The Council of Ten

by Jon Land

  “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.

  The leader pulled a shelling knife from his pocket. “What you want here, captain
?”

  Drew detected a note of fear in his voice and seized the advantage. “This is going to cost you,” he said as sharply as he could manage.

  The leader’s yellowy eyes wavered, uncertain. “Who sent you?” he rasped.

  Drew stayed silent. Obviously the man was as frightened as he was, but for altogether different reasons. Perhaps with the violent closing of the chain in Florida, he feared for his own life. But a man sent to dispose of him would never have initiated contact with the gold coin. Clearly there was more involved here.

  The leader came closer and flashed the shelling knife before him. “I slice you up piece by piece less you talk, captain,” he threatened, fear still in his voice. “Who sent you?”

  “I used the gold coin; that’s all you need to know.”

  The leader turned up the kerosene lamp on the table beneath him. He pulled it closer to Drew so the light danced madly against the blade he was fondling. “I grew up here as a sheller, captain. Got to the point where I could shell the mussel without even disturbing its overskin. Bet I could do a pretty good job shelling you, less, of course, you start answerin’ me straight. What’d they send you down here for?”

  It was the leader’s use of “they” that formed Drew’s response. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions?”

  The man’s features flared and in an instant the blade was pressed against Drew’s throat. “I done nothin’ wrong! You tell ’em that. I do what I’m supposed to. No need they send you down here. I think maybe I send you back in a box, captain. I think maybe that’ll teach ’em good.”

  “All right, all right,” Drew stalled, realizing he would die here unless he found a way out fast. The man was obviously hiding something; his fear proved that much. But Drew would have to uncover what it was later. For now escape was the issue. He needed a weapon. Mercenary camp had taught him that there was always something to be made of nothing. His eyes wandered to the kerosene lamp, his mind flashing like a computer. “I think we’ve got a misunderstanding,” he resumed, feigning submission. “Look, I’ll tell you whatever you want, but a drink, I need a drink first… .”

  The leader motioned to one of the two men who’d been seated at the kitchen table. The man moved to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle and a glass. As he approached the table, Drew saw that it was cheap rum. The man set the bottle and glass down near the leader.

  “Drink and then talk, eh, captain?” the leader said, opening the bottle and filling the glass.

  Drew nodded and accepted the glass with both hands, not because he needed them but because the motion forced the giant holding him from behind to slacken his grip. He started to sip the rum, eyes sweeping from the bottle to the kerosene lamp and back again. He would have to act fast, incredibly fast.

  The head man was smiling again. Drew took a final breath.

  His first motion was deceptively simple. A sudden flick with both his wrists covered the bald man behind him with rum, stinging his eyes. By the time the leader grasped what had happened, Drew had kicked out with both feet, spilling the rest of the bottle all over the table. Almost simultaneously, he slapped outward with a now free arm against the kerosene lamp. It keeled over, contents mixing with the rum. Flames leaped outward immediately. A few caught the leader in the chest as he reached to restrain Drew. He fell backward into the table and took it with him to the floor.

  But the giant had his bearings again. Drew reached down for the lamp now on the floor and wrapped his fingers around its burning hot handle, then swung it in a narrow arc. Glass cracked against the bald giant’s head. Fire spread over his bald dome.

  The big man toppled over screaming, colliding with the leader who was fighting to rise after successfully putting out the flames that had caught on his shirt along with the tablecloth. The other two men were in motion now, but the advantage belonged to Drew. One had a gun out, but the confusion rendered it useless and Drew crashed into him without fear. The other tried to trip Drew up as he made for the door, but Drew kicked backward and mashed his nose. Then he was flying back into the night.

  Drew knew his escape could easily be short-lived and he didn’t bother to celebrate it. His first thought was to make a dash back to his hotel. But the sounds of men setting off in pursuit quickly made him realize that he’d never make it. He was halfway to the Paradise Island Bridge by that point and so he simply continued for it.

  Running, he reached the bridge in under two minutes. The pedestrian walkway was deserted and the only light came from a fairly constant stream of crossing cars. He tried for a sprint down the walkway, but his burning chest and lungs denied him the pace he needed. He was almost to the center when the shots crackled through the air, soft pops in the night.

  Drew glanced behind him to see the leader and two of his henchmen in pursuit. His foot caught in a loose board and it sent him flying. He hit the wooden walkway hard and nearly lost his wind. Bullets chewed the rails above him. The steps leading down to Potters Cay were just up ahead, his only hope.

