O'Farrell's Law (21 page)

For a long time after they entered, O'Farrell remained undecided in- the rental car, his reluctance to enter after them shaking through him, so that he actually cupped one hand over the other for control. Eventually he did go in, declining a table but sitting at the bar, where he risked a martini, which was surprisingly good.

Rivera was maybe ten feet away. All the words like “glossy” and “smooth” and “hotshot” applied to the man, O'Farrell decided. The woman was very beautiful and the kid polite and attentive, but it didn't appear a particularly happy trio. It was a brief speculation because O'Farrell's professional concentration was upon Rivera. The man's movements
were
languid, as they had seemed in the photographs: very self-assured, expecting every attention without having to ask, but interestingly not bothering at all with his surroundings. Not someone who felt in any personal danger, then.

O'Farrell ordered a second drink, assuring himself it was necessary for the observation he was conducting, remaining for a further thirty minutes without adding anything to his impressions of the ambassador. The shaking threatened him again, and so he left, getting to Hampstead ahead of them, intent upon what he'd first come to the house to discover. There was no barking, and no guards appeared, when the family returned, no hesitation when the woman entered first to indicate the switching off of any alarm system. For a full ten minutes Rivera stood clearly identifiable in the brightly lighted garage, showing something very large and wrapped to the boy before the two followed the woman into the house. As he watched, O'Farrell established the time sequence of the police foot patrols, two men who paid no particular attention to the ambassador's residence.

The surveillance had been worthwhile, O'Farrell decided as he was driving away. Difficult though it was to believe, it seemed that Rivera had no security precautions or alarms at all at the house.

O'Farrell took a wrong turn on his way back but was unworried, knowing the names of the central districts by now and using them as a guide until he recognized the streets again. He joined a road he knew and saw an off-license on the corner. He made a decision, stopping the car and going in. Gin would require mixes and create too bulky a package, he decided. So he bought brandy.

At the guest house he rinsed out the bathroom glass and poured himself a measure, needing it. The liquor warmed through him, relaxing, and the twitch from his hands diminished at last. O'Farrell lay on the top of the bed, reviewing the evening. He could have done it tonight. Without any specially adapted rifle he could have dropped Rivera as he was silhouetted in that garage, so obvious a target that he could probably have gotten in a second shot before the man hit the ground.

In front of the boy.

In his imagination Rivera seemed to fade into a hazy, indistinct outline, but O'Farrell could remember everything about the child's features and appearance and mannerisms. Older than Billy, obviously, and certainly more sophisticated even for his age, but still a kid. A kid whose father he was assigned to kill, could have killed that night, right in front of him.
Stuff that makes you feel funny
, O'Farrell thought, clinging to a litany. Millions in a Swiss bank. Unquestionably guilty, arms for drugs, drugs for arms.

O'Farrell slopped more brandy into his glass, blinking to clear the picture of the child from his mind. Never like this before. Never seen the victim with his family, doing something as natural as eating dinner. Talking. Being normal. Looking normal. It might have been a constructive, worthwhile evening, but he wished to hell he hadn't gone, just the same. He didn't want to know the kid and the woman. He wanted to remain aloof and impersonal, and he didn't feel that anymore. He'd always know, now, know what the boy looked like and the woman, able to picture them in black, grieving, weeping.

He added to his glass again, waiting for the drink to anesthetize him, but nothing happened, not even drunkenness.

“How much longer is this going to go on, for Christ's sake!” Wentworth protested, outside in the observation car.

“Until we're told to stop, I guess,” Connors said.

“I don't like watching one of our own guys.”

“You could always quit and become a school crossing guard.”

SIXTEEN

O'F
ARRELL FELT
terrible when he awoke, not needing to feign continuing sleep to check his surroundings. The slightest movement was agony. He was sick the moment he reached the closet-bathroom, dry-heaving long after he couldn't be sick anymore, the crushing headache worsening every time he retched until desperately he bunched the thin towel against his face to stop. The ache did ease very slightly but it was still bad, worse than he could ever remember any headache before. Or ever wanted to know again.

