O'Farrell's Law (42 page)

By the time Mendez returned, Rivera was quite recovered, contentedly waiting.

“You got the money?” the intelligence chief demanded at once.

“Knowing the boat had to come back to where it started, at Nieuwe Spiegel, it wasn't such a good idea to concentrate three people aboard, was it?” said Rivera. He wasn't dependent upon this supercilious whoremonger any longer; nor would he be, ever again. He wanted very quickly to relegate Mendez to the position he had held before, the clearly defined subordinate to the clearly defined superior. Mendez visibly flushed, and Rivera knew he had jabbed a nerve.

“Two were ashore just for that eventuality,” Mendez said defensively. “I asked about the money.”

“I heard you,” Rivera said. And stopped.

Mendez stared back, the redness increasing. Finally he said, “Well, do you have it?”

It had been incredibly fortunate—another miracle—that Mendez had been trapped aboard the boat and not involved in the ambush. “Yes,” Rivera said.

“I think I should see proof of its return,” the man insisted.

“Why?”

“There were two purposes in this operation,” said Mendez. “Recovering the money.
Then
dealing with Belac. I'm sure of one. Not the other.”

“I have told you the money has been returned,” said Rivera. “That is sufficient.”

“I may tell Havana that, upon your authority?” Mendez fought back, weakly.

“No you may not!” Rivera said at once. “You will tell Havana nothing in my name. Confine yourself to your own service and your own authority.”

The following morning Rivera expected to see the other men, but they did not appear, and he refused to give Mendez the satisfaction of asking. Their train to Paris, from where they were to fly to Madrid, did not leave until midday, so they were able to read all the newspapers. The most comprehensive account of Belac's death appeared in
Der Telegraph
, the story newsworthy because the man had a .375 Magnum still in his shoulder holster and was identified as an arms dealer for whom two indictments were outstanding in the United States. A Commerce Department spokesman in Washington was quoted as saying Pierre Belac was a much-wanted criminal under other investigations at the time of his death. There was a further statement from an Amsterdam police spokesman. An autopsy was still to be carried out, but at that stage there was no evidence of foul play; the death appeared to be either an accident or suicide.

“How was it done?” Rivera asked.

Mendez sat regarding him and Rivera knew the man was debating whether to tell him. In the end Mendez said, “A concentrated gas, from a capsule gun. Forces the heart muscles to contract into the appearance of a heart attack. It dissipates completely from the body in minutes: nothing suspicious will show up during any postmortem examination.”

“Clever,” Rivera said.

“A Russian invention,” Mendez disclosed.

“Well, now!” Petty said. The U.S. indictments had automatically placed Pierre Belac's name on the watch list of Interpol, the international police communication organization, so the death in Amsterdam and all its circumstances were relayed to Washington within hours of the body being dragged from the canal.

“Intriguing,” Erickson agreed. Getting in first with the question, he said, “What odds do you give on there being a Cuban connection?”

“No bet,” Petty said. “It's an obvious thought, but people like Belac are mixed up in too many things.” He picked up and put down a pipe, unlighted. “I couldn't give a shit how or why Pierre Belac died,” he went on. “What I am worried about is it spooking Rivera in some way.”

“I'll signal Madrid for us to be told the moment the Cuban group gets in,” Erickson said.

“Wouldn't that be a bastard, after all the effort that's gone into it!” said the division chief bitterly.

“What about O'Farrell?”

“Nothing more than the local man's confirmation that he's arrived,” Petty said.

“Belac's death is being publicly reported,” Erickson pointed out. “What if O'Farrell reads about it and gets spooked as well?”

Petty lighted up at last. His face obscured, he said, “I'd like something to be easy! Just once I'd like something to be fucking easy!”

THIRTY-THREE

B
Y INCREDIBLE
coincidence O'Farrell witnessed Rivera's arrival; saw the man through the car window, autocratically gazing straight ahead from his seal behind the chauffeur, a second escorting limousine tight behind. The barred gates of the embassy opened—presumably from some advance warning radioed from the car—and then snapped shut again, swallowing up the cavalcade like a devouring mouth.

