O'Farrell's Law

by Brian Freemantle

  “And cleared him, in anticipation of California working as it was supposed to.”

  “Remember Makarevich?” McCarthy demanded, without warning.

  Petty didn’t, not at first. Then he said, “Of course.”

  “Been running a check, the last few weeks,” the Plans director disclosed. “That put the Soviets back a lot: a hell of a lot.”

  “So?” Petty queried, frowning.

  “Just think it’s interesting, that’s all.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE BOARDINGHOUSE in Queens Gate Terrace proved the worst—professionally—that he’d chosen. It was run by a widow who insisted that all her guests call her Connie and who set out to be a mother figure to the unattached and a what-I-remember-about-London landlady to all. O’Farrell had stayed aloof and guessed she was offended, but didn’t think it mattered, now that he was leaving.

  He had refused any meals, as he had in those before, but the last morning was different. He needed a news broadcast, and the television ran permanently in the breakfast room, which would normally have been sufficient reason to avoid the meal anyway.

  O’Farrell was up and packed early, downstairs to pay her ahead of anyone else, and asked if he could change his mind and have coffee and toast maybe. Connie beamed and offered eggs, but O’Farrell said toast would be fine.

  All the morning papers were displayed on a table just inside the room and O’Farrell flicked through them, apparently unable to choose. He guessed it would have been front-page and there wasn’t a report in any of them: too late, he guessed. He chose the Times and then orange juice, nodding to the four people already in the room, who, thankfully, ignored him. O’Farrell took a table near the wall. He went through the motions of reading the newspaper, seeing nothing. Predictably the television was on; the set was attached to a support arm suspended quite high on the wall, so the lift of the watchers’ heads gave them all an attitude of piety. O’Farrell supposed it was fitting, for the awe in which television was held.

  A rock group plugged their latest release, a trade-union leader insisted some labor dispute was the government’s fault, and a tongue-tied gardener tried to explain how he grew prizewinning produce. Then the anchor person started “… extended news because of last night’s horrific incident in Hampstead …”

  The first picture on the screen was a long shot of Rivera’s house from the far side of Christchurch Road. The house itself had sustained hardly any damage apart from broken windows, but the front of the garage was completely blown in, with firemen still dowsing the embers. What remained of the BMW, a pressed-flat piece of metal attached to one wheel and a few engine parts, was propped oddly on its edge against the garage wall, and a large area of the gravel was scorched black.

  The camera panned in closer. A reporter stood at the gate next to a policeman self-consciously aware of being on camera.

  “… no explanation yet for the outrage,” the reporter was saying. “What is known is that because of this morning’s rain Mrs. Estelle Rivera”—here the screen was filled with a still photograph of the woman, obviously at a reception with Rivera—“wife of the Cuban ambassador, José Rivera, went to their BMW car to get it closer to the house to pick up their son, Jorge, to deliver him to the lycée. I understand the explosion, which in turn created a fireball, was immediate. Death would have been instantaneous. Forensic and bomb-disposal experts have recovered parts of an explosive device but are disclosing no details, although one expert has told me it was clearly planted by an expert to cause …”

  A swirl of dizziness engulfed O’Farrell, so much so that he could not clearly see the television screen, and a sickness rose through him, like it had after the stupidity of the brandy, and a coldness, a chilling, shivering coldness tightened around him, taking his breath. Mouth clamped, he tried to push the sensation back, wanting to see and to hear everything before the newscast finished.

  “We have learned,” came the voice distantly, through a fog, “that the housekeeper who normally drives the boy to school in her car has recently been ill and unable to do so. Jorge, twelve, was at the rear of the house at the time of the explosion and was fortunately uninjured, although he is being treated for shock. Señor Rivera is also said by the household to be deeply shocked.…”

  With the promise to report further as information became available, the remote broadcast returned to the studio. O’Farrell let the screen recede into a blur again, trying to think—to create another order of priority as he had so very recently done—but nothing rational came through the cold sickness.

