O'Farrell's Law (41 page)

It was a clock striking that brought Rivera out of himself: the sound, reminding him that time was important, not the hour itself, which he was too late to catch. He checked his own watch, saw it was a quarter past five, and stared around, with no idea where he was. The taxi driver spoke bad English but better French, although there was still some difficulty before the man properly understood the destination. Rivera rode on the edge of his seat, arm held so he could constantly see the time. He shouldn't have left it so late! Stupid to have wandered so long and so far, without concentrating upon what he was doing! He should have—Stop it! he told himself. No panic. Plenty of time. Remain calm. Controlled.

It was past the half hour when they reached the landing stage, a well-organized tourist attraction with metal rails arranged to channel customers into an orderly line toward the tickets and the glass-roofed boats beyond. Except there was no line. A board promised a six o'clock departure, and as he entered the metaled walkway Rivera saw there was a boat already waiting. It appeared moderately filled, perhaps slightly less than half the seats occupied. Rivera purchased his ticket and had it punched at the gangway and bent forward to enter the viewing deck. It was entirely upon one level, benches and seats running the complete width apart from the aisle breaks. The glass canopy spanned from rail to rail, giving a panoramic view apart from the thin support ribs, which caused hardly any obstruction.

Mendez was in a rear seat, immediately inside the door, so that he had a full view of the observation area. Another Cuban whom Rivera recognized was three rows ahead, on the same side. A second was much nearer the front.

Rivera edged forward to a seat five rows short of the leading Cuban, liking the layout of the boat. He put his coat down to reserve the seat beside him. Any conversation or exchange between himself and Belac would be more difficult for the others to monitor than he'd imagined!

“It was good of you to reserve me a seat.”

Belac spoke in French, taking his lead from that morning's conversation. He was hatless but wore a light raincoat and carried a tourist map. Rivera nodded his head and moved his coat. Belac sat without removing his.

“I watched you arrive,” the arms dealer said.

“By myself,” Rivera said. Was his feeling revulsion? Or fear? Revulsion, he assured himself. He had nothing to fear from this man.

“It would seem so.”

“How long are you going on like this, dodging around Europe?” Rivera asked.

“For a while yet,” Belac confided. “I know the system. At the moment they're trying to make a case for another indictment. So they want to know where I am, hoping to lure me somewhere to be arrested. The search will slacken off when someone else becomes more important.”

“You're certainly very careful.”

“Didn't I tell you I was when we first met?”

“I don't remember,” Rivera said. “Maybe.”

“What happened to your wife was terrible,” Belac said almost formally. “You have my sympathy.”

How could he do it! Rivera thought, incredulous; how could Belac sit there and parrot the words when he'd been the instigator! There wasn't the nervousness he'd feared; no threatening sickness, either. Rivera decided it was going to be easy leading this man to his destruction. He said, “Thank you.” His voice was calm, controlled, just like it was supposed to be.

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.