At Sword's Point by Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan Page B
Authors: Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan
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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.
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.
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