  “… shocking. Absolutely shocking …”

  O’Farrell blinked up at the landlady. How long had she been standing at the table, talking to him? She handed him the toast and said, “Here you are. Eat it while it’s hot.”

  O’Farrell nodded, unable to speak, accepting the toast he didn’t know what to do with.

  The woman gestured toward the television. “Can you imagine the mentality of anyone able to do such a thing!” she demanded.

  “No,” O’Farrell managed.

  “Shot,” the woman insisted. “That’s what should happen to him when he’s caught. Stood up against a wall and shot.”

  “Yes,” O’Farrell agreed shortly. He’d killed—murdered—an innocent person! The awareness flooded in upon him, and his need to vomit worsened. That first morning’s surveillance had begun too late to monitor any school run; he’d only been interested in Rivera’s pattern. Yet he’d seen the wife and child! Should have considered how he got to school! Slipshod. Careless. So because he’d been slipshod and careless, he murdered an innocent person; come close to murdering an innocent kid as well. Unprof—O’Farrell stopped himself even completing the word, refusing it. What the fuck was professional about what he did! Where was the profession—the art—in killing? Innocent, he thought, unable to get the word out of his mind. Completely innocent; beautiful and poised and innocent. Christ—oh dear Christ—what had he done! No turning back, no putting together what was destroyed, no expiation. Innocent.

  Now he had to run. Run like a rat would run, away from something it had fouled or contaminated. Destroy but don’t be destroyed, judge but avoid judgment, catch but don’t get caught. Innocent.

  O’Farrell felt suspended, almost as if he were outside his own body, watching himself perform. He crumbled the bread to convey the impression of having eaten and forced some coffee down. He went through the charade of farewell and drove the rental car without any conscious awareness back to its garage, remembering to get the credit-card slip back for cash. He canceled the remaining boarding-house, in Crossmore Road, and took two taxis to the embassy, finally approaching Grosvenor Square on foot from Park Lane. Petty spoke first when the connection was made.

  “It’s very bad.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any risk of our involvement becoming known?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Everything cleared up behind you?”

  “Everything.”

  “Get out.”

  “The reservation is for two this afternoon. TWA.”

  “Don’t tell your wife.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ll meet you.”

  * * *

  Rivera had no difficulty displaying the attitude the police and the Special Branch and the Diplomatic Protection Squad expected. He was, after all, genuinely frightened for himself and it showed, and he let it, unashamedly. And he was frightened, maybe more, for Jorge. He’d insisted upon hospital observation of the child, although the doctors disagreed on the need, and insisted further that members of the embassy staff, in reality officers of the DirecciÓn Generale de Inteligencia, guard the child in addition to the British protectors now assigned.

  He had some feeling, too, about Estelle. Whatever he’d felt, or rather not felt, it was difficult to conceive of her being blown apart as she had been, so that identification had to be made from items of jewelry. So he cried
, although not for long.

  It was the afternoon before he had any proper interview with the authorities, who told him more than he was able to tell them. The forensic experts believed both the explosive and the detonators were from the communist bloc, almost certainly Czechoslovakian; they’d know definitely after more tests. The materials had been placed throughout the vehicle, not concentrated in one spot; it was undoubtedly the work of a professional assassin. It was impossible to be sure, until they caught whoever did it, but they were working on the theory that the bomb had been intended for him, not his wife.

  “Have you any idea, Excellency, who might want to do a thing like this?”

  Rivera spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said.

  He had, of course. He’d never imagined Belac would go this far.

  Havana predictably labeled the attack a capitalist conspiracy, but with some irony accused America of being the originator. A State Department spokesman in Washington said the claim was too ridiculous to be treated seriously.

