O'Farrell's Law

The car started, first time, and O’Farrell drove a roundabout route, not taking the roads that would bring him past Rivera’s house again. The constables might note the number of a car driving so late. And he had a feeling beyond the need for such caution. He didn’t want any association, not even the association of driving by again. It was over. Finished. He was going home.

Petty considered the FBI debacle reason enough to suggest another meeting with McCarthy, although he didn’t say that when he called to arrange it. The Plans director of the CIA said he thought they did have things to talk about, although his schedule was blocked out for lunch for a month. Petty suggested the rooftop bar of the Washington Hotel for an evening drink, and McCarthy agreed at once; had Petty seen what the Post had written after its summer reopening a few weeks back? Petty said he hadn’t.

Petty arrived early, to get a suitably private table near the rail before the usual cocktail invasion, wondering if his ulcer would resist the happy-hour snacks that were available. Those he could see seemed to be in a fair amount of sauce, so he postponed any decision. He asked the waitress, hopefully, if pipe smoking were permitted and was told no. He ordered mineral water.

McCarthy arrived late, bustling expectantly past the line that had formed, confident Petty would have a table and ignoring the hostile looks from the people waiting.

The wickerwork seat creaked under his weight. “Kept you long?” he asked, the nearest he’d get to an apology.

“Not at all,” Petty said.

The Plans director signaled for a waitress, ordering a Bloody Mary. Gesturing to the Treasury Building and the White House beyond, and then encompassing the monument as well, McCarthy said, “Great view, isn’t it? That’s one of the things the Post said. Great view.”

“Great,” said Petty. He could actually see the spot where he’d briefed O’Farrell; it seemed a long time ago.

Their drinks were served, and the waitress left. McCarthy said, “Didn’t work out at all well in California, did it?”

“Many recriminations?” Petty asked.

“Practically a permanent tribunal,” McCarthy said, drinking noisily. “We can’t feel very good over it, though. Our guys fell on their ass in Brussels.”

“Picked him up yet?”

McCarthy shook his head. “He’ll have gone back into the woodwork now.”

“What about O’Farrell?” Petty asked. “I could have one of the surveillance teams make contact if you wanted to call it off; we’ve let him run, but we know from the early days the places where he’s staying.”

McCarthy gestured for refills, shaking his head against the suggestion as he turned back to the other man. “That’s why I wanted to see you. So far the score for our side is zero.…” He nodded in the direction of the White House. “At the moment everyone is down the toilet together; a success would be good for us*. You spoken?”

“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, Jose Rivera, went to their BMW car to get it closer to the house to pick up their son, Jorge, to deliver him to the lycee. 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. Senor 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.