O'Farrell's Law (12 page)

O'Farrell had the mental image of little Billy playing space games in the Chicago cafe. And then remembered something else.
I think they ought to kill the bastards! Make it a capital offense and execute them; no appeal, no excuse, nothing. Dead!
Jill's outburst that day in Ellen's kitchen: the dear, sweet, gentle Jill he didn't believe capable of killing anything, not even a bug. He said, “There can't be a federal agency in this city not connected in some way with drug interdiction.” It was not an obvious attempt at avoidance. The rules were very clear, very specific: he—and these two men walking either side of him—only became involved when every legal possibility had been considered and positively discarded.

“They would if they could,” Petty said. He stopped and the other two had to stop with him while he cupped his hand around his pipe bowl to relight it: briefly he was lost in a cloud of smoke. “It's being done diplomatically,” he resumed. “After the initial delivery in Havana, it's all moved through diplomatic channels. Nothing we can do to intercept or stop it.”

“Moved everywhere,” said Erickson. “Europe, then back to here, according to one source.”

“Who is?” O'Farrell demanded at once. Another clear and specific rule was that he was allowed access to everything—and everyone, if he deemed it necessary—connected with an operation, to assure himself personally of its validity. Increasingly over the years, he had come to regard what he'd initially considered a concession to his judgment to be instead a further way for the CIA to distance itself from the section.

“Supply pilot,” Petty said. “Got caught up in a storm. An AWAC zeroed in on him and some of our guys forced him to land in Florida.”

They came to a bench near a flowered area and Petty slumped onto it, bringing the other two down with him; the section leader's self-consciousness about his size meant he sat with his head hanging forward, almost as if he were asleep.

“This is just the spot on July Fourth,” Erickson said. “Fantastic view of the fireworks. You ever been here on July Fourth?”

“Yes,” O'Farrell said. Ellen must have been around eleven, John a year younger. He wondered why they'd never brought the grandchildren; he'd have to suggest it to Jill. “Why's he talking?”

Erickson snickered. “The plane was packed with almost half a ton of coke, ninety-two percent purity, that's why he's talking. He wants a deal.”

“He going to get it?” Letting the guilty escape justice in return for their informing on others was a fact of American jurisprudence with which O'Farrell could never fully become reconciled. It made it too easy for too many to escape. His hands were stretched in front of him. one on each leg; very calm, very controlled. They really could have been talking about the weather or the July Fourth fireworks.

“It's a Customs bust, not our responsibility,” said Erickson.

What, precisely, was their responsibility? O'Farrell wondered. He couldn't imagine it ever having been defined, within parameters. Well, maybe somewhere, buried in some atom-bomb shelter and embargoed against publication for the next million years. “Which means the bastard might!”

The moment O'Farrell had spoken, he snapped his mouth shut, as if he were trying to bite the remark back, abruptly conscious of both men frowning sideways at him.

Petty said, “You got any personal feelings about this?”

Nothing is personal; never can be. If it becomes personal, withdraw and abort. The inviolable instructions. Always. O'Farrell said, “Of course not! How could I?”

“You seemed to be expressing a point of view,” Petty pressed.

“Isn't a person allowed a point of view about drugs?”

“We comply, we don't opinionate,” Erickson said.

The logic, like the word choice, was screwed, O'Farrell thought. How could they do what they had to do—but much more importantly, how could
he
do what he was required to do—without coming to any opinion. It was the same as concluding a judgment, wasn't it?

“Just as long as it isn't a problem,” Petty said, almost glibly.

“The courier isn't who we're talking about,” Erickson added.

“Who then?” O'Farrell was glad to escape the pressure. Still no shake, though; no problem. He felt the twinge of a headache. Not the booze; goddamned sun, blazing in his face like this.

“The ambassador in London. Guy named Rivera. Glossy son of a bitch.” Petty began to cough and tapped the pipe out against the edge of the bench. “Doctor says I shouldn't do this.”