  TWENTY-TWO

  O’FARRELL DRANK steadily throughout the flight and by the time the plane landed at Dulles had attained that frowning, carefully moving I-know-but-nobody-else-does level of drunkenness. He high-stepped his way off the aircraft onto the elevated debarkation bus, and in the terminal he missed his bag the first time it came around the carousel He thought that was funny and giggled, grinning back at people nearby who stared nervously at him.

  Erickson was waiting inside the customs hall, on the other side of the checkpoint. Somebody had spoken to somebody, because O’Farrell was passed through without any hindrance. He swayed in front of Erickson and said, spacing his words, “Didn’t expect you: didn’t know what to expect, but didn’t expect you.”

  “You’re drunk,” the deputy said.

  “Still standing.”

  “Only just,” the man said. He steered O’Farrell down to the lower level; the limousine was right outside the entrance, the driver reaching out for his bag. Tobacco smoke swirled out like fog when the door was opened and O’Farrell was further surprised.

  “Didn’t expect you, either,” he said to Petty. “And Erickson’s already told me I’m drunk, so you needn’t bother.…” He’d perched on the jump seat of the limousine and turned back to the door. “Where is Erickson?” he said. “With me a moment ago.”

  “He won’t be long,” Petty promised. He coughed thickly and said, “Not really the circumstance to ask how you are, is it?”

  O’Farrell twisted, ensuring that the driver’s compartment was sealed off from the rear, and said, “For the record, I’m absolutely fucking awful.” He’d never sworn at Petty before, never shown the man any disrespect at all. Didn’t matter now; nothing seemed to matter now. The damned pipe smoke was making his eyes water.

  “We’ll get you better,” Petty said.

  O’Farrell thought the remark funny, like missing his luggage had been funny, and he giggled. “I’m not sick!” he said.

  “Sure,” Petty said infuriatingly.

  The passenger door opened, admitting Erickson and a welcome draft of unfogged air. To his deputy, Petty said, “Everything okay?”

  “No problem,” Erickson said. “No one at all.”

  O’Farrell’s drunken frown returned as he looked at the two men, and then his face cleared, in understanding. “A baby-sitter! You gave me a baby-sitter from, the embassy for the flight over, in case I got confessional.”

  “Just a precaution,” Petty confirmed.

  “You think I’m that fucked up!” There was a schoolboy pleasure in saying rude words to the section head.

  “You’re tired; had a few drinks,” Petty said. “We’ll talk in a day or two.”

  “What if I had spoken to someone on the flight?” O’Farrell persisted, with alcoholic bravado.

  “Couldn’t have happened,” Petty said conversationally. “You’d have been interrupted, diverted. Forget it.”

  Although the limousine was already almost to the Beltway, O’Farrell said, “Shouldn’t we tell the driver…?” and then trailed away, in belated awareness. “Where am I going?”

  “Fort Pearce,” Petty said. “We need to debrief you. Give you a few days’ rest as well … just a few days.”

  O’Farrell knew Fort Pearce; years ago—he couldn’t recall exactly when—he’d attended a couple of advanced training courses there on behind-the-lines survival. It was officially designated an army installation but in reality it was a CIA complex, mostly for warfare and sabotage instruction. He said, “So I’m being locked up in the stockade?”

  “Of course you’re not,” Erickson said without conviction. “It’s a debriefing, that’s all. And the people at Fort Pearce have the highest clearance, so it’s the most obvious and convenient place.”

  O’Farrell didn’t believe it. He wondered, although without any fear, what was going to happen to him. Whatever, he deserved it. He said, “How long is a few days?”

  “Two … three …” Petty started.

  “Whatever. A few days …” Erickson said.

  “What then?” O’Farrell demanded.

  “Let’s get the debriefing over first.” Petty said.

  Erickson indicated the liquor cabinet recessed between the jump seats. “You want a drink?”

  “No,” O’Farrell said at once. He squinted through the darkened windows of the car, but could not gauge where they were. “I’m not going to become unreliable,” he said, and at once regretted the remark. It sounded as if he were scared, which he wasn’t, not yet.

