O'Farrell's Law

by Brian Freemantle

  “I have been told there is an assignment,” he said. The man was pleased. He’d never liked being excluded from monitoring what the ambassador did.

  “Yes,” Rivera agreed. There was no nervousness, no reluctance. about what was going to happen. He was going to be involved in killing a man, he thought. He felt nothing.

  Lloyds of London is the largest ship insurance organization in the world and for that reason maintains a global record of every vessel’s movement and position. It is a record to which the public has access, as Belac knew from previous experience of switching ships around the oceans. It took only minutes to learn about the City of Athens. Its last reported position was four hundred miles west of Puerto Rico. Because the record is updated daily there was no reference remaining to the emergency stop at Cuba several days before.

  He was safe, Belac decided; quite safe. All that remained was to find a convenient meeting place in Amsterdam.

  Patrick entered the court hesitantly, slightly behind his attorney, as if he were seeking protection from the man who was, in fact, protectively big, a fat, overflowing figure who waddled rather than walked.

  O’Farrell and Jill were already there, in their turn protectively flanking Ellen on either side. O’Farrell was intent—and dismayed—at Ellen’s reaction to her ex-husband. Until Patrick entered the court she had been closed-face, but at once she smiled, hopefully. Patrick stared back, stone-faced, dismissive.

  O’Farrell switched his attention fully upon Patrick. The suit was polyester, too sharp and too bright, an odd shade of blue. The undulating black hair had deeper waves and was longer than O’Farrell remembered and shone from some hair preparation. There was a heavy gold band on the same wrist as an even heavier watch, which was also gold, and as O’Farrell watched the man sit down at a table with his fat attorney, a yellow-metaled medallion attached to a neck chain slipped through his shirt. O’Farrell’s contempt increased: more fucking gold than in Fort Knox, yet the man couldn’t maintain payments to his first wife and child.

  The two lawyers looked across the courtroom at each other, Giles nodding to the other man, who nodded back. Giles leaned closely to O’Farrell and said, “His name is Gerry Pallister.”

  “Good?” O’Farrell asked.

  Giles smiled. “That’s what we’re going to find out, aren’t we?”

  There was a demand for them all to rise, which they did. The judge was a woman, a round-faced, motherly person. As the appellant Giles rose at once to outline Ellen’s application, but almost at once Pallister got to his feet, announcing that his client sought for the alimony—although not the child support—to be reduced on the grounds of hardship and that it was excessive.

  O’Farrell gazed directly at Patrick, who studiously ignored the attention, and thought at that moment, despite all his training, he did not know if he could have kept his hands off the man if they had been in different surroundings.

  A lot of the early part of the hearing came down to legal technicalities, the two lawyers close to the bench arguing procedural points, so it was some time before Ellen was called to give evidence. O’Farrell was impressed at how well she did. She was clearly nervous, but there was no tearful collapse. She gave her answers in a firm, respectful voice, following Giles through the questioning on unmade payments and unkept promises. O’Farrell was aware of Pallister frequently looking to Patrick, as if seeking clarification or confirmation, and O’Farrell wondered what bullshit story Patrick had fed his attorney before the hearing.

  Ellen stood up well under examination from Pallister. The lawyer challenged her about payments she said had not been made that Patrick was insisting had, but Giles had anticipated that. Forewarned, Ellen produced her bank statements covering the disputed period, which clearly showed no deposits of either the alimony or child-support figures. The further attempt, after a hurried, head-bent consultation with Patrick, to insist that the payments had been made in cash, clearly did not impress the judge. Pallister tried several different ways to get Ellen to admit she could manage to keep herself and Billy on a reduced income and O’Farrell sat hot with concern that Ellen would misunderstand and agree, but Ellen didn’t, and when she returned to sit with them. O’Farrell squeezed his daughter’s hand and whispered. “Well done.”

