“Anything particular strike you?” Erickson demanded pointedly, looking back into the room.
“‘You ever think about what you were doing, worry about it,’” quoted the section leader at once. “Of course I noticed it.”
“So?”
Instead of replying, Petty fast-forwarded the video, stabbing it to hold on a freeze-frame at the moment of O’Farrell’s question. Petty said, “There’s no facial expression to indicate it meant anything to O’Farrell himself.”
“It didn’t have a context,” Erickson said.
“It might have produced an angry reaction; got the bastard to say something he was holding back,” Petty suggested.
“I’ve got an uneasy feeling,” Erickson said.
“I’ve always got an uneasy feeling until an assignment is satisfactorily concluded,” said Petty.
ELEVEN
O’FARRELL COMPLETED the files in the Lafayette Square office by midmorning. To ensure his success in the argument with Petty he carefully went through everything again, intently studying the photographs as well as the case reports. A real hotshot, he thought; then, glossy son of a bitch. José Gaviria Rivera certainly appeared that. The photographs were not just the snatched, concealed-camera shots of the ambassador with Pierre Belac. There were some posed pictures, at official diplomatic functions—sometimes with his dark-haired, statuesque wife—and others taken at various polo functions, several showing the man with an equally statuesque but fine-featured woman whom the captions identified as Henrietta Blanchard. From the accompanying biography O’Farrell knew the diplomat to be fifty-two years old; the photographs showed a man who kept in shape, and who dressed in clothes designed to accentuate that fitness, like Rodgers. There was another similarity in the perfect evenness of the teeth. The ambassador seemed to smile a lot. Although the circumstances of his studying both men were different, and it was difficult for him to reach a conclusion without seeing how Rivera moved and behaved, O’Farrell did not get the impression that Rivera was flashy, like Rodgers was flashy. Glossy, certainly, but the gloss of someone accustomed to luxurious surroundings and fitting naturally into them. O’Farrell decided that although the word hardly seemed appropriate for a representative of Cuba, the man’s stance and his demeanor appeared aristocratic, the chin always lifted, the arm and the frozen gesture invariably languid.
The second examination finished, O’Farrell reassembled the file and restored it to the safe, thinking about what he was going to do. He was right, he told himself; he was un-arguably right. And they’d made the rules, not him. He was merely—but quite properly—obeying them. To the letter, maybe, but wasn’t that how rules should be obeyed, to the letter? Of course it was. His decision. Always his decision. Another rule. Theirs again, not his.
Petty would see him immediately, O’Farrell knew, but he held back from making the contact at once. Lunchtime, after all. And he’d finally brought the sepia photograph and the cuttings in from Alexandria and made appointments at the copiers recommended by the helpful archivist at the Library of Congress. The afternoon would be fine for seeing Petty. Not that O’Farrell was avoiding the confrontation. He was giving the evidence he had studied the proper consideration it deserved, not rushing anything. Was there a chance of his changing his mind? Unlikely, but there was nothing to lose by thinking everything through again. The sort of reflection they would expect, would want from him.
At the copy shop O’Farrell impressed upon the manager the importance of the cracked and flaking newspaper cuttings, and the man assured him that he would personally make the copies. The discussion took longer at the photographic studio. The restorer there offered to touch up the original, assuring O’Farrell that it would be undetectable, but O’Farrell refused, unwilling to have it tampered with. There was then a long conversation about the paper and finish of the copy. The man suggested the heaviest paper and a high-sheen reproduction, which was precisely what O’Farrell did not want. He listened to various other suggestions and finally chose the heaviest paper but a matte finish, which he thought most closely resembled the photograph taken all those years ago. Not the same but close.
O’Farrell completed everything with almost an hour to go before he was due to return to Lafayette Square. He found a bar on 16th Street, near the National Geographic Society building, a heavily paneled, dark place. It was crowded, but O’Farrell managed a slot at a stand-up shelf that ran around one wall. Because the jostle was so thick at the bar he’d ordered a double gin and tonic and wondered when he tasted it if the man had heard him, because it did not seem particularly strong.
