O'Farrell's Law (33 page)

There was a listless shoulder movement from their daughter. “I guess,” she said.

O'Farrell was gripped by a feeling of helplessness, helplessness and impotence. Abruptly he -stood and announced, “I'm going out for a while. A walk.”

“But …” Jill started.

“I need to get out.”

There was a chill coming off the lake and O'Farrell set out toward it, knowing there was a lakeside walk through a park but thinking after two blocks that in the darkness he didn't know how to find it. He turned back toward the township, knowing he could really have found the park if he'd wanted, knowing, too, why he'd changed his mind. Evanston wasn't big; sprawled awkwardly, with a mall he knew he couldn't reach tonight on foot, but definitely not big. Boxer was an identifiable enough name, if it were how the man was normally known. Foreign accent and a broken nose and a red-flower tattoo on his left hand. And a racing bicycle, although O'Farrell guessed that was reserved for pickups, not nighttime cruising. Sufficient to go on: to look at least.

O'Farrell reached the main highway, running parallel with the railway line, and began to walk its full length, taking in the side roads when he came to them. At restaurants he checked through windows, on the pretext of reading the menus, and he went into every bar he came to, for the first time in months using a drink to justify his presence rather than because he needed it. Drink in hand, he walked around them all, looking, and at one tavern—one of the ones he thought most likely because there was live music and everyone was young, far younger than himself—there were some sniggers and someone behind the bar asked if he needed any help. O'Farrell chanced asking for a man called Boxer and got headshaking blank-ness in reply.

What in the name of Christ did he imagine he was doing! The question came in a bar just beyond the railway bridge over the Chicago road, a shabby place where the regulars examined him like the intruder he was, resenting his examination of them. What would he have done if there'd been someone here—or anywhere else—matching Billy's description? The tattoo was pretty distinctive but not unique, and the broken nose certainly wasn't. Was it enough evidence to justify killing a man, which is what he'd set out to do? What about the usual, professional criteria?
Personal vengeance and vigilante stuff are for the movies
. Was that what he would have done, dragged the man into some darkened parking lot and beat a confession from him, just like they did in the movies? And then killed him? Killed someone? Hadn't that been the agony, over the last few months,
not
wanting to kill anyone? Hadn't that been what he'd told Lambert? The demands flurried like snow through his mind and like snow blocked up, so that he couldn't separate question from answer and more often couldn't find answers to the questions.

O'Farrell left his drink and hurried from the bar, as if he had something to be guilty about, which he supposed he had in thought if not actually in deed. The apartment was in darkness when he got back. He groped his way through it without putting on the light, not wanting to awaken anyone. He undressed in the dark, but as he was lowering himself cautiously beside Jill, she said, “I'm not asleep.”

“I didn't mean to be so long.”

“Did you find him, the supplier who got Billy to carry the stuff?”

“No.” O'Farrell detected the movement and then Jill's hand took his.

“Would you have tried to kill him, if you'd found him?”

“I wanted to,” O'Farrell said.

“I'm glad you didn't,” Jill said. “These people are very vicious. You'd have probably gotten hurt yourself.”

It was the nearest she'd come openly to questioning his manhood. She wouldn't have believed him capable, of course.

TWENTY-SEVEN

R
IVERA DECIDED
it was time he emerged from his period of mourning. He accepted that there were some who might consider it premature but he was unconcerned; he was an ambassador, a public servant and such people were expected to cope with grief better than ordinary people. Conversely there were others who might consider him brave, trying to rebuild something of an existence after the shattering experience.

Objectively Rivera recognized that he had taken a chance going to the Gavroche with Henrietta so soon after it happened, but they'd gotten away with it; there had been no recognition and therefore no resulting newspaper comment.

Tonight was different. A thoroughly acceptable public-affair: how better to emerge gently from a period of grief than at a charity premiere at Covent Garden? Then a diplomatic function or two, more public appearances. Followed by the acceptance of some private social invitations to which he'd delayed replying.

