O'Farrell's Law (5 page)

“I won't, ever,” O'Farrell said. It did not actually constitute a lie, he told himself, but it was still a promise he could never be sure of keeping.

Petty was engulfed in so much tobacco smoke from his pipe that his voice came disembodied through it; Erickson thought it looked like some poor special effect from one of the late-night television horror movies to which he was addicted.

“Well?” Petty asked, wanting the other man to volunteer an opinion first.

“Certainly appears to go some way toward confirming the impressions Symmons formed three months ago,” Erickson said.

Petty picked up the psychologist's report, concentrating only upon the uppermost précis. “But this time Symmons considered it a challenging encounter, that O'Farrell was fighting him.”

“Why would O'Farrell want to challenge the man?” the deputy asked. The psychologist hadn't reached a conclusion about the attitude.

“I wish I knew,” the controller said, refusing to give one. “I really wish I knew.”

“Then there's the preoccupation with violence,” Erikson pointed out, going deeper into the report where Symmons had flagged a series of word associations.

“And he talked to himself when he was dressing,” Petty added. They knew because a camera was installed behind the mirror into which O'Farrell had gazed, arranging and rearranging his tie and mouthing to himself the assurance that he'd come through the interrogation successfully.

“It happens,” Erickson said, with a resigned sigh. Today across Lafayette Park some protesters were marching up and down outside the White House; the angle of the window made it impossible for him to see what the protest was about.

“I don't think we should be too hasty,” Petty cautioned.

Erickson turned curiously back into the room. “Use him again, you mean?”

“He
is
good,” the huge man insisted.

“
Was
, according to this.” Erickson gestured with his copy of the psychologist's report.

“It would be wrong to make a definite decision just on the basis of two doubtful assessments,” Petty argued. “There's never been the slightest problem with any operation we've given O'Farrell.”

“Isn't that the basis upon which the decision should be made?” Erickson queried. “That there never can be the slightest problem.”

“We'll wait,” Petty said. “Just wait and see.”

For a long time after it happened, Jill used to accompany him to the cemetery, but today O'Farrell hadn't told her he was coming; there hadn't seemed to be any reason for doing so. He guessed he would not have come himself but for the session with Symmons. O'Farrell gazed down at the inscription on his parents' grave, easily able to recall every horrific moment of that discovery, his father blasted beyond recognition, his mother too. And of finding the note, the stumbled attempt of a tortured mind to explain why she was killing the man she loved—and who loved her—and then herself. Oddly, she had not mentioned Latvia and what had happened there: the real explanation for it all. Carefully O'Farrell brushed away the leaves fallen from an overhanging tree and placed the flowers he'd brought, caught by a sudden awareness. He had not realized it until now, but his mother's running amok with a shotgun coincided almost to the month with his decision to find out as much as possible about the origins of his settler great-grandfather, the man who'd become a lawman. The psychologist would probably be able to find some significance in that if he told the man. But he wouldn't, O'Farrell decided. He didn't believe there was any relevance.

FOUR

E
ARLY IN
his assignment José Rivera had regretted that the Cuban embassy was in London's High Holborn and not one of the impressive mansion legations in Kensington. Estelle, he knew, remained upset, but then his wife was a snob and easily upset; she considered it reduced them to second-grade diplomats.

Rivera didn't regret the location of the embassy anymore. Carlos Mendez, the resentful local head of the Dirección Generale de Inteligencia, maintained close contact with the KGB
rezidentura
attached to the Soviet embassy in Kensington, and from Mendez, despite their limited contact, Rivera knew of the intensive surveillance imposed there by British counterintelligence. And intensive surveillance was the very last thing to which Rivera wanted to be subjected. For that reason, once he'd been given the arms-buying role in Europe, Rivera had persuaded Havana to free him from Mendez's prying. The given excuse was that arms dealers wouldn't trade if they thought their comings and goings were being recorded. The real reason was Rivera's determination to restore a family fortune lost when Fidel Castro came to power.

