The warmth of the day, and their sitting inside rather than out in the air, could account for the perspiration bubbling on his upper lip, Rivera decided. He said, “What about me reason for their being here at all? And what they have to do? Do they know I have to recover something, before they move?”
“They’ve been told Belac has cheated us, severely. But not how. Nothing at all about arms shipments. And nothing. either, about Belac’s part in what happened”—Mendez hesitated, considerately—“what happened in London.”
Nothing about the money! Rivera thought hopefully. Nothing, that is, providing Mendez were telling the truth. He said, “Will our meeting be today?”
“Tonight,” Mendez disclosed. He pushed a slip of paper across the table between them. Written on it was the address of a restaurant on Rapenburgerstratt. “There is a private dining room at the rear. Meet me there at seven.”
An order instead of a request, Rivera thought. “Where are you going to be until then?”
“Making contact,” Mendez said dismissively. “I’d like you to go back to Wolvenstraat and stay there, until it’s time to meet. And don’t shop on your way back, buy a gift or a souvenir for Jorge, for instance. There must be no visible record of your ever having been here.”
Rivera did exactly what he was told. Back at Wolvenstraat he stood at the window of his room, staring out at the tree-lined street, watching the early buildup of the rush-hour traffic. After that he sat in the only easy chair until he became bored, which was very quickly, so he went back to the window again. The traffic was heavier, a line stretching back from what he assumed to be a canal bridge.
Because of him—at his instigation—a man was going to die in a few hours, Rivera thought. It was an unreal feeling, now that the moment was almost here; difficult to rationalize. There was no guilt; no doubt, either. What then? He didn’t want to be part of it, not this close a part; he was a diplomat, not a thug. It made him feel dirty, like he’d felt in the German hotel. He was sweating again, too. Dear God, how glad he’d be when it was all over. Not just this. The ambassadorship and the London embassy and arms purchases: everything.
The run of thoughts led him back to the last evening with Jorge. The totally unexpected reference to Estelle was important. It had been more than reference, in fact: a normal conversation. Rivera was relieved. He took it to mean that the shock, the need to block every memory out, was easing at last. He wouldn’t remark about it, of course. He’d continue letting Jorge set the pace. Rivera thought it was important, too, that Jorge wanted to go to Paris for his vacation, knowing it was to be their new home. Perhaps it wouldn’t be boring for the boy to house-hunt. Perhaps that’s what Jorge wanted, a decisive break from a house and from a city that held so much horror for him. Just as he wanted a decisive break. Rivera couldn’t think of anything he wanted to retain from his time in London, apart from his polo. He’d have to put some serious thought to that. Choose the appropriately prestigious club to approach, get the right sort of stabling for the ponies, ship them across well in advance of the season. He didn’t want to enter a new club with animals that were below form, unsettled by their trip.
Rivera became claustrophobic long before the scheduled meeting and impulsively set out to walk to Rapenburgerstraat. Obedient to Mendez’s warnings not to buy anything, Rivera had no street map, but he found a public one on the side of a tourist stand near the canal bridge. It took him several minutes to locate the street he wanted; it seemed to be a long way away. He began walking purposefully, enjoying being out in the open again despite the onset of the evening’s chill, the canal a marker to guide him. Paris would be the place for shopping; Paris would be the place for many things.
Rapenburgerstraat did appear to be a long way away, a much greater distance than he’d calculated from the map. He was beginning to feel the effort of unaccustomed walking and abruptly remembered Mendez’s further remark about a chance sighting by Belac. He looked almost nervously around for a taxi, relieved when he saw one near the Amstel Bridge.
The traffic had eased by now, so Rivera arrived early at the restaurant. For a few moments he remained uncertainly on the pavement, feeling it would be a mistake to enter the private dining room early, to appear in the role of receiving the others. Instead, on the spur of the moment, he posed himself a personal, private test. There was a tree-shadowed bench just past the junction with the main road. Disregarding the chill, Rivera sat there, in the growing dusk, concentrating absolutely on the brightly lighted restaurant entrance, a Cuban sure he could identify other Cubans as they arrived. He remained there for half an hour, until 7:15, without picking out anyone. The panic was quick to grow. He had the name of the restaurant written on a piece of paper (have to destroy it later) so he couldn’t be mistaken. Where were they, then! Had something happened, to make it necessary for everything to be changed? What possibly could have happened, at this early stage? Nothing, Rivera thought, grasping for reassurance. Mendez had known where he was, until the last hour at least. The man could have telephoned if there’d been any change. Unless … Rivera stopped, his nervousness running ahead of his conjecture, unable to think unless what.
There was an obvious way to find out.
He hurried across the street and entered the restaurant. It was a huge, cavernous place so brightly lighted it made him squint, with all the tables jammed close together. It was already full, because the Dutch habitually eat early, and loud from the clatter of plates and bottles and glasses and the babble of everyone talking and laughing at once. The reservation desk was just inside the door, in front of a zinc-topped bar that stretched the entire length of the right-hand wall. A large section of that was given over to food, too, with most of the stools already occupied.
Rivera was waved cursorily toward the rear and had to ask again before finding his way to the private room. Outside its door he hesitated, unsure whether to knock and then angrily dismissing the doubt. He entered without any warning but stopped again, just inside.
An oval table, set for dinner, stood at the far side of the room. It had only one vacant place, at the very end. Mendez sat at the other end, the top, clearly in command. There were four other men, two of whom appeared to have stood hurriedly at the sudden opening of the door. All were completely nondescript, bland-suited, blank-faced. Rivera was sure none of them had entered while he’d watched from outside. He hadn’t seen Mendez, either. It didn’t matter. It had been a ridiculous, meaningless test.
An intricately carved Dutch dresser dominated the wall to Rivera’s left. It was stocked with bottles, wine as well as liquor. Also displayed were salads and cheeses and cold meats. Being kept hot on a hot plate were four covered serving dishes.
“We were wondering where you were,” said Mendez. “We’ve been waiting for you. To eat and to talk.”
There was an obvious rebuke in the man’s voice. Rivera said, “I’m sorry,” feeling he had to, but wishing it were avoidable.
There were no introductions and none of the men appeared the slightest bit interested in him. Mendez indicated the place at the far end of the table but at least poured Rivera’s wine. At the intelligence chief’s suggestion they served themselves food—Rivera declining anything. The talk quickly became a monologue, from Mendez. Rivera inferred as the man spoke that unlike himself and Mendez the four nameless men had flown directly into Amsterdam to spend time becoming familiar with the city’s geography. Whenever Rivera’s function entered the explanation. Mendez always referred to the ambassador as “him,” never once using a name or title.
“Have you done anything about the telephone number he gave?” asked a man to Rivera’s right.