  Patrick tried hard in the witness stand, and O’Farrell couldn’t make up his mind at first whether the man was impressing the judge. Patrick admitted not paying some—but not all—of the arrears and pleaded remarriage and the commitments of a new family. It was not that he was unwilling to pay: it was that the lowness of his uncertain, commission-based income made it impossible for him to pay. If his income improved, he was willing, in fact, to advise his former wife, return to court, and have any new order increased. He was not intentionally neglectful. He sought to honor his responsibilities, as best he could.

  Giles was absolutely brilliant, although not immediately so, and O’Farrell looked up worriedly at the man’s questioning. Giles’s stumbling, hesitant queries and practically servile demeanor at the beginning bewildered and shocked O’Farrell, because it was so alien to what he knew of the man.

  Patrick, a bully, immediately discerned an imagined weakness. He seemed to grow in stature, as if he were being inflated, and the replies snapped back, sometimes before Giles had completed his wavering inquiry. There were times, once or twice, when Patrick actually smiled, an artificial expression like a clip-on bow tie. He was smiling when the trap opened and shut, engulfing him. The hesitancy and servility went as Giles repeated word for word an early answer from Patrick, comparing it as an obvious lie against some later response. He challenged the income figures produced by the man, and when Patrick argued that he had been telling the truth, Giles produced salary information from the car firm for which Patrick worked. Pallister made a token protest at Giles’s approach to Patrick’s employer, but it was only token, and O’Farrell suspected the burly lawyer was annoyed and displeased at having been so obviously lied to by his client.

  Giles even asked about the gold watch and bracelet and got an admission from the supposedly impoverished and now groping Patrick that he’d bought both during the time he’d told the court he could not afford to keep up the payments.

  By the time Giles finished, Ellen was shown to be a struggling devoted mother, Patrick the callous former husband, careless of her and of their child.

  The court ruled that Patrick should pay off the full arrears that Ellen claimed at fifty dollars a month—through the court—and made an order that all future alimony and child-support payments should also be made through the court. The ruling was accompanied by the warning that the court would take a very critical view of any failure on Patrick’s part to meet his obligations.

  Giles came to O’Farrell and said. “He was damned lucky he didn’t get hit with perjury.”

  “So Pallister wasn’t so good after all?”

  “I felt sorry for him,” Giles said. “You get a client who bullshits, there’s no way you can win.”

  O’Farrell hurried from the courtroom ahead of Jill and Ellen, wanting to catch Patrick, which he did at the door leading out into the street. Patrick pretended not to hear the first shout, only stopping when O’Farrell overtook him and stood in front of him.

  “You get all that, shithead!” O’Farrell demanded.

  “Get out of the way, for Christ’s sake,” said Patrick, trying to push by.

  O’Farrell didn’t move. He said, “But that’s just the point, shithead. Getting out of your way is something I am not going to do. I’m going to be in your way all the time, from now on. You be so much as an hour late, just once, in looking after my daughter and Billy. I’m going to have you back in court so fast there’ll be skid marks. There won’t be a moment when I’m not watching and waiting for you to fuck up. You hear me!”

  On the way back to the apartment, Jill said, “I never imagined it would be possible to show Patrick up quite so clearly for what he is.”

  “You were right, both of
you. He is a bastard, isn’t he?” said Ellen. O’Farrell hoped that at last she believed it.

  When they got back, the blips on the answering machine indicated there had been some calls without messages being left. O’Farrell had made the drinks, handed them around, and was saying. “I think we can celebrate,” when the telephone sounded again. He answered it with his glass in his hand, thinking it might be something or someone to do with the hearing, Giles for instance.

  “I’ve been trying to get you all day,” said Petty. ‘There’s something I’d like us to talk about fairly urgently. You can get away, can’t you?”

  It was a brief conversation. O’Farrell agreed, without any questions.

  As he replaced the receiver, Petty said to the man with him, “You absolutely sure about giving him the position?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” McCarthy said. “O’Farrell s a loyal operative, proved over a number of years, isn’t he? What could be more fitting than promotion?”