  Drew kept low to reduce himself as a target. More bullets sailed through the air, all way off. Finally, he reached the steps and charged down to the Cay.

  At the bottom he searched frantically for a weapon. His eyes found a nearby decrepit stand on the Cay, its wood rotting. Drew rushed to it and ripped a board free.

  Above him footsteps pounded the bridge walkway.

  Drew moved back toward the steps, not hesitating. He heard shoes thundering down and raised the board. A face appeared. Drew swung the wood like a baseball bat. It impacted with a thud, followed by a grunt from the already unconscious attacker.

  More footsteps slammed down the stairs on the Cay’s other side. Drew was already lunging for the downed man’s discarded gun when the first shots from the second man pounded his ears. The second attacker was charging toward him now, steadying his aim.

  Drew brought the gun up and fired. The first shot was errant and the second merely slowed the man down. Drew fired again. And again. He emptied the whole cylinder, in fact, before the man finally crumbled, firing his last two rounds harmlessly upward.

  That left only the leader. Drew swung fast, first left and then right. No sign. Drew started down the center of the Cay.

  The yellow-eyed leader would be waiting for him somewhere, the advantage obviously his. Now, however, it was one on one instead of four on one, an unexpected turn. Nor would he have expected Drew to proceed directly down the center of the Cay. This would confuse him, make him hesitate. Another lesson from the weeks spent at the mercenary camp: always do the unexpected.

  Drew kept walking, heart lunging forward in his tired chest.

  He reached one of the shelling booths and stopped. It was deserted now along with the rest of the Cay, but one of the fishermen had left his shelling knife behind, the mussel oil glinting off the blade in the moonlight. Taking it in his hand, Drew headed on. He could feel the leader close by now. The man must be scared, cursing himself for underestimating his captive. He had to be sure of the kill now, and he would not act until he was. Rashness had cost him already.

  Drew came to a break between two of the booths and ducked between them, lowering himself to his knees. He wanted to force the leader to act suddenly, to give himself away.

  Headlights coming down the bridge caught the shimmer of something metallic three booths down. The leader’s pistol was stainless steel, but the shimmer could have come from any metal object, not necessarily a gun. More headlights flashed. The shimmer was gone, indicating that it must have come from an object that had been moved—very likely the gun. The leader must have been changing his position.

  Staying on his knees, Drew crept into the aisle that ran behind the booths and began to crawl with his head low. This denied him inspection of whatever it was he would be facing and created the dreadful possibility that the leader would spot him first.

  Drew willed his limbs and joints to stay silent and smooth. He had learned all about the importance of silence at the camp. Silenc
e could make up for various other shortcomings, including inferior position and weapon. A man could only accurately shoot what he could see and not when it was already upon him.

  Drew crawled on, almost to the spot of the shimmer.

  He was one booth away when he heard one irregular sound and then another. Shoes brushing against dirt perhaps, or a change in a man’s breathing cadence. He would have to move blindly. He could not risk returning the advantage to the yellow-eyed leader by trying to better his vantage point.

  Drew saw the scuffed heels on a pair of work boots and he knew he had guessed right. He rose and lunged in the same motion, the conch knife tight in his hand.

  The leader’s turn came much too late. Drew saw the gun coming around and locked his hand on the wrist holding it as he pounded the man’s face with an elbow. The man groaned but still tried to fight back, concentrating all his efforts on freeing his gun, which allowed Drew to smash his face with three more hard strikes, rendering him to near unconsciousness. A quick knee to his wrist separated the leader from his gun altogether and then Drew’s knife was pressed against his throat just as he had practiced a hundred times.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask the questions,” Drew charged, making sure the man saw the handle of the conch knife. “I don’t have to tell you what this is. You’re the expert.”

  The man’s yellowy eyes bulged in fear but not surprise, as if he suspected that this was what Drew had come to Nassau for in the first place.

  “Doesn’t feel too good, does it?” Drew spit out. “It’ll get a lot worse unless you talk. I need to get my facts straight. Let’s start with the gold coin.”

  “The women used it, just like you, whenever they came down.”

  “Old women. They hand the gold coin over and then you supply them with cocaine.”

  The man looked puzzled. “Don’t you—”

  “Answer my question!”

  “Yes, captain, yes. Sixteen shipments, but they weren’t all cocaine.”

  “What?”