“Been promised a good table inside,” McCarthy assured him. “So why don’t we have another drink first?”
“I’ll stay with this.” There was so far no protest from the ulcer but Petty knew it was too soon to tell.
McCarthy went to the bar and returned with his drink and menus. Petty studied his and said, “You really think it is rattlesnake they serve here?”
“Speciality of the house. What’s Erickson think?”
“Unsure, like me,” Petty said. “I think I’ll take the lamb; can’t risk anything too exotic with my stomach.”
“Lamb’s good, too. Unsure enough to change our minds?”
“That’s why I thought we should meet,” Petty said. “And maybe melon to start.”
“How about some wine?” McCarthy offered.
“Not more than a glass,” said Petty. “You didn’t mind me raising it, did you?”
“Glad you did,” McCarthy said. “I think I’ll take the rattlesnake and then the lamb, like you. They cook it pink. You mind it pink?”
“That’s the way it should be cooked,” Petty said. “I thought it was important we talk it through.”
“Sure.” McCarthy asked, “You like burgundy?”
“Only a glass,” Petty repeated.
McCarthy’s signal got an immediate response, and as he had promised, their table was discreetly in a corner and far enough away from anyone else to avoid any sort of eaves-dropping. McCarthy nodded his approval of the wine and they pulled back for the first course to be served. Once the waiter had left, McCarthy said, “What was his reaction to the Swiss stuff?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all he said?”
“Just that,” the section head confirmed. “So I asked him if there could be any doubt, anymore, and he said no, not anymore. That he was satisfied.”
“When’s he due to go?”
“Monday. He asked for the weekend to pack and I warned him everything had to be coordinated with the move against Belac, that he might have to wait.”
“What’s Symmons say?”
“Nothing definite,” Petty reported. “Just general unhappiness about the last two assessments.”
“This rattlesnake really is quite unusual,” McCarthy said. “You want to try a piece?”
“I’d better not, but thanks.” Petty had drunk less than half the wine, but already he was feeling the vaguest sensation from his stomach; not actual pain but a hint that it might come.
“Why the uncertainty?” McCarthy demanded.
“Symmons’s doubts, initially,” Petty said. “That, coupled with other things. The initial refusal, most of all. Both Erickson and I think that was quite inexplicable. Erickson thinks he was too heavy with the runner, Rodgers, but I don’t go along with that. Seemed fine to me.”
“Nothing else?”
“We’ve run tight surveillance on him. The watchers report he’s been drinking a bit. He’s been buying more gin than usual, to take home. Wine too. By the case.”
“Any sign of it affecting him?”
“None.”
“Perhaps he was giving a party?”
“We checked. He wasn’t,” Petty said.
Both men stopped talking while their lamb was served. McCarthy said, “Doesn’t that look terrific?”
“Terrific,” Petty agreed, declining the waiter’s offer to refill his glass.
“So that’s it?”
“The watchers discovered he’s tracing his ancestry. Found a great-grandfather who was an early lawman, out West.”
“How do they know?”
“He’s having some copying done, preserving some original newspaper clippings. A photograph too.”
“Nothing so unusual in that,” McCarthy said. “Lot of people are interested in their origins.”
“It was the tie-in with the lawman that intrigued me,” Petty said. “That’s the basic psychological justification, that what we do is always valid. That our people are surrogate lawmen.”
“Sure you don’t want any more wine?”
“Perhaps half a glass.” There hadn’t been any further discomfort.
“So it’s a coincidence,” McCarthy said. “How else do you read it?”
“Symmons can answer that better than I can.”
“Except that he can’t be asked the question without being told the reason.”
“I know that.”
“You want something else? Dessert maybe?” McCarthy, the considerate host, asked.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” Petty still felt okay but guessed he’d suffer later. He wished—his hands almost itched!—he could light up his pipe. “Coffee would be good.”
“Regular or decaf?”
“Decaf.” Regular coffee would have killed him.
McCarthy summoned the waiter and then, with unexpected insistence, said, “Run something by me again. What was all that business about with his mother and father?”