Would he still be called upon to make a recommendation about Paul Rodgers, now that he had reached a decision about Rivera? O’Farrell supposed the man could give sufficient evidence before a grand jury to get an indictment against Rene Cuadrado. In practical terms that would not mean much, because of course Cuadrado would remain safe from arrest in Cuba, but the media coverage would expose the Havana government as drug traffickers and Congress or the White House might consider that useful. What happened before a grand jury wasn’t his concern, O’Farrell recognized. It was the district attorney who would have to decide what deal to offer Rodgers in return for his cooperation. So what was he going to say, if he were asked? Stuff that makes you feel funny, he thought. Fuck him. Fuck Rodgers and his shoulder swagger and finger-snapping jive talk. Coke mainly, of course. Marijuana too. And pills. Methaqualone. Just like a salesman, offering his wares. How many kids—how many people—had been destroyed by the shit brought in by the bastard? Impossible to calculate, over the period he’d boasted—yes, actually boasted!—of operating. So he could go to hell. Literally to the hell of a penitentiary and O’Farrell hoped it would be for thirty-five years, which was a figure he’d made up at the interviews, just wanting to frighten the man. Perhaps the sentence could be longer than that. O’Farrell hoped it was. Clear the scum off the streets for life. Hey, you my man? No, thought O’Farrell. I’m not your man. If I’m asked, I am going to be the guy who screws you.
O’Farrell went to the bar and ensured this time that the man knew he wanted a double, and not so much tonic this time. He supposed he should eat something but he didn’t feel hungry. He’d wait until dinner, maybe cook himself a big steak. If he were going to do that, then he’d have to stop off on the way home and get some wine. It was becoming ridiculous, constantly buying one bottle at a time. Why didn’t he get a case: French even, because French was supposed to be superior, wasn’t it? Ask the guy’s opinion and buy something decent and lay it out like you were supposed to in the cellar. Ask about that, too; get the right temperature and ask whether to stand it up or lay it on its side. All the pictures he’d ever seen had the wine lying in racks, on its side. Okay, why not buy a rack then? Nothing too big. Just enough for say a dozen bottles, maybe two dozen, so he wouldn’t have to keep stopping.
He’d tell Jill about it when he telephoned that evening. She’d seemed okay when he called last night, although she was worried that Ellen’s payments still hadn’t been straightened out. Ellen was being silly about Patrick, holding back from taking the bastard to court. He’d try to talk to Ellen about it this weekend, when he went up. make her see that it wasn’t just herself and how she felt—although he could not conceive her retaining any feeling for the guy—but that she had to consider Billy now. That Billy, in fact, was more important, far more important, than her own emotions.
Just time for one more, O’Farrell decided. The lunch-time crowd was thinning, and when O’Farrell reached me bar and got the drink, he decided to stay there. He hoped the copier wouldn’t screw up and damage the cuttings. The Library of Congress archivist had been very helpful, talking of special acid-free storage boxes that sealed hermetically, cutting down on the deterioration caused by exposure to air. O’Farrell wondered if he should get some. He didn’t have a lot of stuff, so one would probably do by itself; two at the outside. He decided to call the man again to ask about it. Maybe this afternoon. No, couldn�
�t do it this afternoon. Had something else to do this afternoon. Soon now; less than an hour. Time for…? No. Had to get back. Make his argument. No problem. Knew the file by heart.
O’Farrell was sure he could get a taxi, so he didn’t hurry over the third drink, but there weren’t any cabs cruising 16th Street when he left the bar. He moved impatiently from one foot to another on the curb, looking both ways along the street, then started to walk, which was a mistake, because when he glanced back he saw someone get a cab from where he had been standing. When he finally picked one up, his watch was showing only five minutes from the appointment time, and two cars had collided at the junction with L Street, so there was a further delay getting through.