  THIRTY

  “IT IS an emergency,” Erickson stressed, in immediate support of the division chief’s proposal. “You can understand that, can’t you?”

  There were black scuff marks on the wall by the radiator, as if the deputy sat there a lot, swinging his leg back and forth like he was doing now. O’Farrell said, “I wouldn’t have used the word ‘emergency.’”

  “Come on!” Petty said from behind the desk of the Lafayette Square office, his voice that of a reasonable man being misunderstood. He went on, “We wouldn’t be putting it to you if there were any alternative! But there isn’t. You’re the only one who’s studied completely the Rivera file, who knows and believes the assignment should be carried out—”

  “There’s no time to prepare anyone else.…” Erickson picked up.

  “The Madrid conference starts in a week,” Petty said. “It can’t be anyone else.…”

  “… really no time …”

  The only one who knows and believes, O’Farrell thought. He wasn’t sure he knew or believed anything anymore. He tried to remember the leisurely, logical conversations he’d had with Lambert at Fort Pearce, but couldn’t. Not the actual words and arguments. There was just the impression at the end that what he did—what he’d done in the past—was right. O’Farrell said, “What’s so important about it being done in Spain? Why not allow the time to brief someone else? There are other places.”

  “After what happened in England, Rivera is wrapped up tighter than a baby,” Erickson said. “In England it would never work.”

  “Why should security be any less in Madrid?” O’Farrell persisted.

  “Because in Madrid the security people will have all the conference delegates to protect,” Petty replied at once.

  “He’ll still have Cuban protection, presumably?”

  “Not as complete again as in London,” Erickson said. “We’ve checked the Cuban delegation. There are only four security personnel.”

  “I have a family problem, in Chicago. I don’t want to be out of the country at this time,” O’Farrell said. He hesitated. “In fact, I said this was going to be a turnaround trip. I’m expected back tomorrow.”

  “You mentioned family difficulties when you called,” Petty said. “Anything we can do? Not just personally; the Agency as well, I mean.”

  O’Farrell was surprised at the offer. And at the apparent sympathy. “I don’t think so, but thank you,” he said. “My grandson is caught up in a little bother.” Little bother? O’Farrell questioned himself at once. It hadn’t seemed little over the past few days. Still didn’t. Which was why Jill had been astonished when he’d announced he had to return to Washington. They hadn’t argued—because, of course, they never argued—but O’Farrell knew it was the closest they’d come for a long time, on Jill’s part at least. That’s why he’d promised to fly back the following day, to minimize the upset.

  “Kids!” Erickson shrugged, as if he knew all about it and was having the same problems himself.

  “The conference starts in a week,” Petty said. “Due to last just four days. So the whole business can’t last any longer than twelve days. America is sending an official delegation, so we have access to all the security arrangements being considered by the Spanish: routes, timings, everything. It won’t need the usual reconnaissance.”

  “Operation,” “assignment,” “business,” O’Farrell noted: all the meaningless ambiguities to avoid the real word, “murder.” Flatly he said, “I don’t want to do it.” He waited for an emotion: fear, at the awareness of how the refusal would affect him, relief, at finally saying it after so much agonizing, so much doubt. He didn’t feel anything at all and was positively disappointed. Petty was not looking at him. Instead the man’s attention was entirely upon Erickson.

  Petty said, “You were right.”

  Erickson shrugged a so-what shrug but didn’t say anything.

  O’Farrell, misunderstanding, supposed it was obvious that the two men would have discussed his reaction before his arrival that morning. Wanting to fill the strangely embarrassing silence, he said, “After what happened in London, what else did you expect me to say?”

  There was an odd expression on Petty’s face when he looked back to O’Farrell, as if he had forgotten that the man was even in the room. The blankness went, but there did not appear to be full recognition. Petty said, “This isn’t going to sound right … not sound right at all.”

  “I don’t understand,” O’Farrell said, confused.