McCarthy knew as much about it as he did. Petty thought, curious at the demand. Obediently he said, “All pretty straightforward, really. His mother was Latvian; underwent some traumatic experience when she was a kid. Her mother was raped by Russian soldiers, then killed when they’d finished with her. The girl was brought here by her father, who became a drunk. Why not? Seems he thought himself a coward because he’d run away when the soldiers came into their village; hadn’t done anything to protect her. Kid married O’Farrell’s father when she was eighteen—he was a brewery worker in Milwaukee, two or three years older—and got involved in the Latvian protest movement against the Soviet Union, which to be charitable in the extreme isn’t worth a bucket of spit. In psychiatric treatment for depression by the time she was thirty; in and out of institutions, for a while. Declared completely cured by the usual bunch of jerks when she was forty. By then hubby has fought in Korea, got a Bronze Star and the Purple Heart, but has difficulty pinning them on because the war cost him his left arm. They scrimp by on his pensions, putting O’Farrell through college. He goes to Vietnam, exemplary conduct, which is how he comes to our notice. Been with us for seven years when one day she picks up this old gun, somehow loads the cartridges, and blows hubby away while he’s dreaming of better things. Then herself. But before she does that, she leaves a note saying it’s because she’s failed to make people realize what it had been like to be overrun by the Soviets.”
McCarthy appeared deep in thought, gazing sightlessly into his wineglass, but not drinking. All around, the aviary of the restaurant chattered and chirped, but the silence between them lasted so long that if Petty had not seen that the other man’s eyes were open—and that he occasionally blinked—he would have imagined McCarthy somehow to have fallen asleep or even into a coma. At last, his voice distant with continued reflection, the director of Plans said, “She was a Russian dissident, then?”
“Hardly,” Petty said, momentarily forgetting McCarthy’s legendary hatred of the Soviets and implacable distrust of the Gorbachev freedoms. “You know what these nationalist groups are like—a small room with a copier, lots of cigarette smoke, all the men with beards and all the women in cardigans talking about how different it would all be if they could get their hands on just one atom bomb. The reality is that they don’t count a bucket—”
“I heard you the first time,” McCarthy interrupted. “And I don’t disregard or sneer at genuine nationalist activity against Moscow.” Still to himself, but insistently, he said, “A dissident.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” McCarthy said, without offering to explain further. Sneider would have understood by now; seen the direction, at least. McCarthy doubted, though, that he would talk it through with his immediate deputy; better to keep things compartmentalized. He already knew it was a brilliant idea, if all the strands could be knitted together as they had to be. Makarevich, he remembered: that had been the name. Perhaps he would talk it through with Sneider after all. It was going to be a tricky one; tricky as hell.
The co
ffee arrived and McCarthy said, “Would you like a liqueur with that? Brandy or something?”
Petty heard a dismissive tone in the other man’s voice and decided he had made a mistake in requesting the meeting. He said, “We don’t seem to have gone any further forward.”
Petty expected some definite response, a decision even, but instead McCarthy turned the remark back. He said, “How much further could we take it at this stage?”
“You think we should proceed?” Petty asked openly, wanting to shift responsibility if anything went wrong.
Again McCarthy turned it back. “What do you think?”
He hadn’t shifted the responsibility at all, Petty saw. But then, how could he? There was no protection—no protection at all—in getting any sort of verbal assurance from this man. Petty said, “I think we should proceed.”
McCarthy grinned, the same sort of triumphant grin he’d shown earlier about pipe smoking. He said, “I’m glad that’s your recommendation.”
“It would be yours?” Petty asked, relieved.
“Unquestionably,” McCarthy said. “Absolutely without question.”
“I’m glad we agree,” Petty said, sincerely.
“But keep those watchers in place,” McCarthy said. “Particularly when the operation starts and he’s abroad.”
“Of course.” Perry’s relief was turning into a feeling of satisfaction.
“How’s Elizabeth and the kids?” McCarthy asked, in another abrupt shift of direction.
“Very well. Ann and your children?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said McCarthy. “Judy’s gotten into Miami University. Gus junior wants UCLA but I don’t know if he’s going to get in. It isn’t easy, I understand.”