He was twenty minutes late reaching Petty’s office. The section head was tight-lipped with irritation, and Erickson, from his window spot, looked pointedly at his watch when O’Farrell entered.
“Sorry,” O’Farrell said. “One car rear-ended another on L; caused a hell of a tie-up.”
“That’s all right,” Petty said.
From the man’s tone O’Farrell knew perfectly well that it was anything but all right. What the hell? he thought. He said, “I’ve read the file.”
“And?” Erickson said.
“I don’t think it’s sufficient,” O’Farrell declared bluntly. He felt empty-stomached and there was a dryness at the back of his throat; he was glad at the strength that appeared in his voice.
“What!” Erickson exclaimed, just ahead of Petty.
“I think it is too circumstantial,” O’Farrell said. “The requirement, surely, is that there is enough evidence to convince a court if a prosecution could be brought? Having talked to Rodgers and read all that’s been assembled, I am not satisfied a jury would return a verdict of guilty.” There was still no difficulty with his voice, no indication of his uncertainty.
“Now let’s just go through this again!” Petty leaned forward on his desk in his urgency. “We’ve got a drug smuggler testifying that Cuadrado told him about the use of diplomatic channels. We’ve got London positively named. And then we’ve got the Cuban ambassador to Britain provably associating with a known arms dealer. You call that circumstantial!”
“There is no direct link to Rivera, no definite identification, from anything Rodgers told me. Or from what Cuadrado told him,” O’Farrell insisted. “And there’s no proof that Rivera is obtaining arms from Pierre Belac.”
“You think it’s a social friendship, for Christ’s sake?” Erickson demanded.
“I think there’s insufficient proof, as I said. It might be different if we had separate testimony, from Belac.”
“He’s a professional arms dealer!” Petty said. “He’s not likely to volunteer anything even if we manage to bust him. And Commerce isn’t ready to make a case yet.”
“I’m sorry,” O’Farrell said, with what he hoped was finality.
“You got anything else to tell us?” Erickson challenged openly.
“Like what?” O’Farrell asked, avoiding an immediate response.
“You having problems beyond the evidence you’ve seen?” Petty asked.
“Justifying things to yourself?” Erickson suggested.
There were reverting to their pitter-patter style of debate, O’Farrell realized. He said, “Not at all. I am just following procedure.”
“I think there’s sufficient evidence,” Petty said.
“The assignment would not have been proposed if there weren’t,” agreed the deputy.
“I have to be sure personally,” O’Farrell insisted. “I’m not.”
“So you’re refusing?” Petty said.
“No!” said O’Farrell at once. “I’m seeking further evidence.”
“I don’t see how we can provide more than we have already,” Petty said.
“Then I’m sorry.” O’Farrell wondered who else would be assigned to the job. It didn’t matter; not his concern anymore.
“So am I,” Petty said heavily.
“Would you like to go through everything again? Reconsider?” Erickson offered.
O’Farrell shook his head. “I’ve studied everything. I don’t think I need to reconsider.”
“Without stronger evidence?” Petty asked pedantically.
“Without stronger evidence,” agreed O’Farrell.
Petty made a production of lighting his pipe, speaking from within a cloud of smoke. “Then we’ll have to get it, won’t we?”
O’Farrell had begun to relax, imagining he had maneuvered himself away from an assignment without either refusing or resigning. Abruptly—sinkingly—he realized he had not done anything of the sort. The operation wasn’t being abandoned or switched to someone else: it was simply being postponed.
José Rivera hesitated outside the Zurich bank, stretching. He’d picked up a cramp hunching over the statement of the working account he’d opened to handle the transactions with Belac. He’d done well, negotiating the interest-bearing facility. As well as he had done in outnegotiating Pierre Belac. Certainly the account would not remain at $60 million because Belac was due another $30-million installment for another shipload of weaponry on its way to Havana. But the account included the full $15 million Rivera had added to the price Havana was being charged, on the entire deal. He’d decided to leave it in the interest-bearing account for a few more weeks before transferring it to his private account. Rivera was glad he had taken the trouble to come to Zurich on his way to Brussels, awkward though the detour was: by putting all the money in a controlled withdrawal account he had obtained an extra half-point interest and at these sorts of levels that was a worthwhile increase. It was a good feeling, being a rich man.
