O'Farrell's Law

by Brian Freemantle

  “I loved Mama,” the child declared.

  “I loved her, too,” Rivera said, for Jorge’s benefit.

  THIRTY-ONE

  NOTHING WAS as Rivera expected. He’d anticipated flying direct to Amsterdam, but they didn’t. They went—just he and Mendez—by train and cross-Channel ferry, and again not directly. From Calais, on a journey that required two changes, they traveled through France, going into Luxembourg at Namur and into Germany at Aachen. It was late into the evening before they reached Hannover.

  The hotel was very small and dirty, halfway along the Davenshedterstrasse. They went out to eat, choosing a restaurant at random. It was bad. Rivera started to feel vaguely unclean; his skin itched, particularly on his arms, and he went twice to the toilet to wash his hands.

  “Has all this really been necessary?” he demanded. Throughout the day he’d had to follow Mendez’s lead and he hadn’t enjoyed that, either. Mendez clearly had, every minute of it.

  “If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have insisted upon it,” said Mendez, almost insolently. “There are far more checks at airports than at train border crossings and you’ve no reason, official or unofficial, to be in Holland anyway. Isn’t it better for your presence to remain completely unknown?”

  “I suppose so,” Rivera said begrudgingly. “I expected more than just yourself.”

  “I’m not alone,” Mendez said. “There are to be others in Amsterdam.”

  “From London?”

  Mendez pushed away his largely uneaten meal. “Cuba itself. It’s safer that way.”

  Rivera felt the first flicker of apprehension. There might be a mistake and he, José Gaviria Rivera, might get caught up in an apparently squalid incident. Which wouldn’t remain squalid at all, once the investigation started.

  “You mean they’re special…?” Rivera’s voice ebbed away, in his search of the word.

  “Yes,” Mendez said helpfully. “What about protection? Belac, I mean. Does he have a lot of people around him?”

  Rivera considered the question, recognizing its implication. “Never,” he said, surprised now that he thought about it. “We’ve only ever met alone, just the two of us. And according to what he told me, he’s staying away from Brussels, where he might have some protectors, because of the American investigation. That’s why we’re meeting in Amsterdam.”

  Mendez gave a teeth-baring smile. “That’s good,” he said. “We’ll have to make sure, of course. But that sounds good.”

  The hotel sheets, white in a long distant past, were gray, and the narrow bath was stained and actually dusty from lack of use. Rivera slept remarkably well, the pillow covered with a clean shirt and the one towel between himself and where he lay. When he showered the following morning, the water created an instant grime scum around his feet from the dirt in the bath.

  The hotel in Amsterdam was much better. It was a pension on Wolvenstratt run by a Dutch doll of a woman, white-aproned, big-busted, and with a polished-apple face permanently creased by smiles. She allocated them adjoining rooms and hoped they found everything they wanted in Amsterdam. Rivera said he hoped so, too.

  It was a day of pale, near-autumn sunshine and warm breezes, perfect for a country of gardeners and flower growers. Rivera and Mendez found a pavement cafe between the canals, but the intelligence man insisted upon their sitting inside and at a table at the back.

  “Belac’s somewhere in Amsterdam,” Mendez said. “You’re not due to be here yet. Coincidence really does occur, sometimes. I don’t want to risk your being accidentally seen by the man.”

  Irritating though it was to be subordinate to Mendez, the man did appear to be consummately professional, Rivera admitted to himself. The diplomat nodded understanding and said, “So we’re here. What now?”

  “For you, very little until the meeting with Belac,” said Mendez. “I have to locate the others already here, although there’s little preparation we can make until you speak with Belac and make your arrangements.”

  “Shall I be involved in the planning?” Rivera tried to make the question natural enough, but he was anxious for the answer. What if the professionals from Cuba seized Belac, instead of what he expected them to do! The truth about the withheld money would emerge in minutes. How could he have been so stupid as to have tried to manipulate it as he had!

  “I’d prefer it if you weren’t, but it’s necessary,” Mendez said “They have to follow your lead; they’ve got to know you.”