“Kids are a worry, aren’t they?” Petty commiserated.
“Always a worry,” McCarthy agreed. “I’ve enjoyed the lunch.”
“Me too,” Petty said, knowing it was not a casual remark.
“We should do it again.”
“I’d like that.”
“Particularly when this gets under way. I want to be kept in close touch, all the time.”
McCarthy had never made such a direct request before. Petty said, “Of course.”
“Regards to Elizabeth,” McCarthy said.
“And mine to Ann.”
O’Farrell knew he should have gone up to Chicago, had known even when he’d made the excuses to Jill and then to Ellen, saying that there were too many things to do, when all it had amounted to was packing a suitcase, the work of an hour at the most. And he’d finished that a long time ago. In under an hour. There were the cars, of course: both his and Jill’s. He hadn’t cleaned them last weekend, either. He really didn’t feel like it. Too late now, anyway. Alexandria was packed with tourists at this time of the day, swarming up and down the streets. He’d leave them. For how long? An unanswerable question. As long as it took in London, however long that was. The file was very detailed. Rivera’s movements and habits charted, all the routine available. Shouldn’t take long. England is pretty efficiently policed. Who’d said that? He had, O’Farrell remembered. That day of the briefing at the Ellipse, with Petty and his stinking pipe and Erickson with his bald head that wasn’t really bald at all. Maybe not so quick then; dangerous to rush it and risk a mistake. He’d take his time, only move when he was absolutely sure. Certainly he had no doubt about Rivera’s guilt, now that the banking records were available. Guilty as judged, beyond any appeal; sentence duly returned to be carried out. For him to carry out. His job.
O’Farrell wished he had something else to do, to think about. He regretted now taking the archive to be copied. Jill could have done it while he was away, and it could have been waiting for him when he got back. Except that he’d wanted to do it himself, to explain how important it was that nothing was damaged. Jill could have done that just as well, of course. But the responsibility would have been hers then if anything had gone wrong. So it wouldn’t have been right, putting the burden on her. He would still have liked it to be here, though. Given him something to do: taken his mind off other things. No, not other things. Just one thing. He’d have to remember to ask Jill to pick the archive and the photograph up for him so it would all be here when he got back.
The martini pitcher was near at hand, still half-full because he’d made a big batch, and he topped up his glass. How was he going to do it? A premature question. Never able to decide until he’d carried out his own reconnaissance, trained better than anyone else to see the possibilities. What was there to think about then? Nothing. Should have gone up to Chicago. Except that he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to do anything but sit here in the den, hidden away, safe. But only for another few hours. Had a plane to catch in a few hours; less than a day. From National Airport, too. Not more than thirty minutes up the road. All so easy, so simple. Except … O’Farrell blinked, momentarily confused at the blurring in front of his eyes. And then the confusion became embarrassment and he was glad he was alone, hidden away, because he’d never want anyone to know how he’d broken down.
Lawmen didn’t cry, ever.
THIRTEEN
THE PROBLEM of being alone had always been just that. Being alone. Even when he was at home in Alexandria, apparently leading a normal life with Jill, there was always a feeling of being cut off, part of himself isolated and alone. Because it had to be that way. Always. He had not acknowledged it in the early days; he had certainly never understood how permanent the feeling would become. It was as if, in fact, he were two men. Charles William O’Farrell, faithful, loving husband and caring, loving father. And Charles William O’Farrell, unofficial, unrecognized government executioner. Neither knowing the other; neither, realized O’Farrell, extending the thought, wanting to know the other.
Of course he’d been aware of solitude in those early days, those assignments after Vietnam, after the careful, circuitous CIA suggestion mat he quit the regular army and serve his country another way.
