Through the glass canopy Rivera could see men moving among the mooring lines, preparing to release the boat. A sound—he wasn’t sure if it were a bell or a horn—signaled what he presumed was their departure.
“Let’s go!” Belac demanded with sudden urgency.
“What!”
He turned to see the Belgian already standing, looking down at him. “Go!” Belac repeated. “Come on!”
Rivera hesitated, not knowing what to do, and then stumbled up after the man. He was confused, conscious of everyone looking at him. Mendez’s face was a mask, but its very blankness showed his fury as they swept by. Rivera actually did stumble, following the other man back up the gangway. Belac was at the top, near the rails, engaged in a shoulder-shrugging apology to the ticket collector by the time Rivera got there.
“What the hell…!” Rivera erupted.
Belac turned, smiling, and settled with his arms against the rail, gazing back at the canal boat. “Elementary caution,” he said. “You might have thought you traveled here without company, but the Americans would hardly have announced their presence, would they? You’d be a suspect as well. They would have followed us onto the boat, though. And now, if you were under surveillance, they’ll follow us off again. So we’ll know, won’t we? And I can laugh in their faces because here in Holland they can’t touch me!”
Neither would anyone else be able to touch the man, Rivera realized, the first cohesive thought to come through the bewilderment. He could actually see Mendez and the other two Cubans he’d earlier identified, each in clear profile because all three were sitting gazing straight ahead, refusing to look toward the shore. Rivera strained to see through the glass, to pick out the others who would have boarded after Belac, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter; nothing they could do now if they were going to remain unsuspected. Could be clever, too. That had been the remark from one of the Cubans. Rivera hadn’t known what the man meant then but he did now; knew it horrifyingly well. In one simple move Belac had reversed everything. Saved himself from the planned retribution. Worse, Rivera assessed, he’d been separated from his protectors, the men who were going to keep him safe! Rivera gripped the rail, beneath the concealment of his coat, needing to stop the shaking. Alone; he was alone with a man prepared to kill! Armed too; of course Belac would be armed! Wasn’t that his business! Armed and prepared to kill, like he’d been prepared to kill before.
Could he refuse to pay? Declare that he knew all about the worthless cargo and say their deal was off? He’d confronted the man before. But before he hadn’t known how far Belac would go. He couldn’t do anything but pay, to get the man away. Rivera was terrified.
The gangway was withdrawn, and the boat edged away from the canal wall. From where they watched they heard, although not clearly, the beginning of the guide’s commentary. A girl, Rivera saw; quite pretty.
Belac turned to him, still smiling, and said, “So! All’s well!”
“I’d already told you that,” Rivera said. “It was completely unnecessary.”
Belac led the way through the zigzag of railings; because they were spaced narrowly, to maintain a single file of people, Rivera had to trail behind, follow-my-leader fashion. Over his shoulder, Belac said, “It would have been a boring ride anyway. And I don’t like boats.”
The man appeared very sure of himself, Rivera thought; cockily so. With much more reason than he knew. To extend the conversation, although he didn’t know why, Rivera began, “What did—” and then stopped because he saw them. The Cuban who’d actually made the remark about cleverness was standing on the far corner, his companion at his elbow. Both were studying something the first man carried, a map or a pamphlet. Safe! Rivera thought, euphorically. He was safe after all! It could still work, still be all right. He could still win! Up went the switchback of emotion.
The Belgian was waiting at the end of the delineated walkway. “Yes?” he said curiously.
“What explanation did you give for us leaving like that?” Rivera improvised. Only two of the squad. So a lot would depend upon him now. He would have to lead and hope they followed properly, anticipating him. Safe! he told himself again, his mind held by the single, most important fact. He was safe!
“That we’d realized the trip wouldn’t allow us the time necessary to catch our flight home,” the Belgian said. He extended his hand, palm upward, offering the money. “I got a refund on the tickets. Take it. That’s what we’ve met for, isn’t it? To settle debts.”
