O'Farrell's Law

by Brian Freemantle

  O’Farrell collected his bags from the carousel, passed unhindered through Customs, and quickly got a taxi to the city. He’d never had that problem, he thought, the familiar reassurance. Never an innocent man. The Vietnamese had been guilty, and the PLO hijacker had been guilty—convicted out of his own mouth—and Leonid Makarevich had been the most guilty of all. With Makarevich the cliché really did fit: that time assassination really had saved lives.

  As he began to enter die city, O’Farrell felt the first stir of unease but was not perturbed by it. It wasn’t like the London uncertainties. Or even before, when he really started drinking. There was an objective, professional reason here. This time it had to be hurried—everything planned and completed in less than a week—without the normal allowance for preparation. And O’Farrell, the pattern-and-habit man, didn’t like any departure from normal. He hoped it would all be okay when he became accustomed to the place: became acclimatized.

  Even the usual changes of accommodation wouldn’t be possible. His hotel was the Tirol, on the Calle de Princesa, a wide, horn-echoing highway; O’Farrell wished it were quieter. The last time, he consoled himself; just a few days and then never again. He was a Senior Financial Adviser now, a man with an accredited position.

  The CIA station chief at the American embassy was a cheerful man. red-faced from obvious blood pressure, named Dick Lewis. He acknowledged Washington’s advice of O’Farrell’s arrival but carefully scrutinized O’Farrell’s documentation before handing over the material Langley had instructed him to collate.

  “Been working for weeks on this goddamned conference.” said the man. It was a complaint without any real feeling, the predictable moan of the local operative against faraway headquarters who never understood. “Can’t understand what’s so important about it.”

  “You know what Washington bureaucracy is like,” O’Farrell commiserated, entering into the required performance. From Petty he knew there was a twenty-strong contingent coming from the Commerce Department, with some observers from die World Bank. He said, “I very much appreciate your getting all this together for me.”

  Lewis flicked dismissively at the manila package. “What you wanted was easy,” he said. “You very much involved, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “You shouldn’t ask,” O’Farrell said. “Actually I’m only caught up peripherally. I’m going to have to use communications later. Ship some stuff in, too, in the diplomatic bag.”

  “That’s my job,” Lewis said. “Postmaster to the free world. You gonna have time for a drink or dinner while you’re here, maybe?”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know,” O’Farrell said, avoiding the outright refusal. He said, “What’s the Spanish security like? Adequate?”

  “I’d choose another side to fight a war with,” Lewis said. “I feel sorry for them, though. There’re the Basques, in the north, fighting a separatist campaign. Virtually the same thing with Catalan, in the east. With this international conference in the middle, like a ripe plum.”

  “You expect trouble, then?” O’Farrell asked.

  “I’d lay odds,” Lewis said. “They’re calling on the army and Christ knows what else, but they still can’t cover everything. The shit’ll hit the fan somewhere, believe me, or Mama didn’t call me dick after the size of my appendage.”

  Lewis was telling him nothing he had not learned from the final meeting with Petty. It was another reason for O’Farrell to be worried. He hadn’t operated in a situation like this before, with security authorities anticipating an outrage. He hadn’t ever operated with security authorities on alert, in fact. He said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Anytime,” Lewis said. “Don’t forget that drink.”

  The local embassy package consisted entirely of maps and plans and sketches and memoranda, most included to disguise those with which O’Farrell was truly concerned: the plans of the Cuban embassy, and those of the official residence of the Cuban ambassador to Spain, where Rivera was to stay; the protected routes to and from the conference hall; the plans of the conference hall itself; and the timings for the delegates’ movements. It was fortunate, O’Farrell supposed, that America’s participation had given them access to all this advance information. O’Farrell added a detailed map of the center of the city and with it traced the routes, thoroughly acquainting himself with the locations of the buildings.

  Even before reconnoitering on foot, O’Farrell instinctively knew it was going to be difficult, the most difficult yet. Everything was too wide open, too public. Not enough time to prepare chanted through his mind. Security everywhere. Army contingents too.