O'Farrell strode on up the incline. A perfect target, he thought ironically; jnst what he needed, and hist what he had been searching for, for hours. Guided by the information he'd picked up at his own embassy. O'Farrell had on foot explored the conference hall approaches and the designated link roads and the ambassador's official residence and finally this, the embassy itself. And there Rivera had been, impossible to miss. Not that he could have done anything, of course; exposed himself, making his arrest inevitable. How—or when—could he act, then? The conference area was impossible. It was already obvious that the security would be at its highest there, army units and police and militia moving themselves and their vehicles into position, all main and side roads cordoned off with crash barriers. The routes to and from the Cuban embassy and the official residence appeared out of the question, too; they were largely closed off by more crash barriers, and from the documents he'd collected from the U.S. embassy he knew traffic lights and intersections were going to be police-controlled to enable all the delegates' vehicles to travel at high speed.

At the top of the incline O'Farrell paused, hot from exertion, gazing back in the direction from which he'd come. It had to be here, somehow, he decided. Or at the residence. Both walled and both guarded, by Cuban as well as Spanish security. But possible, O'Farrell calculated, making his way back to the Calle de la Princesa through side roads to avoid passing by the embassy again. Just possible. And by virtue of that strict security.

The arrival and departure of each delegation was to be rigidly regulated, timed and distanced and ordered. And from the U.S. embassy guidance O'Farrell knew precisely when it was intended that Rivera should set out and return. The gate operation was extremely smooth, but the limousine had been forced to slow. Just possible, O'Farrell thought once more.

Technically, that is. He recognized that the biggest uncertainty remained himself. He wouldn't get drunk this afternoon, not like he had last night, anesthetizing himself to what he had to do and how he felt about doing it. Had to force himself on, to perfect the planning. It would mean explosives again. In a car parked at the cross street he'd noted and isolated, just before Rivera's limousine swept by. The side roads brought O'Farrell out very close to his hotel, and despite the earlier resolution he went unhurriedly to the bar, his mind busy. It definitely needed a car and explosives. But it wouldn't be possible to activate the detonator by a preset clock, because there was no guarantee that the listed timings would be kept precisely to the second. He had to allow for a variable of up to five minutes. Which meant exploding the device himself, by electrical remote control, from some vantage point from which he could watch and wait until Rivera's vehicle was in exactly the right position.

O'Farrell chose local brandy, harsh to his throat. The glass wobbled with the unsteadiness of his hands as he lifted it, like the glass had the previous night. Watch, he thought; he'd have to watch and see it happen. Hear the roar and see the metal tear and split and know a body was being torn and split and—

No! He wouldn't do it! Never again! It wasn't right; it had never been right, and he'd always known it. Why so long! Why had he for so long postured about patriotism and hidden justice, and sought parallels with a long-dead relative when there weren't any parallels! He didn't know; so much he didn't know. Or want to know. Maybe he could rationalize it, in time. Rationalize but never excuse it. What about now, this very moment? That was the pressing consideration, the problem he had to solve first. There was a way out. Simple, in fact, Easy. Perhaps not the way to conclude his active career in the eyes of a very few people back in Washington—Petty and Erickson and the others he knew existed, although he didn't know who they were—but that's all. Very few indeed. They might suspect, he supposed. It was practically inevitable that they would suspect. But suspicion wasn't proof, and there certainly wouldn't be any proof. He'd ensure that well enough. Nothing they would be able to do. Nothing at all.

O'Farrell gestured for another drink, sure that already there was less movement in his hands. He certainly felt better; felt great. He'd have to make the right moves, in their proper order. Petty first then. Describe the supposed plan and stress the problems as strongly as possible, without making it sound like excuses in advance. Ask for the explosives and timing device at the same time. Then reserve a car. All so easy, so incredibly easy. He was free! It became another word to lodge in his mind. That was exactly how he
did
feel, free of a burden physically grinding him down, like a weight that was too great for him to support anymore. Overly dramatic, O'Farrell decided. But just how it was.

