“How could I have completed the settlement!” Rivera demanded, every move worked out.
Belac’s confidence faltered. It couldn’t have been discovered already! The City of Athens had days at seat yet. Weeks even. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t think the payment account could remain open under the sort of investigation I was under, did you!”
A reasonable explanation, thought Belac. There was no friendliness in the ambassador’s voice, but then there never had been; friendship had not come into their association. But there was no suspicion, either. Which was the important thing. The fool still thought he was getting what he wanted; instead of which he was getting what he deserved. Belac grinned to himself, enjoying his play on words. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “How are you going to settle?”
“A letter of credit,” Rivera said smoothly.
“What’s wrong with another money transfer from a different account?”
“Any account with which I’m associated is too dangerous.” Rivera said. Referring to the American episode, he added. “I thought you were being very cautious.”
“Upon whose account is the letter of credit to be drawn?”
“Government,” Rivera said. “No traceable link with me at all.”
“I’m still keeping away from Brussels, away from anywhere the Americans might be looking,” Belac said. “I’ll give you an address—”
“It must be handed over personally,” Rivera said. Without having to be tricked into it, the Belgian had just resolved the one remaining obstacle. If there had been a risk of U.S. surveillance, he couldn’t have moved against the man.
“Why?” Belac demanded, instantly apprehensive.
“Think of it!” Rivera urged. “It’s a government letter of credit. Going to someone under American investigation, someone whose name is on official files. Think about the result of it being intercepted and discovered. Besides, it’s an openly negotiable document, and we’re not risking that to any postal service; the idea is absurd.”
It was, Belac conceded. But the prospect of a personal meeting meant further delay. He’d have to find out the whereabouts of that damned freighter. It wouldn’t be difficult; he knew the way. Belac said, “What chance do we have of a safe, unobserved meeting?”
“I’ll come to you. in Europe,” Rivera offered. “Out of England I shall only be escorted by people who know, people who will actually provide protection!” The retribution became sweeter by the minute; there was just a minimal distortion of the truth.
“Where?” Belac demanded. “And when?”
Rivera had expected far more objection—why not transmit the letter through a one-off bank transaction, for instance, a question for which he’d prepared an answer—and was surprised at Belac’s apparently easy acceptance. And then he remembered that the arms dealer was in a hurry, and why. Flatter the sow’s ass, Rivera thought. He said, “I’ve got an official reason to come to Europe. The place and the time can be your choice. I don’t need more than two or three days’ warning.”
Time enough to find out about die City of Athens, Belac calculated. The arms dealer, who was staying in a small commercial hotel on Amsterdam’s Rozen Straat, near die Prinsen Canal, lied and said, “I am still in Paris but I’m moving on. I haven’t definitely decided where. I could call you in four days; arrange everything then.”
“That sounds fine,” Rivera said. In those four days there was going to be a lot of highly classified traffic between London and Havana.
“But no longer than four days,” Belac stressed.
“Definitely not,” the ambassador agreed.
Rivera was glad that he’d been able to dine on the promised night with Jorge because it would have been impossible now. He wrote a very full report, a duplicate copy to go to the DGI general. The uselessness of the final cargo made sense of the assassination, he argued; it had been an attempt of his supplier to remove him, the one person who could have provided the man’s identity when the fraud was discovered. He had spoken to the man and become further convinced by his evasiveness. There had, of course, been no open admission; all the blame for the worthless tanks and missiles had been put upon the American nominee purchasers. But there had been a hurried agreement to refund the purchase price, so hurried that Rivera took that as further indication of guilt. During his London visit, Rivera wrote, DGI General Ramirez had indicated a course of action that Rivera considered appropriate; to that end, he had arranged a meeting between himself and the arms dealer, to recover the money and to provide the necessary identification to DGI personnel who would anyway be accompanying him to Europe. He was sending a duplicate of this message to the DGI for its formal approval and asked for that approval, if given, to be communicated direct to the intelligence rezidentura at his embassy. Rivera concluded by deeply regretting his choice of supplier.
The response was as swift as Rivera hoped it would be. There was complete acceptance of his explanation. And approval that the matter be resolved according to the DGI general’s suggestion. The rezidentura was being separately advised. He, Rivera, retained the absolute confidence of the government.
The same day Carlos Mendez, the embassy head of the Directión Generale de Inteligencia, sought an interview.
“I have been told there is an assignment,” he said. The man was pleased. He’d never liked being excluded from monitoring what the ambassador did.
“Yes,” Rivera agreed. There was no nervousness, no reluctance. about what was going to happen. He was going to be involved in killing a man, he thought. He felt nothing.
Lloyds of London is the largest ship insurance organization in the world and for that reason maintains a global record of every vessel’s movement and position. It is a record to which the public has access, as Belac knew from previous experience of switching ships around the oceans. It took only minutes to learn about the City of Athens. Its last reported position was four hundred miles west of Puerto Rico. Because the record is updated daily there was no reference remaining to the emergency stop at Cuba several days before.
He was safe, Belac decided; quite safe. All that remained was to find a convenient meeting place in Amsterdam.
Patrick entered the court hesitantly, slightly behind his attorney, as if he were seeking protection from the man who was, in fact, protectively big, a fat, overflowing figure who waddled rather than walked.
O’Farrell and Jill were already there, in their turn protectively flanking Ellen on either side. O’Farrell was intent—and dismayed—at Ellen’s reaction to her ex-husband. Until Patrick entered the court she had been closed-face, but at once she smiled, hopefully. Patrick stared back, stone-faced, dismissive.
O’Farrell switched his attention fully upon Patrick. The suit was polyester, too sharp and too bright, an odd shade of blue. The undulating black hair had deeper waves and was longer than O’Farrell remembered and shone from some hair preparation. There was a heavy gold band on the same wrist as an even heavier watch, which was also gold, and as O’Farrell watched the man sit down at a table with his fat attorney, a yellow-metaled medallion attached to a neck chain slipped through his shirt. O’Farrell’s contempt increased: more fucking gold than in Fort Knox, yet the man couldn’t maintain payments to his first wife and child.
The two lawyers looked across the courtroom at each other, Giles nodding to the other man, who nodded back. Giles leaned closely to O’Farrell and said, “His name is Gerry Pallister.”
“Good?” O’Farrell asked.
Giles smiled. “That’s what we’re going to find out, aren’t we?”