The dottle made a breeze-blown, scattered mess and it didn't smell perfumed anymore. O'Farrell found it easy to understand why pipe smoking was banned in practically every public place: it was a filthy, antisocial habit. He said, “What about the arms supplier?”

“The FBI can get him,” Erickson said. “They're setting up a scam to get him within American jurisdiction. Then … snap!” The man slapped his hands together sharply, a strangely demonstrative gesture, and O'Farrell jumped, surprised. He wished he hadn't.

“London's the target then?” He looked from one man to the other. Neither spoke. Petty gave the briefest of affirmative nods. Arguably deniable, if the shit hit the fan, thought O'Farrell. “There's a file?”

“Of course,” Petty said.

“What's the time frame?”

“Linked to a move against die supplier,” Erickson said.

“I need to be sure.”

“The usual understanding,” Petty agreed at once.

First one, then the other, recognized O'Farrell. Like a vaudeville act. Except that this wasn't the sort of act to raise a laugh. Deniable again. Brought before any subsequent inquiry, each, quite honestly and without the risk of perjury, could deny a chain of command or instruction.
I may have said this, but I categorically deny saying that. No, sir, I cannot imagine how the impression could have been conveyed for this man to believe he was operating under any sort of official instruction. Yes sir, I agree that such an impression is impossible. Yes sir, I agree that the concept of taking the life of another without that person having been found guilty by a properly appointed court of law is inconceivable. No sir, I did not at any time.…
Was that another fear, O'Farrell wondered urgently, that he was so completely exposed, without being guaranteed—no, not even guaranteed—without any official backing in what he unofficially did for his country? Close, he thought; not a complete explanation but coming close. He said, “If the arms dealer is caught, then surely the ambassador, Rivera, will be publicly implicated?” Again it was not an obvious attempt at avoidance; rather the question of a professional properly examining what he was being called upon to do, examining all the angles, all the pitfalls.

“Of course,” Petty said, glib again. “But so what! There can be a denial from Havana. He'll invoke diplomatic immunity. And go on trafficking.”

“So what about the coincidence of something happening to Rivera at the same time as the arms dealer is busted?” O'Farrell persisted.

“Examples—and benefits—to everyone!” Erickson said, embarking again on their vaudeville act.

“All the innocents, on the outside, imagine some sort of feud between the two,” Petty began.

“… thieves falling out,” said the other man.

“… Cuba privately gets the warning it deserves,” mouthed the section chief.

“… and so do all the other arms suppliers, against becoming involved again.”

“… all the angles covered …”

“… all the holes blocked …”

“… discreet …”

“… effective …”

Petty smiled, the star of the show, confident of another consummate display. “How we always like to be,” he said in conclusion. “Discreetly effective.”

It
was
a virtuoso performance, O'Farrell conceded. He wished he were able to admire it more. “Anyone else involved?”

“Peripheral people … shippers, stuff like that,” said Erickson. “They'll get the same private message.”

“England is pretty efficiently policed,” O'Farrell pointed out. More than any other country in which he had so far operated, he acknowledged to himself for the first time.

“We accept that,” Petty said, rising up on the verbal seesaw again.

“Usual understanding,” Erickson descended.

“… Yours is always the right …”

“… to refuse …”

Now! thought O'Farrell. Now was the moment, the agreed-upon, accepted moment, when he was allowed to decline. Before he became irrevocably committed by that one further step, going forward to access the topmost classified files, after which there was no retreat, no escape. Easily done, supposedly. No requirement for an explanation or reason. He'd immediately come under suspicious scrutiny, he guessed; practically tantamount to resigning. Wasn't that precisely what he wanted, to resign! Just continue with a recognized official job? The halt came with the continuing thought: a recognized official job with a recognized official salary, to which his pension would be linked. Couldn't afford that now, not while he was helping Ellen and John. Blood money, he thought; bounty hunter. He said, “I'd like to interview the pilot first.”