Rivera took the florins, saying nothing. Belac was gloating, he knew, imagining himself very much in charge. Enjoy, Rivera thought; gloat on. Not much longer now. To gloat himself, Rivera said, “Yes. We’re here to settle debts.”
He set off along the canal-bordering road, wanting the Belgian to follow him now, determined to reverse their roles. As he walked he put on his coat, using the maneuver to glance behind. The two Cubans were following, but very casually, and farther behind than he would have expected.
“Hey!” Belac protested. “Where we going?”
“Walking awhile,” Rivera said. He guessed he was vaguely circling the center of the city, through the part crisscrossed by canals. Would it be quieter, ahead? He didn’t know—why hadn’t he listened to their planning, the previous night!—but it was logical that the two following wouldn’t move unless it were quiet, with few people around.
“What’s there to walk for?” Belac demanded. “Just give me what you owe me. Now!”
The man stopped, which gave Rivera another opportunity to turn. He was relieved to see the two Cubans had moved quite a good deal closer. He said, “Don’t we have things to talk about?” and continued on.
The Belgian remained unmoving for a few seconds and then had to hurry to catch up. Rivera enjoyed having the other man running after him. How it had begun and how it was going to end, he reflected. It was very satisfying.
“What’s there to talk about?” Belac demanded, coming alongside.
For the first time Rivera caught a note of uncertainty in the man’s voice and decided he had to beware of it. Rivera had intended to humiliate Belac absolutely, openly letting the man know how he’d failed abysmally, in everything. But now he reconsidered. He couldn’t predict how Belac would react if taunted too far. Rivera refused to deprive himself completely, though. He deserved some triumph. It was quite dark now, and the cafés and shops had given way to canalside houses, so it was quieter, too. He knew it would only be a brief gap before more cafés and brighter lights near the next bridge. He said, “Debts, like you said. Value for money might be a better way of putting it.”
“You’re not making sense,” the Belgian said. His voice was frayed by further doubt.
There had to be the apparent exchange for the benefit of the following men. Rivera took the envelope from inside his jacket, completely concealed from behind but so that Belac could see it. The Belgian reached out, greedily, and at that moment, Rivera opened a space between them and turned, so the impression was of his receiving from the Belgian’s outstretched hand rather than offering it. Just as quickly he put it back and Belac said, “What the…!”
‘That was it,” Rivera said, refusing to stop, carrying the Belgian along with him. “That was the twelve million dollars you were owed, the twelve million you’re not going to get.”
“I warned you—” Belac started, but Rivera talked over him, hurriedly now, anxious to get it over because he could see the next bridge ahead, with its shops and restaurants.
“I know about your warnings. Like I know about those tanks.” Now Rivera stopped, turning to face the man, praying those behind would understand. “You tried to cheat me, Pierre,” he said quietly. “You loaded rubbish, shit, on that ship in San Diego and thought you’d °et the money before it was discovered. That’s what you did, didn’t you? You treated me like a fool.…” Enough, Rivera knew; he’d risked more than enough, unable to stop himself.
“No, listen …” Belac said, all the bombast gone now. “I didn’
t know. Don’t know …”
Where were they! Why weren’t they here! “Liar!” said Rivera, as loudly as he believed he dared risk. He saw them at last, from the corner of his eye, still yards away.
Belac seemed to become aware of them at the same moment. He snatched a look toward the men, then back at Rivera, and for a moment stood utterly still. Then he began to turn, toward the sanctuary of the bridge ahead, and was actually moving when Rivera stepped forward. It wasn’t in any way an attack upon the man—not as he was later to convince himself boastfully that it had been. He did nothing more than collide with the Belgian, but it impeded the man long enough for the Cubans to reach him.
Belac was bulge-eyed with terror, like a rabbit caught in the beam of a poacher’s torch. He whimpered, not able to make a proper cry, and started scrabbling beneath his coat. But they were on him now, not hitting the man or showing any weapons. They seemed merely to close around him, like people crushed together in a crowd.
