“I’ve got to be careful, like I told you,” Belac said. “I can’t risk the possibility that you might have been followed by the Americans, to get me.”
If only you knew, Rivera thought. He managed a definite sigh into the mouthpiece. “I wasn’t followed to Paris and I haven’t been followed here. What do you want, for Christ’s sake!”
“Not for you to lose your temper, for a start,” Belac said.
“I’m waiting,” Rivera said, refusing to be goaded.
“Don’t you think Amsterdam is a beautiful city?”
“Yes,” Rivera said flatly, accepting the fact that he had to go along with the other man.
“I’ve decided we should see it, you and I. The way the tourists see it, that is. There’s a canal-boat dock near where Nieuwe Spiegel Straat goes over the Keizers Canal. Make the six o’clock departure; we can see the city lit up for the night.”
“Yes,” Rivera said, shortly again. He’d tried to guess how Belac would stage the encounter, of course; a canal trip had never even entered his mind. It could hardly be more public, encapsulated with God knows how many others! It would definitely be impossible for Mendez—for any of them—to make a move against the man in surroundings like that! He said, “How long’s the trip?”
“Why’s that important?” Belac snapped back at once.
“No reason.” Rivera stumbled, regretting the careless question. He was finding it difficult to hold single, sensible thoughts; three or four words would come into his mind but then drift away, and others, unconnected, would get in the way when he tried to call them back.
“You in a hurry to keep another appointment?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Rivera said, retreating further. Please don’t let Mendez speak French, because this wasn’t forceful or demanding at all!
There was a silence from the other end of the line, so protracted that Rivera suddenly thought the other man had disconnected. He said, “Hello! You there!” and wished he hadn’t when Belac said. “Yes, I’m still here.”
“I’ll be at the dock at six o’clock,” Rivera said briskly, trying to recover.
“A little before six o’clock,” the other man stipulated. “It’s a popular trip this time of the year. Don’t want to find we can’t get on, do we?”
“A little before,” Rivera agreed.
They gathered around the café table, all of them listening in various attitudes of attention as Rivera set out the arrangements.
“Careful bastard,” Mendez said when the ambassador finished.
“Could be clever, too,” said one of the others.
“Nothing will be possible aboard a packed canal boat, will it?” Rivera said.
“It will still provide an identification,” Mendez reassured him. “That’s all that matters.”
Desperately Rivera wished that really were all that mattered; he’d never be able to spend any length of time with Belac—a few minutes even—without Belac demanding some sight of the money draft.
“These boats don’t let passengers off during the tour,” said one of the Cubans, showing the benefit of their extra day’s reconnaissance, but further unsettling Rivera. “So he’ll disembark at Nieuwe Spiegel, where he started.”
“Good area?” Mendez queried.
“Adequate,” the spokesman said. “I’ve known better.”
“We need to look at it in detail, now we’ve got a definite location,” Mendez said. “Divide into two pairs, positively no contact with each other. Tourist cover: cameras, travel bags, maps, stuff like that. I’ll split separately again.”
Rivera let the planning talk swirl around him. only half listening. There was so much that could go wrong! So many assumptions that could be mistakenly drawn. Why had he—Rivera stemmed the familiar demand, the mental whine of self-pity; it wasn’t a question to which he’d find any better answer than he had already. Rivera was aware of everyone except Mendez standing up from the table and brought his attention back to the group, but again, as on the previous night, there were no farewell gestures.
“There’s not a lot for you to do for a few hours,” Mendez said. “You might as well get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Rivera said. The sickness was in fact bubbling within him, threatening to erupt. He hoped he could control it.
“You all right?” Mendez asked solicitously. The concern was not for Rivera himself but for any difficulty arising in the part the ambassador had to play.
“I’m fine,” Rivera said, wishing he were.
He remained at the table after the other Cuban left, forcing another coffee upon himself to claim occupancy. After that he wandered without direction or awareness of his surroundings, occupied entirely in the self-justifying inward debate necessary to steel himself for what was to come. It shouldn’t be difficult pinpointing Belac for retribution, after what the bastard had done. Wrong to be nervous. Wrong to be frightened. Positively dangerous, in fact, because if he were frightened he’d make mistakes he couldn’t risk making. Fumble the supposed envelope exchange, to make Mendez curious maybe. Or worse, by his attitude, alert Belac that he was being targeted. Give the man the chance to escape. He couldn’t let that happen; it was inconceivable that Belac should escape. So he had to stay calm. Calm and controlled. Not difficult, he told himself again. Belac was a killer. The man had murdered Estelle; arranged it at least. Thrown Jorge into shock. And cheated. Or tried to cheat. Been caught, though. Now came the punishment. Not, actually, his decision. Havana’s decision. The correct one, of course. Belac deserved everything that was coming to him, everything and more.
It was a clock striking that brought Rivera out of himself: the sound, reminding him that time was important, not the hour itself, which he was too late to catch. He checked his own watch, saw it was a quarter past five, and stared around, with no idea where he was. The taxi driver spoke bad English but better French, although there was still some difficulty before the man properly understood the destination. Rivera rode on the edge of his seat, arm held so he could constantly see the time. He shouldn’t have left it so late! Stupid to have wandered so long and so far, without concentrating upon what he was doing! He should have—Stop it! he told himself. No panic. Plenty of time. Remain calm. Controlled.
It was past the half hour when they reached the landing stage, a well-organized tourist attraction with metal rails arranged to channel customers into an orderly line toward the tickets and the glass-roofed boats beyond. Except there was no line. A board promised a six o’clock departure, and as he entered the metaled walkway Rivera saw there was a boat already waiting. It appeared moderately filled, perhaps slightly less than half the seats occupied. Rivera purchased his ticket and had it punched at the gangway and bent forward to enter the viewing deck. It was entirely upon one level, benches and seats running the complete width apart from the aisle breaks. The glass canopy spanned from rail to rail, giving a panoramic view apart from the thin support ribs, which caused hardly any obstruction.
Mendez was in a rear seat, immediately inside the door, so that he had a full view of the observation area. 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.