On his way back to the airport, Rivera considered taking a further detour after the Brussels meeting, spending a day or two in Paris making preliminary inquiries among housing agents there. He had more than sufficient money and it made economic sense to buy at the current market prices rather than wait for some indeterminate period by which time the cost would undoubtedly have increased. Or should he go straight back to London, instead, and make the Paris trip later, perhaps bringing Henrietta with him? That might be an altogether better idea; make it more of a pleasure than a business trip.
There was no delay on the flight, and Rivera was in Brussels by midafternoon. Belac produced documentation showing that all the small arms and ammunition had been dispatched, along with half the missiles. He’d made preliminary approaches to Epetric, a Swedish company, about the VAX and intended confirming the order as soon as Rivera advanced the next allocation of funds necessary for a deposit.
“Thirty million?” suggested the ambassador, fresh from studying the Swiss accounts and sure of the amount.
“I know that’s what we discussed,” said Belac. “But as well as back settlement for what’s on its way to Havana, there are deposits for the VAX and a fourth ship to charter, to carry the tanks. I need fifty million to allow for the ten-percent withholding. Transferred direct to the anstalt, BHF Holdings.”
If he kept back the ten percent from the latest demand, he’d have five million gaining interest, Rivera calculated. He said, “I know the name well enough by now.”
So, of course, did Lars Henstrom, the Swedish informant within the Epetric contracts and finance department, when Belac placed the confirmed order two days later. Henstrom passed the information on at once, and within two days it was transmitted to both the U.S. Department of Commerce and Customs Service.
Under an American-Swiss treaty, Berne had agreed that the country’s traditional bank secrecy laws can be abrogated and accounts made available to investigators if Washington satisfactorily proves that such accounts are benefitting from the proceeds of drug trafficking. The CIA used the sworn statement of Paul Rodgers to seek access to BHF Holdings’ accounts, from which they learned of the multimillion-dollar transfer the day after a meeting they had observed in Brussels between Pierre Belac and Jose Rivera. They learned, however, about more than just the transfer. Against
it was recorded the number of Rivera’s account in the Swiss Banking Corporation on Zurich’s Paradeplatz. The CIA made a further access request, and it was granted, giving them complete details of Rivera’s secret deposits.
Petty reached O’Farrell at the Alexandria house. “You wanted better proof,” the section head said. “We’ve got it. It’s time we talked again.”
Petty merely held down the lever to disconnect the call, keeping the receiver in his hand and dialing again immediately. Gus McCarthy, director of the Plans division, answered at once.
“We need to talk, just the two of us,” Petty said.
TWELVE
MCCARTHY AVIDLY followed the social columns and the Style section of the Washington Post and chose Dominique’s restaurant for the meeting. He arrived early and was already at the ledge away from the tiny bar, the whiskey sour half-finished, when Petty appeared. Petty ordered beer, a Miller Lite, instead of the milk he should have had, hoping his ulcer wouldn’t act up; it had been at least six years since the doctor had allowed him any spirits. Sometimes, like now, he ignored the order.
“You read the writeup about this place last Sunday?” McCarthy asked at once.
“No,” Petty said. He had, but he didn’t want to indulge the other man’s pretensions.
“Got a hell of a recommendation,” McCarthy said. “Know something else about it?”
“What?” Petty asked, knowing he had to.
“Don’t allow pipes at all.” The planning chief grinned. He was a nonsmoker and always tried to avoid any encounter with Petty where the man could light up. McCarthy looked around the bar, which he dominated by his size. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure there is one, not yet,” Petty said. “It could be worrying, though.”
“O’Farrell?”
“Yes,” Petty said shortly. He followed McCarthy’s examination of the wall-to-wall crowd and for the same reason said, “Lot of people here.”
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