Rivera stood watching, transfixed himself, until one of the men said, without looking at him, “Get out!”
It broke the mood, but only just. Rivera started toward the bridge but kept glancing back, wanting to see. Nothing appeared to be happening; they remained close together, almost comically so. But then the figure in the middle, Belac, slumped, but he didn’t fall because of the support of each man on either side. Just before Rivera got too far away to be able to distinguish what was happening, he thought he saw them moving toward the water’s edge.
Rivera just managed to regain his room at the Wolven straat pension. As soon as he was inside the locked door the emotion gripped him and he had to support himself from collapse by clutching a chair back. He crouched against it, rocking back and forth, but peculiarly glad it was happening now, before he confronted Mendez. It was just shock, he knew, shock that he hoped was being literally shaken out of him.
It took a long time for the sensation to subside, and when it did it left him aching. Cautiously he lowered himself into the chair but sat with his arms wrapped around his body, as if he were hugging himself in self-congratulation. Which, largely, he was. He’d succeeded! Somehow, miraculously, he’d avoided all the snares and all the potential hazards to rid himself of Belac. The familiar, comforting word presented itself: to be safe. Forever. There was a brief return of the shaking, at that awareness, but not so severe as before.
By the time Mendez returned, Rivera was quite recovered, contentedly waiting.
“You got the money?” the intelligence chief demanded at once.
“Knowing the boat had to come back to where it started, at Nieuwe Spiegel, it wasn’t such a good idea to concentrate three people aboard, was it?” said Rivera. He wasn’t dependent upon this supercilious whoremonger any longer; nor would he be, ever again. He wanted very quickly to relegate Mendez to the position he had held before, the clearly defined subordinate to the clearly defined superior. Mendez visibly flushed, and Rivera knew he had jabbed a nerve.
“Two were ashore just for that eventuality,” Mendez said defensively. “I asked about the money.”
“I heard you,” Rivera said. And stopped.
Mendez stared back, the redness increasing. Finally he said, “Well, do you have it?”
It had been incredibly fortunate—another miracle—that Mendez had been trapped aboard the boat and not involved in the ambush. “Yes,” Rivera said.
“I think I should see proof of its return,” the man insisted.
“Why?”
“There were two purposes in this operation,” said Mendez. “Recovering the money. Then dealing with Belac. I’m sure of one. Not the other.”
“I have told you the money has been returned,” said Rivera. “That is sufficient.”
“I may tell Havana that, upon your authority?” Mendez fought back, weakly.
“No you may not!” Rivera said at once. “You will tell Havana nothing in my name. Confine yourself to your own service and your own authority.”
The following morning Rivera expected to see the other men, but they did not appear, and he refused to give Mendez the satisfaction of asking. Their train to Paris, from where they were to fly to Madrid, did not leave until midday, so they were able to read all the newspapers. The most comprehensive account of Belac’s death appeared in Der Telegraph, the story newsworthy because the man had a .375 Magnum still in his shoulder holster and was identified as an arms dealer for whom two indictments were outstanding in the United States. A Commerce Department spokesman in Washington was quoted as saying Pierre Belac was a much-wanted criminal under other investigations at the time of his death. There was a further statement from an Amsterdam police spokesman. An autopsy was still to be carried out, but at that stage there was no evidence of foul play; the death appeared to be either an accident or suicide.
“How was it done?” Rivera asked.
Mendez sat regarding him and Rivera knew the man was debating whether to tell him. In the end Mendez said, “A concentrated gas, from a capsule gun. Forces the heart muscles to contract into the appearance of a heart attack. It dissipates completely from the body in minutes: nothing suspicious will show up during any postmortem examination.”
“Clever,” Rivera said.
“A Russian invention,” Mendez disclosed.