  O’Farrell stored and locked all the documentation in his briefcase and sat for several moments staring at it, the doubts jostling for importance in his mind. Abruptly, without warning, he was convulsed by a shudder, his arms and legs visibly vibrating. It hadn’t gone, he knew. Despite Lambert’s reasoned arguments and logical persuasion—the arguments and the logic he’d said he could accept and really thought he had—O’Farrell recognized the fact that he hadn’t been convinced at all.

  That he couldn’t do it.

  But he had to do it. All he had at the moment was a title, three fatuous words. And he wouldn’t get it, not until he completed this assignment. However much Petty might protest and posture, it had been an ultimatum; was still an ultimatum.

  O’Farrell sighed, very deeply. With so little time he should go out now, tonight, to begin the reconnoiter at once. He decided upon a drink instead. Maybe two.

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE LINE was engaged. Rivera stood in the public kiosk, tightly controlling his nervousness, the busy signal mocking in his ear. He’d tensed himself to hear Belac’s voice, half thought of the words to say in reply to finalize their meeting. He had never considered a busy signal. It was an understandable setback if he were calling a public kiosk as Mendez guessed, but it disturbed him. As frightened as Rivera was, everything had omens and this was not a good one. He replaced the receiver and pressed the lever to regain his money, shrugging to Mendez beyond the glass. The intelligence chief was the nearest to him, with the others close at hand: two sat in a café just across the road, drinking coffee, and two were leaning against the canal rail, but were looking back toward him. Rivera’s most vivid childhood memory was his reluctant appearance in a school drama production, exposed upon a stage before what at the time had seemed hundreds of people. He’d hated it and forgotten his lines and made a fool of himself; he could remember still his embarrassment and felt it again now, the object of attention from an audience judging his performance.

  He dialed again, fleetingly wondering whether he’d called the wrong number on the first occasion, although he didn’t think he had. It was still busy. Every digit had been correct that time. He recovered his money again and shrugged once more at Mendez.

  The intelligence chief came right up to the kiosk, frowning. Before the man could speak Rivera said, “It’s engaged.”

  “Engaged? Or out of order?”

  Rivera’s stomach lurched at the thought of not being able to establish contact at all; there were too many implications in that for his disordered mind to assimilate. “Engaged,” he said uncertainly.

  “Try again.”

  Rivera did. and this time it rang clear. Rivera’s feelings switchbacked from apprehension to relief and immediately back to apprehension. Mendez remained close to him, close enough perhaps to hear the conversation and Rivera wasn’t sure he could risk that. Telephone in hand, he looked pointedly at the intelligence man, who stared back challengingly. He didn’t move.

  “Yes?” It was Belac’s voice.

  “I rang at the arranged time,” Rivera said. With Mendez so near he would be performing: to Mendez, if the man could hear, he had to sound demanding—the wronged and cheated person recovering millions—and to Belac he had to appear misunderstood, even conciliatory, wanting to hand the millions over. Rivera turned his back upon Mendez, trying for a position that would make what was said a
s indistinct as possible. And then thought of another escape; the switchback climbed toward relief again. He’d never liked switchbacks, even as a kid: they’d made him feel sick then, too.

  “Someone was using it,” the Belgian said, not bothering with any fuller explanation.

  Belac had spoken in English and Rivera had responded automatically in English. But they’d usually conversed in French! And throughout the journey across France and then here Mendez had shown no knowledge of the language. Reverting to it at once, Rivera said, “This cloak-and-dagger business is absurd.”

  “I’m imposing the rules,” Belac said, confident he was able to do just that. “You got the letter of credit?”

  Thank God die man had answered in French! Rivera said, “I want to meet and get the whole thing settled.” He decided that sounded sufficiently aggressive, even if Mendez could understand.

  “I’m glad to hear it at last,” Belac said.