  Petty gestured toward his deputy. “He warned me it wouldn’t sound right if I did it this way. But I didn’t want to make it seem like a condition. I thought you’d agree, you see. Then it would have come out altogether differently. Now it won’t; no way.”

  “I really don’t understand a word you’re saying,” O’Farrell protested, bewildered.

  Petty selected one of the carved-bowl pipes tidily racked on his desk, lighted up, and emitted thunderclouds of smoke. O’Farrell thought what a useful ploy it was for delaying a discussion. The pipe going, Petty said, “There is no other way of saying it, except straight out.”

  “I’d like that,” O’Farrell said.

  It wasn’t, however, Petty who began. From his window-sill perch Erickson said, “There’s been a big personnel review at Langley, covering all the departments.…”

  “Including ours …” Petty said, on cue. “There’s going to be a lot of changes: dead wood cut away, a lot of reshuffling.…”

  “And you feature on the list.…” Erickson said.

  The speed of his being dumped surprised O’Farrell. He knew that it was to be expected, because of his refusal, but he’d imagined there would be some cosmetic interim period, a week or two before the hidden privileges began to be stripped away. He tried to think of something to say but couldn’t.

  “High on more than one list,” Petty said. “For all our secrecy and deniability, there’s a lot of respect for you … a lot of respect.”

  It sounded just like the enforced-retirement speech O’Farrell suspected it to be: before presenting the much-deserved gold watch, the managing director talked at length of dedication and loyalty over many years.… The difference here was that the speech was in stereo, from two speakers. And there wasn’t going to be any gold watch. Feeling he should contribute something, O’Farrell said, “That’s nice to know.”

  “Which is going to be recognized …” Erickson announced. The man’s swinging heel scuffed another black smear among all the others, a shape vaguely resembling a question mark.

  “How’d you feel about working here?” Petty asked. “Permanently here, I mean. With Don and me.”

  O’Farrell looked from one man to the other, his initial, irrational thought how unusual it was to hear Petty refer to the other man by his Christian name. Frowning, he said, “But I do work with you both.”

  Petty smiled. “Ever wonder why Chris Winton was never replaced as second deputy?”

  The asthmatic bachelor who’d been the third member o
f the group when he’d first joined the department, O’Farrell remembered. He said, “A long time ago. I supposed there was a good enough reason that was none of my business.”

  “There was a good enough reason.…” Erickson started.

  “And now it’s very much your business,” Petty finished. “Winton wasn’t replaced because there was no one good enough, no one with the necessary mental strength and qualifications to fill the position. The feeling at Langley is that there is, now; that you should get the job.”

  O’Farrell was astonished and had to call upon every last bit of his training not to show it. His mind raced. He would no longer be in the field, no longer required to kill. The most important consideration. No reduction in his income. Essential, with all the family demands. No abrupt overseas trips, so he’d always be available to sort out Ellen’s problems. What about drawbacks? He didn’t think … And then he did, brought up with a jolt. He said, “No, it doesn’t come out right at all, does it?”

  “I explained!” Petty insisted.

  “So explain it some more,” O’Farrell said. “Has my promotion already been decided? Or does it depend upon my finishing the Rivera assignment? No Spain, no promotion?”

  The looks were very obvious between Petty and Erickson. Petty poked into the bowl of his pipe with a pointed metal spike he took from the pipe rack. He said, “We’ve both been interviewed, separately and together. Both made it clear we very much want you on board.…”

  “You’ve got to believe that!” Erickson said. “We really do want you here. It would be a terrific team.…”

  “But no decision has been reached?” O’Farrell asked.

  Petty shook his head. “No.”

  “Nor will it be if I refuse the Rivera assignment?” Why had he been so contemptuous earlier of the ambiguities? Why didn’t he say “kill” or “murder”?

  “That doesn’t necessarily follow,” Petty said. “It shouldn’t affect any decision.”

  “Shouldn’t,” O’Farrell said. “But it will.”