“Well, now!” Petty said. The U.S. indictments had automatically placed Pierre Belac’s name on the watch list of Interpol, the international police communication organization, so the death in Amsterdam and all its circumstances were relayed to Washington within hours of the body being dragged from the canal.
“Intriguing,” Erickson agreed. Getting in first with the question, he said, “What odds do you give on there being a Cuban connection?”
“No bet,” Petty said. “It’s an obvious thought, but people like Belac are mixed up in too many things.” He picked up and put down a pipe, unlighted. “I couldn’t give a shit how or why Pierre Belac died,” he went on. “What I am worried about is it spooking Rivera in some way.”
“I’ll signal Madrid for us to be told the moment the Cuban group gets in,” Erickson said.
“Wouldn’t that be a bastard, after all the effort that’s gone into it!” said the division chief bitterly.
“What about O’Farrell?”
“Nothing more than the local man’s confirmation that he’s arrived,” Petty said.
“Belac’s death is being publicly reported,” Erickson pointed out. “What if O’Farrell reads about it and gets spooked as well?”
Petty lighted up at last. His face obscured, he said, “I’d like something to be easy! Just once I’d like something to be fucking easy!”
THIRTY-THREE
BY INCREDIBLE coincidence O’Farrell witnessed Rivera’s arrival; saw the man through the car window, autocratically gazing straight ahead from his seal behind the chauffeur, a second escorting limousine tight behind. The barred gates of the embassy opened—presumably from some advance warning radioed from the car—and then snapped shut again, swallowing up the cavalcade like a devouring mouth.
O’Farrell strode on up the incline. A perfect target, he thought ironically; jnst what he needed, and hist what he had been searching for, for hours. Guided by the information he’d picked up at his own embassy. O’Farrell had on foot explored the conference hall approaches and the designated link roads and the ambassador’s official residence and finally this, the embassy itself. And there Rivera had been, impossible to miss. Not that he could have done anything, of course; exposed himself, making his arrest inevitable. How—or when—could he act, then? The conference area was impossible. It was already obvious that the security would be at its highest there, army units and police and militia moving themselves and their vehicles into position, all main and side roads cordoned off with crash barriers. The routes to and from the Cuban embassy and the official residence appeared out of the question, too; they were largely closed off by more crash barriers, and from the documents he’d collected from the U.S. embassy he knew
traffic lights and intersections were going to be police-controlled to enable all the delegates’ vehicles to travel at high speed.
At the top of the incline O’Farrell paused, hot from exertion, gazing back in the direction from which he’d come. It had to be here, somehow, he decided. Or at the residence. Both walled and both guarded, by Cuban as well as Spanish security. But possible, O’Farrell calculated, making his way back to the Calle de la Princesa through side roads to avoid passing by the embassy again. Just possible. And by virtue of that strict security.
The arrival and departure of each delegation was to be rigidly regulated, timed and distanced and ordered. And from the U.S. embassy guidance O’Farrell knew precisely when it was intended that Rivera should set out and return. The gate operation was extremely smooth, but the limousine had been forced to slow. Just possible, O’Farrell thought once more.
Technically, that is. He recognized that the biggest uncertainty remained himself. He wouldn’t get drunk this afternoon, not like he had last night, anesthetizing himself to what he had to do and how he felt about doing it. Had to force himself on, to perfect the planning. It would mean explosives again. In a car parked at the cross street he’d noted and isolated, just before Rivera’s limousine swept by. The side roads brought O’Farrell out very close to his hotel, and despite the earlier resolution he went unhurriedly to the bar, his mind busy. It definitely needed a car and explosives. But it wouldn’t be possible to activate the detonator by a preset clock, because there was no guarantee that the listed timings would be kept precisely to the second. He had to allow for a variable of up to five minutes. Which meant exploding the device himself, by electrical remote control, from some vantage point from which he could watch and wait until Rivera’s vehicle was in exactly the right position.
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