a professional. He supported the body, fired a last shot into the neck, and with an upward motion, edged the corpse over the railing into the canal below.
What diflerence does it make?
None at all. Not any longer.
Scofield turned away and walked toward the east side of the bridge. He put the automatic in his pocket; it seemed heavy.
He could hear racing footsteps drawing neater through the rain. He was terribly tired and did not want to hear them. Any more than he wanted to hear Harry's abrasive voice.
"Bray, what the hell happened back there? He nearly got away!" "But he didn't," said Scofield, walking faster. "You made sure of that." "You're damn right I did! For Christ's sake, what's wrong with you?" The younger man was on Bray's left; his eyes dropped to Scofield's hand. He could see the edge of the watertight case. "Jesus! You never planted it!" "What?" Then Bray realized what Harry was talking about. He raised his head, looked at the small round receptacle, then threw it past the younger man over the railing.
"What are you doing?" "Go to hell," said Scofield quietly.
Harry stopped, Bray did not. In seconds, Harry caught up and grabbed the edge of Scofield's raincoat. "Christ Almighty! You let him get away!" "Take your hands off me." "No, damn it! You can't---" It was as far as Harry got. Bray shot his right hand up, his fingers clasping the younger man's exposed thumb, and yanked it counterclockwise.
Harry screamed; his thumb was broken.
"Go to hell," repeated Scofield. He continued walking off the bridge.
The safe-bouse was near the Rosengracht, the meeting to take place on the second floor. The sitting room was warmed by a fire, which also served to destroy any notes that might be taken. A State Department official had flown in from Washington; he wanted to question Scofield at the scene, as it were, in the event there were circumstances that only the scene could provide. It was important to understand what had happened, especially with someone like Brandon Scofield. He was the best there was, the coldest they had; he was an extraordinary asset to the American intelligence community, a veteran of twenty-two years of the most complicated "negotiations" one could imagine. He had to be handled with care... at the source. Not ordered back on the strength of a departmental complaint filed by a subordinate. He was a specialist, and something had happened.
Bray understood this and the arrangements amused him. Harry was taken out of Amsterdam the next morning in such a way that there was no chance of Scofield seeing him. Among the few at the embassy who had to be aware of the incident, Bray was treated as though nothing had taken place. He was told to take a few days off; a man was flying in from Washington to discuss a problem in Prague. That's what the cipher said. Wasn't Prague an old hunting ground of his?
Cover, of course. And not a very good one. Scofield knew that his every move in Amsterdam was now being watched, probably by teams of Company men.
And if he had walked to the diamond exchange on the Tolstraat, he undoubtedly would have been shot.
He was admitted into the safe-house by a nondescript maid of indeterminate age, a servant convinced that the old house belonged to the retired couple who lived there and paid her. He said he had an appointment with the owner and his attorney. The maid nodded and showed him up the stairs to the second-floor sitting room.
The old gentleman was there but not the man from State. When the maid closed the door, the owner spoke.
"I'll wait a few minutes and then go back up to my apartment. If you need anything, press the button on the telephone; it rings upstairs." "Thanks," said Scofield, looking at the Dutchman, reminded of another old man on a bridge. "My associate should be along shortly. We won't need anything." The man nodded and left. Bray wandered about the room, absently fingering the books on the shelves. It occurred to him that he wasn't even trying to read the titles; actually he didn't see them. And then it struck him that he didn't feel anything, neither cold nor heat, not even anger or resignation. He didn't feel anything. He was somewhere in a cloud of vapor, numbed, all senses dormant. He won- dered what he would say to the man who had flown thirtyfive hundred miles to see him.