Vienna the first time. January 1974. A bad month, operationally, because of the weather. Thick snow everywhere and the temperature hovering around freezing during the day and well below it after about four P.M., which made the necessary surveillance a problem because no one hung around on street corners or in doorways in conditions like that. His name had been Mohammad Mouhajer, and there had not been any doubt about his guilt, about why the sentence should be carried out, because the man had been paraded as a hero in Tripoli, leader of the PLO extremist group that hijacked a TWA plane and slaughtered ten Americans before blowing the aircraft up in front of selected television cameras. A freedom fighter, he’d been called. At a press conference he’d pledged himself to continue fighting to bring attention to the Palestinian cause. O’Farrell could even recall the translated phrase at that bombastic Libyan media event. It is inevitable that people must die. Inevitable, then, that Mouhajer had to die. His case was classic proof, in fact, of the doctrine preached at those top-secret training sessions at Fort Pearce and Fort Meade. Assassination saves lives. O’Farrell had spent two weeks watching the man’s every move, tracing his every contact. Mouhajer had been boastful, oversure of himself, never taking any precautions. A single shot from the car—a Kalashnikov rifle, a provable Soviet bullet—as the man walked along the Naglergasse near midnight, the weather now a positive advantage because it was five degrees below and no one was on the street.
Alone then, but not a difficulty. Only away three weeks. He’d taken a leather purse back for Jill, a dirndl-dressed doll for Ellen, and a mechanical car for John.
How was Vienna, darling?
Pretty. I’ll have to take you sometime.
I’d like that.
There’d been a connection with Vienna the second time: March 1975. Paris. The name this time had been Leonid Makarevich, although they discovered at least four aliases during the investigation. A KGB major, the guns-and-bombs delivery man for the terrorist groups. A similarity with the current operation, O’Farrell supposed. The proof was
that Makarevich had supplied the explosives for the TWA bombing and O’Farrell recognized the Russian immediately from the photographs; he was the man with whom Mouhajer had conducted three meetings in Vienna. Assassination saves lives. True. Always true. He wouldn’t be doing it, if it weren’t true and justified, would he? Ridiculous self-doubt. A more complicated operation evolved when O’Farrell disclosed the Vienna information. More planning was necessary, too, because Makarevich was a professional who took no chances, always trying to clear his trail, aware of everything around him. The rule was that the method should be left to O’Farrell, but now a shooting was ordered, because the death had to tie in with Mouhajer’s. On the street again, as Makarevich left the Hotel Angleterre, the weapon and the bullet as before: it had to appear tit-for-tat. O’Farrell had nothing to do with the anonymous telephone call to the hotel, supposedly from the PLO, talking of revenge. Or the planted stories in the CIA-controlled media—not in America, but in Italy and France itself—which were picked up and reported in the rest of the world’s press, recounting a supposed feud between Moscow and the PLO. In fact, a rift actually did develop, because neither believed the other’s denial of involvement in the two killings.
A Hermes scarf on this occasion for Jill, another nationally dressed doll for Ellen, a penknife for John.
Is Paris prettier than Vienna, darling?
I think so.
I’d like to see that, too.
One day we’ll go.
They never had, though. Would he ever bring her here to London? O’Farrell wondered, as the airport bus left the motorway to become clogged in the morning rush-hour traffic. He doubted it. The decision to avoid all the operational places had been unconscious, until now. He never wanted to return anywhere he’d worked professionally, never wanted to be reminded by a street he’d walked, a building he’d passed, a restaurant where he’d eaten. Alone.
He was alone now. Had to be. The unseen, never-there man. Coming into the city by bus was the necessary initial move, mingling with a crowd and not risking a taxi. From the city terminal, garment bag in hand, he walked three streets before hailing one, changing transport this time because a person boarding a town bus with a suitcase is remembered. He paid the cab off in Courtfield Road and waited until it disappeared into Earls Court before setting out again to lose himself, crossing the Cromwell Road in the direction of Kensington but soon stopping short, locating the ideal guest house just past Cottesmore Gardens. The owner was a thin-faced, weak-eyed man who greeted O’Farrell in shirt sleeves and offered him the choice of a front or back room. O’Farrell chose the back and paid in cash for three nights, saying that he was on an economy vacation and would be going north, to Edinburgh, by the middle of the week. He was asked to enter his own registration, in an exercise-book type ledger. He used the name Bernard Hepplewhite, the First of the four aliases that had been decided upon, and said he would not be needing any food, not even breakfast.
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