  The warmth of the day, and their sitting inside rather than out in the air, could account for the perspiration bubbling on his upper lip, Rivera decided. He said, “What about me reason for their being here at all? And what they have to do? Do they know I have to recover something, before they move?”

  “They’ve been told Belac has cheated us, severely. But not how. Nothing at all about arms shipments. And nothing. either, about Belac’s part in what happened”—Mendez hesitated, considerately—“what happened in London.”

  Nothing about the money! Rivera thought hopefully. Nothing, that is, providing Mendez were telling the truth. He said, “Will our meeting be today?”

  “Tonight,” Mendez disclosed. He pushed a slip of paper across the table between them. Written on it was the address of a restaurant on Rapenburgerstratt. “There is a private dining room at the rear. Meet me there at seven.”

  An order instead of a request, Rivera thought. “Where are you going to be until then?”

  “Making contact,” Mendez said dismissively. “I’d like you to go back to Wolvenstraat and stay there, until it’s time to meet. And don’t shop on your way back, buy a gift or a souvenir for Jorge, for instance. There must be no visible record of your ever having been here.”

  Rivera did exactly what he was told. Back at Wolvenstraat he stood at the window of his room, staring out at the tree-lined street, watching the early buildup of the rush-hour traffic. After that he sat in the only easy chair until he became bored, which was very quickly, so he went back to the window again. The traffic was heavier, a line stretching back from what he assumed to be a canal bridge.

  Because of him—at his instigation—a man was going to die in a few hours, Rivera thought. It was an unreal feeling, now that the moment was almost here; difficult to rationalize. There was no guilt; no doubt, either. What then? He didn’t want to be part of it, not this close a part; he was a diplomat, not a thug. It made him feel dirty, like he’d felt in the German hotel. He was sweating again, too. Dear God, how glad he’d be when it was all over. Not just this. The ambassadorship and the London embassy and arms purchases: everything.

  The run of thoughts led him back to the last evening with Jorge. The totally unexpected reference to Estelle was important. It had been more than reference, in fact: a normal conversation. Rivera was relieved. He took it to mean that the shock, the need to block every memory out, was easing at last. He wouldn’t remark about it, of course. He’d continue letting Jorge set the pace. Rivera thought it was important, too, that Jorge wanted to go to Paris for his vacation, knowing it was to be their new home. Perhaps it wouldn’t be boring for the boy to house-hunt. Perhaps that’s what Jorge wanted, a decisive break from a house and from a city that held so much horror for him. Just as he wanted a decisive break. Rivera couldn’t think of anything he wanted to retain from his time in London, apart from his polo. He’d have to put some serious thought to that. Choose the appropriately prestigious club to approach, get the right sort of stabling for the ponies, ship them across well in advance of the season. He didn’t want to enter a new club with animals that were below form, unsettled by their trip.

  Rivera became claustrophobic long before the scheduled meeting and impulsively set out to walk to Rapenburgerstraat. Obedient to Mendez’s warnings not to buy anything, Rivera had no street map, but he found a public one on the side of a tourist stand near the canal bridge. It took him several minutes to locate the street he wanted; it seemed to be a long way away. He began walking purposefully, enjoying being out i
n the open again despite the onset of the evening’s chill, the canal a marker to guide him. Paris would be the place for shopping; Paris would be the place for many things.

  Rapenburgerstraat did appear to be a long way away, a much greater distance than he’d calculated from the map. He was beginning to feel the effort of unaccustomed walking and abruptly remembered Mendez’s further remark about a chance sighting by Belac. He looked almost nervously around for a taxi, relieved when he saw one near the Amstel Bridge.

