O'Farrell's Law

“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