From his customary vantage point Rivera saw the arrival of the diplomatic delivery and turned back into the room to receive it, hoping after the care with which he had planned the evening that no personal communication would delay him. He was at once alarmed by the size of the wallet but just as quickly relaxed: the Foreign-Ministry material could as easily have been enclosed in the general pouch to be processed first by secretaries. It was all the accreditation and documentation for the international assignment of which the Foreign Ministry had already advised him in the promised letter, a conference in Madrid to reinforce trade links with Latin America, despite Spain's presence within the European Community.

There was nothing else, so he was actually ahead of time now, because the arrangement was for him to go direct to the opera house from High Holborn. Idly Rivera flicked through the instructions. There was a general policy document to guide him, from Havana, and two other, more detailed guidance papers from the Trade Ministry. Arrangements had been made for him to stay at the official residence of the ambassador to Spain, whom he remembered as a tiresome man constantly boasting of a close friendship the Che Guevara that only he seemed able to remember. Rivera was expected two days before the commencement of the conference and particularly to attend every official Spanish ceremony, because Cuba wanted to strengthen its ties with the Spanish-speaking country that formed part of Europe.

Rivera descended to his new car and his escorts, nodding absentmindedly at the assembled men, his mind remaining occupied by what he'd just read.

He'd go to the conference, of course, but certainly not allow the promotional recall to progress any further. Now was an excellent moment to announce his diplomatic resignation, in fact, with Estelle's death providing a fortunate coincidence. He could plead that he was distraught by her loss, unable from the shock of being the intended victim to function as he properly should, how they would expect him to function. Quit with sympathy and understanding. And then Paris! Vibrant, sophisticated Paris. It was all simple and straightforward but for one thing. Henrietta. He didn't want to be without her, wouldn't be without her. It was time to talk it all through with her. There were things she would have to sort out and settle. The divorce, for instance.

Rivera's performance at Covent Garden was equal to any upon the stage. The assassination had made him a recognizable figure and there was a burst of flashbulbs as he left his vehicle, the picture made dramatic by the escorts grouped around him. He remained grave-faced, head bowed, bypassing the champagne gathering to go directly to his reserved box. There he chose a rear seat, in shadow from the rest of the theater. He withdrew even further with the arrival of the others in the party, shaking hands with the men who offered pleasantries and holding back when Henrietta positioned her face to be kissed.

The production of
The Barber of Seville
was not as good as Rivera had hoped, and the tavern scene was particularly disappointing, people shouting at each other rather than singing. There was champagne arranged for the break, of course, but again Rivera declined. Henrietta held back briefly, accusing him of taking things too far, and flouncing off when he still refused to accompany her.

The dinner party afterward was at the Dorchester. Briefly Rivera thought of avoiding it, and when he got to the hotel he came close to wishing he had. Henrietta clung to him, holding his arm and sharing every conversation, and Rivera recognized the retribution for his earlier distancing himself from her. The seating plan put him next to her—because Henrietta had arranged it that way—and she sat with her hands obviously beneath the table, blatantly straying across to his thigh and crotch.

He complained, when they were finally alone in the car with the glass screen raised between themselves and the driver. Henrietta said, “For Christ's sake, darling, don't be such a boring bloody hypocrite! There's not one person at that table tonight who doesn't know we've been screwing each other for ages.”

Henrietta was right, and it upset him to concede it. He said, “It wouldn't hurt to be a little less obvious for a couple more weeks.”

She put her hand in his lap and he moved to make it easier and she said, “You're not worried about propriety now!”

“We're not in front of a hundred people in a hotel dining room now.”

Henrietta twisted to look out of the rear window at one of the escort cars. “Do they carry guns?”

“Some,” Rivera admitted. “They're not supposed to, under diplomatic convention, but they do.”