Because it was the only one available, he had to swill out the brandy-smelling glass of the previous night, briefly causing a fresh spasm of heaves, before he could get some water, which he carried unsteadily back into the bedroom, lowering himself gently onto the disheveled bed. His mouth was gratingly dry but he sipped the water carefully, not wanting to cause any more vomiting. The brandy bottle was on a side chest—like his great-grandfather's photograph back in Alexandria—and showed just about a third full. So he deserved to feel like he did; he practically deserved to be in a hospital, attached to a stomach pump.

Strangely, ill though he felt, O'Farrell did not actually regret the alcoholic breakdown. That was all it had been, an isolated, unforeseen breakdown like breakdowns always were. And they could always be overcome. Never again, he vowed. A drink or two, sure—and no more of this crap about counting how many or feeling guilty—but never again like last night. Not, as it eventually became, breakneck attempted oblivion. That was wino stuff, like-the hair-matted wrecks lying in their own piss on 14th Street or in Union station. O'Farrell shuddered, immediately wincing at the discomfort the slight movement caused. He wasn't heading for 14th Street: never. Last night had been a warning. A release and a warning. Now he'd get on with the job.

Which he could do. He'd been thrown off balance, badly, by the woman and the boy, and he shouldn't have been, but he'd recovered now. Breakdown over. He had to forget the family. Not forget, precisely; that was stupid because he knew they existed. Compartmentalize them; that was the professional phrase. Compartmentalize anything likely to be a distraction, an interference. Hundreds … thousands … saved, he thought, not just lives. Suffering and hardship … Breakdown most definitely over.
Assassination saves lives
.

It took O'Farrell a long time to get ready but he still found himself among the rush-hour workers when he left the boardinghouse. He made his way to a fast-order café and forced himself to consume dry toast he didn't want and coffee he couldn't taste, knowing he had to get something into his stomach if he ever wanted to feel better. It didn't settle easily, but it settled. Just.

When O'Farrell got there, the BMW with which he had become familiar the previous night was still parked outside the Hampstead house. He drove past and concealed himself almost completely in a side street about fifty yards farther on, reminding himself he'd kept this rental car three days, which was long enough. The large package in Rivera's garage would prevent the BMW being put away, thought O'Farrell, an idea flickering unformed. How long would it stay there?

It was just past ten when Rivera left the house. O'Farrell noted the time and the surprising fact that the ambassador was not driven by an embassy chauffeur. He followed, sure of the destination and therefore not bothering to keep close surveillance, but he was able to anyway, because of the freak lightness of the traffic. He was glad he had because he was able to see a uniformed man—the chauffeur, he guessed—and two other men waiting expectantly at the embassy entrance to receive the man. So just after ten was Rivera's routine departure time from home and just after 10:30 his routine arrival time at the embassy. The American sighed in disbelief at the nonexistent security. Rivera appeared so unguarded it almost seemed suspicious.

Rivera went inside. The car was driven off by the uniformed man, confirming O'Farrell's impression. It was a simple around-the-block journey to the rear of the premises, where there was a small, name-designated parking area. Rivera's reserved spot was in the very center, in full view of all the rooms at the rear. Not possible here, thought O'Farrell, whose earlier idea had hardened. The chauffeur got out and went into the building. O'Farrell pulled in just beyond the embassy, on a double yellow line, watching the vehicle in his rearview mirror. Almost at once the chauffeur reappeared in an apron and with a bucket and cloth and started to clean the vehicle. O'Farrell eased out into the traffic again, expecting Rivera to remain within the embassy for the morning at least. It was unimportant anyway; he had other things to do.

Nausea was still a threat and O'Farrell drove tight lipped, feeling cold but aware that he was sweating at the same time. The headache ebbed and flowed and the light hurt his eyes, causing a different and quite separate pain. His first full-blown, tie-and-tails hangover, he recognized. Even at college and later, in the army, on furloughs or celebrating something, he'd never drunk enough to lose control of himself, like the previous night. And was damn glad he hadn't, if this were the result. He was absolutely sure—and grateful—of one thing about the binge. If these were the aftereffects, there was no danger of his ever becoming an alcoholic.