The men on either side smiled, and Petty nodded at the acceptance. The section chief said, “It's a very necessary operation.”

They wouldn't be sitting here in the blinding sunlight if it hadn't already been judged that, O'Farrell thought, irritably; so why the apparent justification? “Where is all the documentation?”

“At the Lafayette office,” said Erickson.

“I'll look that over afterward.”

“The pilot is being held in Tallahassee; name's Rodgers, Paul Rodgers.”

“Be careful,” Erickson said.

O'Farrell turned to look directly at the man, genuinely astonished.

Erickson appeared embarrassed, too. He lifted and dropped his hands in a meaningless gesture and said, “It's never easy,” which was neither an apology nor an improvement.

“Is there anything else?” O'Farrell asked curtly.

“In London … anywhere else you have to go … you'll keep in touch through the embassy's CIA channels,” Petty said.

Why did they keep on saying things that were routine! Careful, O'Farrell thought; it would be wrong to overreact and read into remarks significance that was not there. Routine or not, they had to be said. There could be no misunderstanding or mistake. “Of course,” he said.

“And we'll pouch anything technical you need in the diplomatic bag,” Erickson said.

Just like Cuba pouched its cocaine, thought O'Farrell; things to kill with, one way or the other. He stood, looking down at the two seated men. “I wonder if it really will be taken as a warning?”

“That's the message,” Petty said. “It'll be heard, believe me.”

The two remained on the bench, watching O'Farrell walk back toward Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Well?” Petty asked.

Erickson made an uncertain rocking motion with his hand. “Okay, I think.”

“Symmons isn't often wrong.”

“There's always a first time.”

“There can't ever be a first time.”

“Sorry,” Erickson apologized. “Figure of speech. Sorry about telling him to be careful, too. That was stupid of me.”

“Yes,” Petty said, unforgiving. “It was. Very stupid. Did you smell booze on his breath?”

“Before noon! You've got to be kidding!”

“That's why I put the pipe out, to be sure.”

“Were you?”

“Pretty sure.”

“I didn't get it myself; I would have expected to.”

“Yes,” Petty agreed. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“That final remark was interesting,” the deputy suggested.

“About being taken as a warning?”

Erickson nodded. “You think that indicated any doubt, about the validity of what he does?”

“It sometimes happens. I would have thought he was pretty straight about the morality, though.”

“There was a sharp reaction when he heard drugs were involved,” Erickson said. “His kids ever get mixed up with any shit?”

Unknown to O'Farrell—although suspected by him because it was obvious—everything in his background and family had been examined by the Agency. Petty shook his head. “Squeaky clean, both of them.”

“Maybe just a natural response to narcotics.”

“I think we should take precautions.” Petty decided.

“More than usual?” There was always surveillance.

Petty nodded. “Just to cover ourselves.”

“Probably wise,” Erickson concurred.

“You were right,” Petty announced.

“Right?”

“It's a great day to sit in the sun.”

That night O'Farrell deliberately made three full martinis, which he drank unseen in the den, and he insisted upon opening the Napa Valley wine to drink with the steaks. Jill only had one glass and O'Farrell limited himself to two, wanting to prove to her—and to himself—that he could leave some in the bottle for another occasion.

He took her abruptly in bed, without any foreplay, and she was obviously startled and then responded, and it was good for both of them.

Afterward she said, “That was practically rape!”

“I'm sorry.”

“I didn't say I minded.”

“I might have to go away for a while.”

“Where?”

“Something to check out down south first. Then Europe, possibly.”

“How long?”

“I don't know.” As quickly as possible, he thought. Get it over with.

“I've got some time coming,” said Jill. “I might go up to Chicago.”

“Why don't you do that?”

“I'm glad that thing with drugs at Billy's school was a false alarm.”

“So am I, if it really were a false alarm.”