“How long will it last? Will you always have to be guarded as closely as this?”

“For a long time, I suppose,” Rivera said, believing he was stimulating her excitement.

“Even when you're transferred somewhere else?”

It was an opening to start talking about Paris, but Rivera held back, deciding the rear of a car was not the right place. He said, “I would imagine so: I haven't really thought about it.”

“I would think it's all right for a while but not all the time: too claustrophobic,” Henrietta said, discarding a novelty.

“I don't want it to go on forever.” The chauffeur was a member of the GDI, like all his other Cuban protectors. Rivera hoped the vehicle was not equipped with the listening devices that spies were supposed to utilize. He was sure that everything he'd said so far was innocuous enough.

At Pimlico, Rivera followed her familiarly into the house and on to the drawing room, which was on the first floor with veranda windows overlooking the illuminated patio at the rear.

“I'll have brandy,” she ordered, flopping onto a love seat.

There were times, like now, when Henrietta could be profoundly irritating, treating him like a servant whose name she didn't even know. Rivera was sure he'd correct the attitude quickly enough, although Henrietta was strong-willed to the point of willfulness, far stronger than Estelle had been. There was still so much each had to learn about the other. Rivera was very sure about one thing. With Henrietta as his wife, he wouldn't consider a mistress; he'd never need to consider a mistress.

Rivera was uncertain, oddly shy, about breaking the news of Paris “I've got some news,” he set out. “I'm going away soon.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. She seemed suddenly occupied with a pulled thread on the seam of her dress.

Was that the best reaction she could manage? He said, “Spain. I am to be an observer at an international conference.” Rivera thought, discomfited, that he sounded like a child hopefully boasting a better holiday destination than anybody else in the class.

Henrietta seemed to treat it as such. She said, “I don't like Spain. I always feel nauseous there; something to do with the oil they cook with, I suppose. I much prefer France.”

The opening hung before him, beckoning. He said, “So do I. In fact I've been thinking about France quite a lot, lately.”

Henrietta frowned across the room at him. “
Thinking
about France?”

It had been an awkward way to express himself, Rivera realized. “I want Jorge at the Sorbonne eventually. It would be convenient to live in Paris, better perhaps for the remainder of his preliminary education to be there.”

“How could that work, with your embassy being here?” asked Henrietta, still confused.

“I'm going to resign,” Rivera announced.

“You're going to do what!” She came forward on her seat, wide-eyed.

“Quit,” he said, enjoying the sound of the declaration.

“Give it all up, just like that!”

“There's not actually a lot to give up, compared to a return to Havana,” Rivera said. ‘That appears the alternative.”

“But what are you going to do in Paris!”

“Nothing,” Rivera said. “Just sit back and enjoy myself.”

“When?” she demanded.

So far her reaction had not been quite what he'd expected. He said, “I haven't worked out definite dates. But soon; quite soon.”

“Oh,” Henrietta said.

The tone was empty, and small though it was, it amounted to the first sound of sadness. Rivera said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You don't sound very upset.”

Henrietta offered her glass to be refilled. “Give me a chance, darling! It's something I never expected. I thought we'd go on … oh, I don't know … I mean. I didn't imagine it ending.”

“Has it got to end?”

Henrietta looked steadily at him over the top of the glass he returned to her, then smiled coquettishly. “No reason at all!” she agreed brightly. “Paris is only an hour away by plane, after all!”

“I wasn't thinking of your commuting.”

The smile went but the direct look remained. “I'm not going to guess what that means,” she said. “I'm going to sit here and listen to you tell me.”

“I want you to come to Paris with me.” Rivera blurted finally. He'd not meant it to be as clumsy as this; he
was
stumbling about like an awkward schoolboy.

For a long time Henrietta remained staring at him, as if she expected him to say mote. When he didn't, she looked away, around the room, as if she were inspecting what he was suggesting she give up. “Divorce William? Marry you, d'you mean?”