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 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 cafes and shops had given way to canalside houses, so it was quieter, too. He knew it would only be a brief gap before more cafes and brighter lights near the next bridge. He said, “Debts, like you said. Value for money might be a better way of putting it.”
