instructed her to use. The bartender finished the drinks he was already working on and then poured hers. Ellie never saw him press a button concealed beneath the rows of glasses.

  It was a minute after her drink had been set down before her that she glimpsed the figure in white gliding around the bar toward her.

  “Ellie dear, how good to see you!”

  Annatoly hadn’t changed, at least not much. She wore a loose-fitting man’s white suit with a black-rimmed hat swung low over her eyebrows. A fake mustache was pasted over her upper lip and a cigarette complete with gold filter dangled from her right hand. Her entire outfit was perfectly coordinated right down to the shirt and striped silk tie.

  Elliana moved away from the bar and fought against uneasiness when the smaller Annatoly grasped her in a firm hug.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Annie.”

  Annatoly eased away and held Ellie by the shoulders at arms length. “Tell me, dear, how do I look?”

  “Sensational.”

  “Older?”

  “The same.”

  Annatoly hugged her again. “You are a comfort, Ellie. If only there were more like you around… .”

  Ellie’s eyes circled the room. “You seem to be doing quite well.”

  “Only in business, dear. Friends are at a severe premium. Trust, you understand, doesn’t exist in this part of the world. But it’s the only world I know.” Her eyes grew somber. “No older, you’re sure?”

  “Positively.”

  Annatoly smiled and for a moment Elliana feared her thick mask of makeup might crack.

  “Then let us talk,” Annie said, and they moved under one of the lights. Only then did Ellie realize just how sunken her friend’s eyes had become. Annatoly must have been near fifty now with all the lines to show for it, more and more makeup needed to cover them. Ellie wasn’t sure where the dressing like a man came in. She had heard all the stories: transvestite, lesbian, sadist, pervert. But, even if true, none of them mattered. Annatoly was basically a gentle soul who had never felt comfo
rtable moving in the mainstream. The outrageous had become a way of life for her, the many fetishes she had gone through more distractions than anything else. “I’ll find us a table,” she continued.

  “Out here?” Ellie resisted.

  “You wish to avoid attention or receive it? If I take you into my office, eyes will follow us. This way, people will think I’m just interviewing another prospective … hostess.” Annie looked her over, the tips of her fake mustache rising. “Which might not be a bad idea… .”

  Ellie followed her toward a just-vacated table against the wall near the front door. A half-full pitcher contained warming beer. The empty glasses still had suds running down their sides.

  “Let us speak in English,” Annatoly said after they sat down. “It will make our business considerably more private.”

  “Fine by me,” Elliana said, switching over. “I’ve never been able to grasp your idioms and idiosyncrasies anyway.”

  Annie ran a pair of fingers along the rim of her hat. “Idiosyncrasies have little to do with language.”

  “That’s not what I meant… .”

  Annie smiled. “Relax. Just my sense of humor acting up again. I enjoy being different. It keeps people from knowing who I really am. You should know all about that.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “But you haven’t come here for comparisons. You are after information and I believe I have some for you.” Annatoly leaned forward, close enough for Ellie to see the edges of her close-cropped dark hair beneath her floppy hat. “I have received word about a man in the market for some unusual merchandise.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He is a Frenchman, but all correspondence seems to originate from a Spanish town called Getaria. It’s on the Basque coast, in Vizcaya province. The man is after transport planes.”

  “Transport planes?”