There was nearly two million dollars so far on deposit in a numbered account at the Swiss Bank Corporation on Zurich's Paradeplatz, all unofficial commissions creamed off previous deals. He was impatient for today's meeting to gauge by how much that amount was likely to increase from the latest huge order from Havana. It would be huge, he calculated; it was a comforting, satisfying feeling. Rivera liked being rich, and wanted to be richer.

Rivera was confident he had established the way. It was always to obtain everything demanded, in less time than was allowed, from men whose names were known only to himself, but no one else. Which made him absolutely indispensable. More than indispensable: unmovable, which was very important.

Rivera liked London. He liked the house in Hampstead and the polo at Windsor. Hardly any part of Europe was more than three hours' flying time away—Zurich even less—and by his upbringing Rivera always considered himself more European than Latin American. Until, like the survivors they were, his family realized Batista's Cuban regime was doomed, they had been among the most fervent supporters of his dictatorship; certainly the family had been among the largest beneficiaries of Batista's corruption. That wealth had ensured Rivera's Sorbonne education and the introduction to a cosmopolitan and sophisticated existence. They'd had to lose it, of course, when Castro came to power. And the teenage Rivera had loathed every minute of the supposed socialist posturing, actually wearing ridiculous combat suits, as if they were all macho guerrillas, and reciting nonsense about equality and freedom.

The life he led now was Rivera's idea of equality and freedom. Realistically he accepted that it would, ultimately, have to end. And with it, he had already decided, would end his diplomatic career. By that time the Zurich account would be larger than it was now—many times larger. At the moment, although he was not irrevocably committed, he favored his boyhood Paris as the city in which he would settle.

It would mean a fairly dramatic upheaval, but he was preparing himself for it. Rivera cared nothing for Estelle, as she cared nothing for him. They'd stayed together for Jorge, whom they both adored. But Paris would have to be the breaking point. It had taken Rivera a long time to admit the fact but now he had, if only to himself. He loved Henrietta and wanted her in Paris, with him. There wouldn't be any difficulty getting the divorce from Estelle, any more than for Henrietta to divorce her aging husband. The only uncertainty was how Jorge would react. The boy would come to accept it, in time: learn to love Henrietta. There was no question, of course, of Jorge living anywhere but in Paris, with him.

All possible from the biggest arms order he'd ever been called upon to complete.

The ambassador strode across his office to greet the chosen dealer as the man entered, retaining his hand to guide him to a conference area where comfortable oxblood leather chairs and couches were arranged with practised casualness around a series of low tables.

The size of the order had decreed that Pierre Belac had to be the supplier, because he was the biggest Rivera knew. Belac was a neat, gray-suited, gray-haired, clerklike man, in whose blank-eyed, cold company Rivera always felt vaguely uncomfortable. Sometimes he wondered how much profit Belac made from his dealings and would have been staggered had he known.

Observing the preliminary niceties, Rivera said: “A good flight?” Although he knew Belac's English to be excellent, Rivera spoke in French, in which he was fluent: it pleased him to display the ability.

Belac shrugged. “Brussels is very efficient: I suppose it's having NATO and the Common Market headquarters to impress.”

“I appreciate your coming so promptly,” Rivera said. He thought, as he had before, that it was difficult to imagine this soft-spoken, unemotional man as one of the largest arms dealers in Europe. Rivera did not think that Belac liked him much.

“I am always prompt where money is involved,” Belac said. Which was the absolute truth. Belac was obsessive about money, consumed above all else in amassing it. He was unmarried and lived in a rented, one-bedroom, walk-up flat near the main square in Brussels. When he wanted sex he paid a whore, and when he was hungry he used a restaurant, usually a cheap one like the prostitutes he patronized. He thought he had a very satisfying life.

Rivera offered the other man the list that had come in the special satchel. Unhurriedly Belac changed his glasses and took from the waistcoat pocket of his suit a thin gold pencil, using it as a marker to guide himself slowly through the list. He gave no facial reaction but his mind was feverishly calculating the profit margin. It was going to be a fantastic deal, one of the best. He smiled up at Rivera once, thinking as he did so how he was going to lead this glistening, perfumed idiot like a lamb to the slaughter. Rivera smiled back, curious how difficult it would be to outnegotiate Belac as he intended to outnegotiate him. That's all he would do, decided Rivera, nothing more than gain a temporary advantage to profit by. It might be dangerous to consider anything more.