  Rivera’s nerves were too tightly stretched for the other man’s arrogance to upset him; he was scarcely aware of it. He said, “We’re supposed to be fixing a meeting.”

  “I’ve got to be careful, like I told you,” Belac said. “I can’t risk the possibility that you might have been followed by the Americans, to get me.”

  If only you knew, Rivera thought. He managed a definite sigh into the mouthpiece. “I wasn’t followed to Paris and I haven’t been followed here. What do you want, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Not for you to lose your temper, for a start,” Belac said.

  “I’m waiting,” Rivera said, refusing to be goaded.

  “Don’t you think Amsterdam is a beautiful city?”

  “Yes,” Rivera said flatly, accepting the fact that he had to go along with the other man.

  “I’ve decided we should see it, you and I. The way the tourists see it, that is. There’s a canal-boat dock near where Nieuwe Spiegel Straat goes over the Keizers Canal. Make the six o’clock departure; we can see the city lit up for the night.”

  “Yes,” Rivera said, shortly again. He’d tried to guess how Belac would stage the encounter, of course; a canal trip had never even entered his mind. It could hardly be more public, encapsulated with God knows how many others! It would definitely be impossible for Mendez—for any of them—to make a move against the man in surroundings like that! He said, “How long’s the trip?”

  “Why’s that important?” Belac snapped back at once.

  “No reason.” Rivera stumbled, regretting the careless question. He was finding it difficult to hold single, sensible thoughts; three or four words would come into his mind but then drift away, and others, unconnected, would get in the way when he tried to call them back.

  “You in a hurry to keep another appointment?”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Rivera said, retreating further. Please don’t let Mendez speak French, because this wasn’t forceful or demanding at all!

  There was a silence from the other end of the line, so protracted that Rivera suddenly thought the other man had disconnected. He said, “Hello! You there!” and wished he hadn’t when Belac said. “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “I’ll be at the dock at six o’clock,” Rivera said briskly, trying to recover.

  “A little before six o’clock,” the other man stipulated. “It’s a popular trip this time of the year. Don’t want to find we can’t get on, do we?”

  “A little before,” Rivera agreed.

  They gathered around the café table, all of them listening in various attitudes of attention as Rivera set out the arrangements.

  “Careful bastard,” Mendez said when the ambassador finished.

  “Could be clever, too,” said one of the others.

  “Nothing will be possible aboard a packed canal boat, will it?” Rivera said.

  “It will still provide an identification,” Mendez reassured him. “That’s all that matters.”

  Desperately Rivera wished that really were all that mattered; he’d never be able to spend any length of time with Belac—a few minutes even—without Belac demanding some sight of the money draft.

  “These boats don’t let passengers off during the tour,” said one of the Cubans, showing the benefit of their extra day’s reconnaissance, but further unsettling Rivera. “So he’ll disembark at Nieuwe Spiegel, where he started.”

  “Good area?” Mendez queried.

  “Adequate,” the spokesman said. “I’ve known better.”

  “We need to look at it in detail, now we’ve got a definite location,” Mendez said. “Divide into two pairs, positively no contact with each other. Tourist cover: cameras, travel bags, maps, stuff like that. I’ll split separately again.”

  Rivera let the planning talk swirl around him. only half listening. There was so much that could go wrong! So many assumptions that could be mistakenly drawn. Why had he—Rivera stemmed the familiar demand, the mental whine of self-pity; it wasn’t a question to which he’d find any better answer than he had already. Rivera was aware of everyone except Mendez standing up from the table and brought his attention back to the group, but again, as on the previous night, there were no farewell gestures.

  “There’s not a lot for you to do for a few hours,” Mendez said. “You might as well get something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Rivera said. The sickness was in fact bubbling within him, threatening to erupt. He hoped he could control it.

  “You all right?” Mendez asked solicitously. The concern was not for Rivera himself but for any difficulty arising in the part the ambassador had to play.

  “I’m fine,” Rivera said, wishing he were.