He was glad to deliver the rental car at Kennington, retrieving the credit-card slip and paying in cash, assuring the counter clerk that the car had been perfect and he would use them again. O'Farrell crossed to Acton by underground, stomach and head in turmoil from the jolting claustrophobia of the subway car, which stank of stale people too close together.

In Acton he chose a dark blue Ford and arranged the same payment method as before, wondering as he drove east toward the embassy and the first contact with Petty since his arrival in England whether he would need all the rental cars he had carefully reserved. Or the boardinghouse accommodations, either. Hardly, if it remained as easy as this.

O'Farrell was lucky and actually found a parking place in Grosvenor Square. At the embassy reception area he identified himself as Hepplewhite, the alias he had used at the first boardinghouse and which was his agreed cover name during any planned embassy visits. The CIA station chief came out at once. He said his name was Slim Matthews, but he wasn't, at all: he was a roly-poly man who smiled a lot and rocked back and forth in an odd, wobbling gait when he walked.

“Been messaged you might stop by,” Matthews said when they reached the security of the CIA section.

With a security classification and in a code from which Matthews would know not to ask questions, O'Farrell knew. He said, “At the moment, I just need the communications.”

“You look like hell,” Matthews said. “You all right?”

“Ate something that came back at me,” O'Farrell said, easily. He realized, gratefully, he was feeling better.

“Food in England is shit,” Matthews declared. “Hardly had a decent meal since I got here.”

It didn't seem to be having much effect upon the man's weight problem; perhaps it was glandular. O'Farrell said, “There'll be stuff arriving for me, packed, in the pouch. It shouldn't be opened, of course. I'll collect.”

“Understood. Anything else?”

“Nothing,” O'Farrell said. He hoped.

Matthews escorted O'Farrell through the barred, marine-guarded inner sanctum. His verbal authorization was enough. No note was made in the log in which all entries and exits were supposed to be recorded.

O'Farrell used a priority number to reach Langley and was quickly patched through to Petty. The section chief answered the telephone coughing and O'Farrell wondered if the pipe had been just lighted or extinguished. “How's it look?” the department head began.

“I've decided the way,” O'Farrell announced.

Petty grunted. “It has to be coordinated with the move against Belac, don't forget. We haven't heard from the Bureau or from Customs yet.”

“The opportunity won't last,” O'Farrell said. Jesus, don't say they were going to pussyfoot around when he had the chance to do it and get out!

“It's got to be in the proper sequence,” Petty insisted. “Which is Belac first.”

“What if it can't be that way!”

“We don't want to spook Belac.”

“So what's more important?”

“Both,” Petty said infuriatingly. “How much time have we really got?”

“I don't know,” O'Farrell admitted. “Not long.”

“If it goes, you'll have to find another way,” Petty said.

Just like that! O'Farrell thought. “This isn't easy, you know!”

“No one ever said it was,” Petty said. “What do you need?”

O'Farrell listed the materials he wanted shipped from Washington. He added, “And I want the watchers withdrawn. I don't want an audience.”

Petty went silent for a few moments. He said, “Just the usual precaution.”

“It isn't necessary. And they're amateur. Get them off my back.”

“Okay.” The clumsy sons of bitches, Petty thought. But then O'Farrell always had been good; it was encouraging to know that he still was.

“I mean it,” insisted O'Farrell. “No watchers.”

“Speak to me before you move,” Petty said.

“All right.” He was definitely on hold, O'Farrell knew.

“And well done.”

“It hasn't happened yet.”

“I know it will,” Petty said. “How many times do I have to tell you that you're our best man?”

Crap, thought O'Farrell. He said, “You don't have to bother.”

“Another thing,” Petty said, as if he'd suddenly remembered, which O'Farrell knew couldn't be, because Petty never forgot anything. “Got a query channeled through from Florida. DA's talking deals with the pilot, Rodgers, in exchange for testimony to a grand jury against the Cuban. DA wants to know if we've got a mitigating recommendation, to go with his.”