O'Farrell's Law

by Brian Freemantle

  Inside the house Jorge thanked him for what he called a wonderful evening and they kissed and Rivera made gratefully toward the drawing room again, unsure if it were too late to call Henrietta; it was a simple code, when her husband might be home, leaving the telephone to ring three times before disconnecting, allowing a few minutes for her to get near a receiver, and then dialing again. It was later than he usually telephoned, but Rivera decided to do it; they’d spoken that afternoon but Rivera wanted very much to talk to her again, although there was nothing to say.

  Rivera stopped short immediately inside the door, not expecting Estelle to be there. She was in one of the fireside chairs, a brandy snifter already cupped between both hands.

  “What’s he think of his hang glider?” Estelle asked conversationally.

  Rivera went to the liquor tray and poured brandy. “He’s excited about it.” Too weary to bother with more contests, he said, “He’s delighted with the bike, too.”

  Estelle was smiling when he turned back to her, but it was not the usual contemptuous expression. “I’ll concede if you want me to: yours was the better gift.”

  “I don’t want you to concede anything,” Rivera said, honestly. How long before she went to bed! He couldn’t remember the last time she’d joined him for an after-dinner drink—the last time she’d even been home at this hour, which for Estelle was early.

  “It was juvenile tonight, wasn’t it?”

  Still conversational, practically friendly if that weren’t impossible, Rivera judged. He was confused. Go along with the discussion until the point emerges, he thought, the professional diplomat. He said, “Yes, very juvenile.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time we did something about it?”

  “Something about it?” Rivera’s confusion worsened.

  “Why don’t we get divorced?” she blurted. “There’s absolutely no purpose in making the pretense anymore. We only did it for Jorge, and did you see him tonight? Poor little bastard was tighter than a spring, trying to please both of us. Ready to act as a mediator, if necessary. It’s cruder to stay together than it would be to break up.…” The nonchallenging smile came again. “I know what he means to you, what having a son means to you. I’d agree to your having permanent custody, with my having visiting rights. Let’s be civilized about it.”

  Rivera had fully recovered, his mind grasping and placing everything she’d said in order of priority. Adjusting his own priorities, his own necessities, too. Irrespective of his thoughts in the theater that night—and all his previous reflections—Rivera had never contemplated the breakup being at Estelle’s instigation. Not that Cuba mattered, because he had no intention of ever returning there, but a divorce at her instigation would make him a laughingstock there. He could imagine the gibes: Rivera, the man with no cojones. She must be mad, imagining it was even a subject for discussion between them. Not a subject for her to initiate, anyway. But what about him and Henrietta? He’d already thought about it, after all.

  “I see,” Rivera stalled. Estelle had clearly rehearsed what she’d just said. And revealed a lot in her eagerness. He said, “Does he want to marry you?”

  Estelle blushed, obviously, something he could never recall her doing before. She said, “He’s telling his wife tonight as well.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Lopelle, Albert Lopelle. He’s the military attaché at the French embassy.”

  “Military attaché” almost automatically meant French intelligence. Certainly there’d be an investigation by Cuban counterespionage which would create an excuse to extend that probe into his own private affairs. Rivera didn’t want that, any more than the spotlight of newspaper publicity on a divorce. He said, “How long?”

  Estelle shrugged, as if it were unimportant, which it was. “Almost a year. We met at a Foreign Office reception celebrating the Queen’s birthday. You were there.”

  Rivera couldn’t remember the event, but it was the sort of social occasion that was important to Estelle. He was fairly confident he knew how to handle it now, although he wished he were better able to gauge Estelle’s reaction.

  “No,” Rivera said bluntly.

  “What!” Estelle blinked up at him, clearly shocked.

  “I said no,” Rivera repeated. “Under no circumstances will I consent at this time to a divorce between us.”

  “But …” Estelle stumbled, and stopped. “You must!” she started again, disclosing how readily she had expected his agreement. “There’s nothing between us, except dislike! There’s no point in going on!”

  “At this time I need a wife, a hostess, officially,” said Rivera. “Which is what you will remain, my official wife. I’ll make no other demands upon you, apart from that. You can come and go, spend as much time with this man Lopelle as you want, providing it does not clash with any official function we have to attend together—”

  “But that’s precisely what we do now,” she cut in.

  “If you try to force any sort of divorce action upon me, I shall see that you are returned to Havana and that all travel permission is withdrawn. You’ll never see Lopelle again.”

  “Why!” Estelle wailed.

  “I said ‘at this time.’ “

  “Please explain that,” Estelle said, subdued.

  “To my timing and to my choice you can have your divorce,” Rivera said. “It’s the timing to which I object.”

  “When?” she asked eagerly, smiling hopefully.

  “I don’t know, not specifically. Not a long time.” The current deal with Belac should be over before the year’s end, Rivera thought. Which was when he’d already decided to quit and find that Paris home. In passing, Rivera was caught by the coincidence of his deciding to live in France and Estelle choosing a French lover. “Well?” he said.

  “It’s hardly a choice, is it?”

  “I think so,” Rivera said. “My way gives you everything you want with just a delay, that’s all.”

  The smile came again, not as easily but still a smile. “I suppose it docs, really. You do mean it, don’t you?”

  “I promise you,” Rivera said.

  “Not long?” Estelle pressed.

  “That’s what I said,” Rivera reiterated. “And during that time, perhaps we could have a little less hostility.”

  “I’d like that, too,” Estelle said sincerely. “And thank you.”

  The idea of having Estelle returned to Cuba and held there had come suddenly to Rivera, without any forethought, but considering it more fully, he decided it would be an excellent ploy when he decided to leave London. His planning would have to be precise, officially informing his intelligence people about her association with a French spy to absolve himself from any suspicion, but it shouldn’t be too difficult. He certainly didn’t intend to be cast aside publicly at her whim, in favor of another man. She was stupid not to know better.

  O’Farrell had moved into the second guest house toward evening and afterward went to the Christchurch Hill house to try to spot any obvious security precautions, like guard dogs or patrols. He was startled to see Rivera emerging with his family and on impulse followed them to the theater. It was impossible for him to get a ticket so late, but he had their car as a marker and spent the time in a pub from which he could see it, strictly rationing himself to three drinks. He was ready a good half hour before they left, and he followed them again to the restaurant.

  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’Fa
rrell’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’FARRELL 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 t
o 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.”