“With luck,” Hoover qualified.
Belac rented another car, a Pontiac compact, under a false name this time, and drove it to San Jose to check the Lincoln Continental again. He waited in the mall almost an hour, until he was sure, and this time opened the vehicle and hid the ignition key beneath the mat on the driver’s side.
Back in the Pontiac, Belac continued on down Route 208 and detoured to drive past Shepherd Industries, imprinting the layout in his mind. He knew there would be another opportunity on the return journey. At San Francisco airport, he found three internal flights—no need for passports—all leaving within an hour of each other the following afternoon. Constantly aware of the money he was spending. Belac bought tickets for each, to Phoenix, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas, from three different clerks. If he were taking unnecessary precautions, at least he could recover his money, Belac thought, driving northward again.
He went slowly by Shepherd Industries again, checking his initial impression, and got back to Milpitas by midafternoon. From the parking-lot pay phone, he made a reservation for the following day under his proper name at the Mark Hopkins hotel because he remembered it from his meeting with Herbeck. Afterward, still at the telephone, he wondered how the consultant would react to his approach when he made it. It was a good feeling to be the manipulator instead of being manipulated, Belac decided. Irrationally he began blaming Rivera for all the trouble he was having and pulled his mouth back into his ugly smile as the idea came to him: the Cuban would have to pay. It would be enjoyable, ensuring that the man did. The decision cheered him.
Back in his motel room Belac slumped in the only easy chair, a displaced spring driving itself uncomfortably into his leg, reviewing every precaution he had taken and trying to think of anything he had overlooked. There was nothing, he decided. It was going to be a long evening.
Morrison and Hoover imagined the same thing until the call came for them, in Hoover’s office.
“Seattle!” Morrison yelled to the Customs man, the telephone still cradled at his ear. Morrison outstretched his free hand, commanding silence while he listened. He was beaming when he replaced the receiver. “Came in on an Air Canada flight from Toronto three days ago under his own name. Immigration identified his photograph, but he must have used one of his Mickey Mouse passports.” The FBI man paused, looking at Hoover. “Well?” he demanded. “Still doubtful now?”
“I guess not,” Hoover conceded.
NINETEEN
AT THE first attempt Belac got an answering machine and paced nervously up and down in front of the booth, counting the minutes, keeping the relief from his voice when he got Herbeck’s secretary at the second attempt and was connected immediately to the consultant.
“I think I’d like us to work together,” Belac announced. He went along with the small talk about what a worthwhile relationship the other man knew it was going to be and the benefits that were going to result for both of them, before cutting in with his demands. Herbeck listened without interruption but repeated the important details when Belac finished.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this,” Belac said. “But there’s no way I can get up from Los Angeles in time and I want the appointment kept.”
“I understand,” Herbeck said. “But you’ll be here by this afternoon?”
“Three at the outside. I’ve got a reservation at the Mark Hopkins. I’ll call from there.”
“What time do you think you could get to Shepherd Industries?”
“Four-thirty. Stress that I want the meeting today, if he can possibly manage it.”
“I’ll fix it,” the American promised.
“It’s an imposition, before we’ve really started working together. I know that,” Belac said.
Herbeck took the opening. “We only talked around the relationship.”
“Your suggestion is fine by me,” Belac said.
“With expenses?”
“Naturally,” Belac said. “We’ll settle it all contractually this afternoon, when I get up.”
The urge to arrive early at the back road from which he had a view of Shepherd Industries was very strong, but Belac resisted it, knowing that a car stationary for too long a time would attract attention. Still, he checked out early and drove along 208, from near the factory to the airport; the journey took within five minutes of what it had taken him the previous day. He considered a late breakfast but decided to save the money, reckoning that he could safely return to the factory complex now.
When Belac reached the back road, he spotted the vehicles at once. They would have been concealed from the normal approach but from his position he could see them and their occupants clearly; two of the vans even had the heavy-duty aerials for radio equipment. Belac refused to panic, remaining where he was and picking out the Lincoln Continental the moment it turned into the approach road.
Herbeck parked it neatly within the painted lines of the designated area and considerately locked it. The men assembled around the sprawled building moved as soon as Herbeck entered it, as if one were linked to the other, motivating them into action. There were men running on foot as well as vehicles swarming to seal the building off. From a place he could not see earlier came two small-windowed armored vehicles.
Belac was exactly a mile down the highway by the time Herbeck finished his explanation to Shepherd and the listening Hoover and Morrison burst into Shepherd’s office from the anteroom. Morrison was beside himself with fury, swearing and yelling so much in the first few minutes that he was unintelligible. He yelled at Herbeck to tell him everything, from the beginning, but quickly, and before the man finished, another FBI officer had confirmed that the Lincoln had been rented in Belac’s name and that there was a waiting reservation at the Mark Hopkins.
“We’ve got to stake it out. I know it’s a waste of time and that the fucker has snowed us again, but we’ve got to stake it out.…” More controlled now, he beckoned other agents, to include them in the conversation with Hoover. “Let’s go for the international departures. He came in through Canada, so let’s second-guess he’ll go out that way, too.”
The electronics expert emerged from the anteroom and said, “I was here until nine last night; this room is like a film studio! You telling me it’s all wasted?”
“Every goddamned bit of it,” Hoover said bitterly.
Shepherd moved awkwardly from behind his desk, restricted by the equipment strapped to his body. To the electronics man, he said, “Get me out of this crap, will you?”
The industrialist stood with his shirt undone to the waist, feeling foolish as the wires were released. He said to Morrison, “I did everything you asked. We had a deal.”
Morrison wheeled on the man, as if he had forgotten him, his face white and tight with fury. “Time you listened to the words, Mr. Shepherd,” he said. “I told you we had a deal when Belac was in the bag. He ain’t in any bag.”
“That’s no fault of mine!”
“You know what I think, Mr Shepherd? I think we’d better have a closer look at your whole operation here. Make sure everything is kosher. You get the idea?”
Belac had taken the Phoenix flight. He spent the entire journey tensed for any sudden interest from the crew and was wet with apprehension on arrival, but there was no check at the debarkation gate. He moved on immediately, waiting only an hour for a flight to Mexico City, where for the first time he felt able to relax. From Mexico he picked up the overnight service to Madrid, where he rested properly before moving on to Paris.
He’d thought everything out by the time he reached France. He’d lived well, by his own frugal standards, and successfully even with two American indictments outstanding against him. And he could continue to do so in the future, providing he did not again attempt to enter the United States. For the moment, maybe for a long time until he built up the proper connections, he’d better stay away from American hi-tech, which was distressing because it was most profitable.
If the Americans were investigating him and the VAX order, which they clearly were, then they had to know of Rivera. Belac wished he could say nothing and let the bastard sink in whatever morass he was in. But there was