Belac was expressionless when he finally looked up. He said, simply, “Yes.”

Rivera guessed that showing no surprise was an essential part of the carefully maintained demeanor. He said, “So it is possible?”

Belac's face broke into the closest he could ever come to a smile. “Everything is possible.”

Negotiations were beginning without any preamble, Rivera decided. He said, “But not easy?”

“No difficulty at all with the small arms, rifles, and ammunition. Most of it is available through Czechoslovakia, with no restrictions,” said Belac dismissively. “The guidance systems all contain American technology. COCOM, the committee of all the NATO countries, with the addition of Japan, denies official export to communist bloc countries of dual-use technology, meaning anything that could have military application, which this has. Washington—the Commerce and State departments—keep a very tight lid on that.”

“How can it be done unofficially?” Rivera demanded. Remaining indispensable—and unmovable—required that he knew in advance any problem likely to arise, no matter how small.

“There are companies in Sweden, with the advantage of its neutrality, through which such things can sometimes be arranged,” said Belac. “There will have to be adjustments to End-User Certificates. I have several
anstalt
companies established in Switzerland that can place the Swedish orders; it will still be difficult to find the necessary end-user destination.”

Trying to show that he was not completely unaware of backdoor channels, Rivera said, “What about Austria?”

“As a cutoff, perhaps,” said Belac, unimpressed but content to let the posturing fool indulge himself if he wished. “But it's become known to the Americans as a door all too often ajar. I have a situation in Vienna we could utilize, maybe. But for this I think we might have to consider repackaging and transporting through the Middle East. There are a number of accommodating states in the Arab Emirates where smuggling is considered a profession of honor.”

Rivera paused. Was the man proposing the circuitous routing for reasons of security, or to establish the highest price because of its intricacy? To get a higher price, he decided. He said, “What about the communication items?”

“Exactly the same COCOM barrier as with the guidance systems,” the arms dealer said. “Everything listed here contains American technology for which no export license could possibly be obtained.” Which made them for Belac the most difficult and dangerous part of the order, particularly as there already existed in America two criminal indictments against him for evading the restrictions upon such items. Belac decided to delay doing anything about them; he would string Rivera along and maybe not attempt them at all.

“The same routing, then?” the Cuban diplomat asked carelessly.

“I don't think so, do you?” Belac said at once. “The English have a proverb warning that if all one's eggs are kept in the same basket, they risk being smashed in an accident.”

Damn! thought Rivera, resenting the lecturing, patronizing tone. He said, “How, then?”

“Japan,” Belac said. “Very discreet, very efficient. We'll move the communication stuff through Japan. Place the orders direct through the
anstalt
companies but make sure there's alternative, disguising cargo carried at the same time.…” The man hesitated, performing his version of a smile again, his mind already calculating the final purchasing figures. “Alternative cargo which you, of course, would have to underwrite. Once at sea, the Swiss holding company will sell the innocent cargo—”

“To a company in Japan,” Rivera said. “So in midvoyage me ship will change destination from Europe to the Far East and any forbidden cargo will disappear?” Belac
was
patronizing him! The realization did not annoy Rivera. Rather, he was pleased. Play the gullible customer, the Cuban decided.

Belac nodded in agreement. “It will achieve the purpose, but I do not expect we will be able to dispose of the genuine cargo at anything like a profit. A loss is practically certain.”

A loss that Cuba would have to finance to the benefit of the Japanese buyer, Rivera thought; and that Japanese buyer would inevitably be yet another company controlled by Pierre Belac. The grasping pig deserved to be outnegotiated; in its personal, self-rewarding way it would be a fitting penalty for the man's avarice. Luring the Belgian on, Rivera said, “I accept that a loss would be unavoidable. But then, losses are always budgeted for in business. Which leaves the tanks to be discussed.”