  He remained at the table after the other Cuban left, forcing another coffee upon himself to claim occupancy. After that he wandered without direction or awareness of his surroundings, occupied entirely in the self-justifying inward debate necessary to steel himself for what was to come. It shouldn’t be difficult pinpointing Belac for retribution, after what the bastard had done. Wrong to be nervous. Wrong to be frightened. Positively dangerous, in fact, because if he were frightened he’d make mistakes he couldn’t risk making. Fumble the supposed envelope exchange, to make Mendez curious maybe. Or worse, by his attitude, alert Belac that he was being targeted. Give the man the chance to escape. He couldn’t let that happen; it was inconceivable that Belac should escape. So he had to stay calm. Calm and controlled. Not difficult, he told himself again. Belac was a killer. The man had murdered Estelle; arranged it at least. Thrown Jorge into shock. And cheated. Or tried to cheat. Been caught, though. Now came the punishment. Not, actually, his decision. Havana’s decision. The correct one, of course. Belac deserved everything that was coming to him, everything and more.

  It was a clock striking that brought Rivera out of himself: the sound, reminding him that time was important, not the hour itself, which he was too late to catch. He checked his own watch, saw it was a quarter past five, and stared around, with no idea where he was. The taxi driver spoke bad English but better French, although there was still some difficulty before the man properly understood the destination. Rivera rode on the edge of his seat, arm held so he could constantly see the time. He shouldn’t have left it so late! Stupid to have wandered so long and so far, without concentrating upon what he was doing! He should have—Stop it! he told himself. No panic. Plenty of time. Remain calm. Controlled.

  It was past the half hour when they reached the landing stage, a well-organized tourist attraction with metal rails arranged to channel customers into an orderly line toward the tickets and the glass-roofed boats beyond. Except there was no line. A board promised a six o’clock departure, and as he entered the metaled walkway Rivera saw there was a boat already waiting. It appeared moderately filled, perhaps slightly less than half the seats occupied. Rivera purchased his ticket and had it punched at the gangway and bent forward to enter the viewing deck. It was entirely upon one level, benches and seats running the complete width apart from the aisle breaks. The glass canopy spanned from rail to
rail, giving a panoramic view apart from the thin support ribs, which caused hardly any obstruction.

  Mendez was in a rear seat, immediately inside the door, so that he had a full view of the observation area. Another Cuban whom Rivera recognized was three rows ahead, on the same side. A second was much nearer the front.

  Rivera edged forward to a seat five rows short of the leading Cuban, liking the layout of the boat. He put his coat down to reserve the seat beside him. Any conversation or exchange between himself and Belac would be more difficult for the others to monitor than he’d imagined!

  “It was good of you to reserve me a seat.”

  Belac spoke in French, taking his lead from that morning’s conversation. He was hatless but wore a light raincoat and carried a tourist map. Rivera nodded his head and moved his coat. Belac sat without removing his.

  “I watched you arrive,” the arms dealer said.

  “By myself,” Rivera said. Was his feeling revulsion? Or fear? Revulsion, he assured himself. He had nothing to fear from this man.

  “It would seem so.”

  “How long are you going on like this, dodging around Europe?” Rivera asked.

  “For a while yet,” Belac confided. “I know the system. At the moment they’re trying to make a case for another indictment. So they want to know where I am, hoping to lure me somewhere to be arrested. The search will slacken off when someone else becomes more important.”

  “You’re certainly very careful.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I was when we first met?”

  “I don’t remember,” Rivera said. “Maybe.”

  “What happened to your wife was terrible,” Belac said almost formally. “You have my sympathy.”

  How could he do it! Rivera thought, incredulous; how could Belac sit there and parrot the words when he’d been the instigator! There wasn’t the nervousness he’d feared; no threatening sickness, either. Rivera decided it was going to be easy leading this man to his destruction. He said, “Thank you.” His voice was calm, controlled, just like it was supposed to be.