O'Farrell telephoned the embassy to advise that he was on his way, instinctively cautious on an open link, so the station chief was waiting when he arrived. The air conditioner had broken, and Lewis was redder-faced than before, puffing in his distress.

“Sometimes it's days before they fix it,” the man complained. “You don't know what it's like to be without it until you don't have it.”

“I can imagine,” O'Farrell said sympathetically. Preparing the ground for any later inquiry from Langley or Petty, he said, “You were certainly right about security. The Spanish are locking this place up tighter than a drum.”

“
Trying
to,” the fat man qualified. “Something will happen. Mark my words.”

“You warned the State Department?” O'Farrell pressed.

“Three separate memoranda,” Lewis said. “The Secret Service increased their escort because of it.”

A bonus, O'Farrell reflected. The secure communication area was in the basement of the embassy and the clear telephones were isolated in small cubicles. The lack of air-conditioning made it ovenlike. The connection, as always, was immediate. As he invariably did at the beginning of such contact, Petty remained completely silent while O'Farrell talked himself out. This time Petty was waiting for O'Farrell to make some reference to Belac's death, in Holland, but there was nothing. He shook his head to Erickson, on the other side of the room.

“A lot of obstacles,” Petty agreed.

“A car bomb is the only way,” O'Farrell said.

“Just like London,” Petty mused. “That's not a bad idea; it'll send the investigators around in circles.”

“Semtex explosive, like before,” O'Farrell requested. “And a remote control, like I said.”

“In tonight's pouch,” the division head promised. “I'm sorry there wasn't time for more preparation.”

O'Farrell took the opening. “To be absolutely safe I needed it.”

“You've got all the routes and timings?”

“Yes.”

“Check them thoroughly, every morning and night,” Petty instructed. “Those schedules can screw up.”

“Of course,” O'Farrell said.

“You got the job,” Petty said.

The announcement was so abrupt and O'FarreH's mind so occupied elsewhere that initially he did not comprehend what he was being told. “What?”

“Your promotion here, to join Erickson and me. It's been confirmed.”

“That's wonderful news,” O'Farrell managed, his throat working up and down. How could it be! There was no moral difference between initiating a killing in the comfort of a Washington office and carrying it out in some backstreet part of the world. One thing at a time, he told himself; concentrate upon evading this assignment before worrying about anything else.

“Congratulations,” Petty said. “We're looking forward to your joining us. You take care now, you hear?”

Practically an invitation for what he intended to do! O'Farrell thought He said, “You know I will.”

“All luck.”

“Thanks.”

O'Farrell left the embassy, still promising to drink sometime with Lewis, deciding he might as well occupy the afternoon renting the car. He ignored the big agencies, as he had in London. On the outskirts of the city, on the road toward Las Rozas, he rented a Seat from a broken-toothed garage owner grateful for the cash transaction, and considered himself lucky to make it back to central Madrid. The drinking that night was quite different from before. It was for pleasure, relaxation, and not for oblivion, and although he had a bottle of wine with dinner and brandy afterward, O'Farrell went to bed feeling quite sober.

The following day, the last before the conference began, O'Farrell repeated his earlier surveillance and climbed the incline toward the embassy, knowing that the brief moment of Rivera's car slowing upon entry and departure really would have been the only opportunity had he intended going through with it. It would, of course, be necessary to continue making it appear that he was: monitor the daily movements, as Petty advised, and create the bomb and park the Seat in the street he had selected. There was always the possibility of a watch squad that he hadn't bothered this time to locate, and they would have to support his account that he'd done everything possible before aborting the attempt because his own detection and seizure would have been inevitable. The taking care that Petty had insisted upon.