  The traffic had eased by now, so Rivera arrived early at the restaurant. For a few moments he remained uncertainly on the pavement, feeling it would be a mistake to enter the private dining room early, to appear in the role of receiving the others. Instead, on the spur of the moment, he posed himself a personal, private test. There was a tree-shadowed bench just past the junction with the main road. Disregarding the chill, Rivera sat there, in the growing dusk, concentrating absolutely on the brightly lighted restaurant entrance, a Cuban sure he could identify other Cubans as they arrived. He remained there for half an hour, until 7:15, without picking out anyone. The panic was quick to grow. He had the name of the restaurant written on a piece of paper (have to destroy it later) so he couldn’t be mistaken. Where were they, then! Had something happened, to make it necessary for everything to be changed? What possibly could have happened, at this early stage? Nothing, Rivera thought, grasping for reassurance. Mendez had known where he was, until the last hour at least. The man could have telephoned if there’d been any change. Unless … Rivera stopped, his nervousness running ahead of his conjecture, unable to think unless what.

  There was an obvious way to find out.

  He hurried across the street and entered the restaurant. It was a huge, cavernous place so brightly lighted it made him squint, with all the tables jammed close together. It was already full, because the Dutch habitually eat early, and loud from the clatter of plates and bottles and glasses and the babble of everyone talking and laughing at once. The reservation desk was just inside the door, in front of a zinc-topped bar that stretched the entire length of the right-hand wall. A large section of that was given over to food, too, with most of the stools already occupied.

  Rivera was waved cursorily toward the rear and had to ask again before finding his way to the private room. Outside its door he hesitated, unsure whether to knock and then angrily dismissing the doubt. He entered without any warning but stopped again, just inside.

  An oval table, set for dinner, stood at the far side of the room. It had only one vacant place, at the very end. Mendez sat at the other end, the top, clearly in command. There were four other men, two of whom appeared to have stood hurriedly at the sudden opening of the door. All were completely nondescript, bland-suited, blank-faced. Rivera was sure none of them had entered while he’d watched from outside. He hadn’t seen Mendez, either. It didn’t matter. It had been a ridiculous, meaningless test.

  An intricately carved Dutch dresser dominated the wall to Rivera’s left. It was stocked with bottles, wine as well as liquor. Also displayed were salads and cheeses and cold meats. Being kept hot on a hot plate were four covered serving dishes.

  “We were wondering where you were,” said Mendez. “We’ve been waiting for you. To eat and to talk.”

  There was an obvious rebuke in the man’s voice. Rivera said, “I’m sorry,” feeling he had to, but wishing it were avoidable.

  There were no introductions and none of the men appeared the slightest bit interested in him. Mendez indicated the place at the far end of the table but at least poured Rivera’s wine. At the intelligence chief’s suggestion they served themselves food—Rivera declining anything. The talk quickly became a monologue, from Mendez. Rivera inferred as the man spoke that unlike himself and Mendez the four nameless men had flown directly into Amsterdam to spend time becoming familiar with the city’s geography. Whenever Rivera’s function entered the explanation. Mendez always referred to the ambassador as “him,” never once using a name or title.

  “Have you done anything about the telephone number he gave?” asked a man to Rivera’s right.

  Mendez shook his head. “It’ll be a public kiosk, easy enough to find,” he predicted. “Passersby usually answer a ringing telephone, and we could get the location that way. But it’s also a safeguard for Belac, although it’s pretty basic. All it takes is a few dollars to some kid to hang around to see if a call is made, to find out where it is, and Belac knows someone’s looking for it. And for him. It’s not worth the risk of frightening him off.”

  Looking between Mendez and Rivera, the same man said, “What if the meeting is somewhere very public?”

  “It doesn’t matter where it is,” Mendez said. Nodding in Rivera’s direction, he said, “You’ll be watching him. Once Belac gives him an envelope and leaves, you just follow the man: deal with him at the best time.”

  That wouldn’t work, Rivera realized. Belac was expecting an envelope from him, not the other way around! And wouldn’t go from the meeting without it. He said, “What if Belac asks me to go somewhere with him instead of making the exchange in the open?”

  Mendez gestured around the table. “They’ll be with you all the time. But don’t remain a moment longer than you have to; you have to get away, to distance yourself, as quickly as possible.”

  “I know that,” Rivera said. He was sweating again, the familiar hollowness deep in his gut. It wasn’t going to work! he thought. It had seemed so easy, so plausible, in London. But not now. And there was nothing he could do about it now! He was trapped!