  “We know that!” Petty said.

  “Not even a consideration,” Erickson added.

  “Just important to get you fit again,” Petty said.

  The back-and-forth delivery seemed to be ingrained, thought O’Farrell. Annoyed at being patronized, he began, “I’m not …” but stopped, deciding it wasn’t worth the bother. He wished he’d taken Erickson’s offered drink, although he was proud that he’d held back. Would Fort Pearce be dry? He couldn’t remember from his previous visits, although he doubted this was going to be anything like his previous visits. He said, “You debriefing me?”

  Petty shook his head. “There are experts at Fort Pearce.”

  “Specialists,” Erickson finished.

  “In what?” O’Farrell demanded pointedly.

  “Everything.” Petty was avoiding him once more.

  How much O’Farrell would have liked, just once, to have trapped the man, talked him into a corner and pinned him into some definite commitment. Feeling it was time—and surprised they hadn’t prompted him into it in their ventriloquist’s act—O’Farrell said, “It was a disaster. I know it was a disaster.…”

  Petty raised his hand, stopping the apology. “Not now …” the section head said.

  “Better later …”

  “More appropriate …”

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “We do …”

  “Completely …”

  The vehicle slowed and O’Farrell saw they were at the gates of Fort Pearce, the driver already going through the identification and entry formalities. O’Farrell would have expected the passengers to be checked, but they weren’t. The car went on for quite a long way inside the complex, wending along roads between barracks-type buildings, before stopping. When O’Farrell emerged, it was into an area he did not know from his other visits. They stood before a white-painted, clapboard building styled like barracks but taller, two storeys. The bottom floor was encircled by a covered veranda reached by steps wide enough for two or three people to climb abreast. But they didn’t. Petty led, O’Farrell followed, waved forward, with Erickson at the rear. The prisoner was under close escort, thought O’Farrell. There was a guard at the entrance, and Petty made the identification before leading on with apparent familiarity down the wide, polished-clean corridor. All the doors leading onto it were closed and there was no noise from behind any of them. Halfway down was a b
ulletin board forlornly bare of any notices. O’Farrell realized that after all the drinking he needed a bathroom. He looked around for one; none of the doors were designated or marked, not even with numbers.

  Petty entered one practically at the end. It led into an unexpectedly expansive office whose occupant was already standing, smiling, in front of his desk. O’Farrell stared at the man curiously. He looked impossibly young, practically college age. He nodded to Petty and Erickson, previous acquaintances, but held out his hand to O’Farrell. “Lambert, John Lambert,” he said. “And you’re Charles O’Farrell. Is it Charles or Chuck?”

  “It varies,” O’Farrell said. It sounded like a cocktail-party greeting and Lambert actually seemed dressed for one in his subdued Ivy League suit, pin-collared shirt, and inconspicuous club tie. Lambert wouldn’t be his real name; probably adopted just for this encounter. The man’s nose wrinkled against the pervading tobacco smell.

  “Want you to understand something,” Petty said. “John’s cleared for everything. He knows what you do and all about Rivera and the accident with his wife.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” O’Farrell said quietly. He knew now why the two men had met him at Dulles Airport. Lambert had to be personally introduced and guaranteed, by people he trusted, for the debriefing to progress at all. He guessed Lambert was a psychologist more highly cleared than Symmons, one of the get-your-head-right brigade. The man really did look young.

  “We’ll get to that in time,” Lambert said dismissively. “Not now. You’ll be bushed after the flight.”

  How much of the tiredness was genuine fatigue and how much was alcohol-induced? O’Farrell wondered. He said, “I’m okay.”

  “Tomorrow’s soon enough,” Lambert said. “Let’s get settled in first.”

  Petty and Erickson, their function fulfilled, looked at each other, and Petty said, “We’ll be getting back. We’ve got a drive.”