  “Are we to move if there is no exchange?” asked a man nearer to Mendez.

  Rivera at once saw that the possibility had not occurred to the intelligence chief and he enjoyed the other man’s discomfort, despite his own. At the same time he saw a wisp of hope, a way to extricate himself. Before Mendez could reply, Rivera said, “No! That’s to be the signal. No one is to move until the envelope is passed over.” It was still a desperate gamble, probably impossible if Belac wanted to meet during the day, but it was a chance and he had to seize any chance he saw. Or imagined he saw.

  Mendez was slightly flushed at a decision being taken away from him. Rivera stared at the man, waiting for the challenge, but eventually the intelligence chief said, “That’s right. No move until that’s done.”

  There was more general discussion in which Rivera took no part, talk about contact procedures and methods of recognition, and Rivera sat listening and looking at the quiet men grouped around the table. I’m sitting with killers, he thought, men who take other men’s lives, as a job. More unreality. The voice of Mendez broke into his reflection: “There’s nothing more to discuss until tomorrow.”

  The four showed no sign of leaving, but Mendez rose, and Rivera rose with him. There were nods among them, but otherwise no farewells.

  “That wasn’t how I imagined something like this being done,” Rivera said. He hadn’t known how to imagine it.

  “Something like this?” Mendez asked, not understanding.

  “Planning … planning the sort of thing that we were.”

  “Why not?” The man shrugged. “What better way to gather a group together without suspicion than at a party in a restaurant?”

  “Party?”

  “The manager, the staff, were told it was a retirement celebration.” Mendez looked both ways along the street, waving for a taxi. As they went by the bench upon which Rivera had sat, trying to identify the Cubans entering the restaurant, Mendez said, “Weren’t you cold, sitting there as long as you did?”

  Rivera, his face burning, didn’t reply. There was nothing to say.

  There had been a lot of unexpected changes in a very short time, most of them to the good. The tense farewell conversation with Jill, in Chicago, had been the only practical upset and O’Farrell didn’t feel as badly about that as he normally might have done. He would have liked, somehow, to tell her why he’d made the decision to go away at this time; how important it was to h
er and the family. To all of them. But as with so much else it would never be possible. Not completely. He guessed he could talk about the most dramatic development, his official and impressive-sounding promotion ostensibly within the State Department. Special Financial Adviser.

  O’Farrell fastened his seat belt for the Madrid landing, letting the title echo in his head, enjoying it. With every reason for enjoyment. Tinged with relief, although that was vague in his mind and he was letting it stay that way. This wasn’t another meaningless title, like so many in Washington. This represented an official, provable position within the government, something he’d never had before. Not with this job, anyway. He’d had it in the army, even when he was attached to Special Forces. Known there was authority, legality, behind him. Now he had it again. He wasn’t on his own anymore; no longer deniable. It gave him the same rank and the same financial grading as Petty and Erickson. According to Petty, at the meeting just before he’d left Washington, his elevation to join them in Lafayette Square was inevitable, although it still had to be confirmed.

  The arrival was announced. O’Farrell gathered up his flight bag and ensured that his briefcase was secure. It contained one of the other surprises, possibly that last revelation he’d ever expected about his great-grandfather. O’Farrell had stuffed the latest material from the historical society into his briefcase at the very moment of walking out of die Alexandria house, to read during me flight, and come across the article very near the top of the pile. He’d thought, initially, it might become the centerpiece of his collection, because it was the only full interview with the man he’d ever discovered.

  The astonishment—and O’Farrell genuinely had been astonished—came halfway through. There it was, in black and white, in the man’s own words: he’d grown to dislike the role of lawman. The explanation was rambling and badly formed—but then wasn’t his own?—and O’Farrell was chilled by the uncomfortable parallels. The old man had talked about the unsound laws of the time. And evidence he considered insufficient to obtain safe and proper convictions under those laws. The most chilling disclosure of all was the one O’Farrell found the easiest to understand. The fear that maybe once—and once was all it had to be—the wrong man, an innocent man, might be sentenced to death.