O'Farrell's Law

it.”

Although the limousine was already almost to the Beltway, O’Farrell said, “Shouldn’t we tell the driver…?” and then trailed away, in belated awareness. “Where am I going?”

“Fort Pearce,” Petty said. “We need to debrief you. Give you a few days’ rest as well … just a few days.”

O’Farrell knew Fort Pearce; years ago—he couldn’t recall exactly when—he’d attended a couple of advanced training courses there on behind-the-lines survival. It was officially designated an army installation but in reality it was a CIA complex, mostly for warfare and sabotage instruction. He said, “So I’m being locked up in the stockade?”

“Of course you’re not,” Erickson said without conviction. “It’s a debriefing, that’s all. And the people at Fort Pearce have the highest clearance, so it’s the most obvious and convenient place.”

O’Farrell didn’t believe it. He wondered, although without any fear, what was going to happen to him. Whatever, he deserved it. He said, “How long is a few days?”

“Two … three …” Petty started.

“Whatever. A few days …” Erickson said.

“What then?” O’Farrell demanded.

“Let’s get the debriefing over first.” Petty said.

Erickson indicated the liquor cabinet recessed between the jump seats. “You want a drink?”

“No,” O’Farrell said at once. He squinted through the darkened windows of the car, but could not gauge where they were. “I’m not going to become unreliable,” he said, and at once regretted the remark. It sounded as if he were scared, which he wasn’t, not yet.

“We know that!” Petty said.

“Not even a consideration,” Erickson added.

“Just important to get you fit again,” Petty said.

The back-and-forth delivery seemed to be ingrained, thought O’Farrell. Annoyed at being patronized, he began, “I’m not …” but stopped, deciding it wasn’t worth the bother. He wished he’d taken Erickson’s offered drink, although he was proud that he’d held back. Would Fort Pearce be dry? He couldn’t remember from his previous visits, although he doubted this was going to be anything like his previous visits. He said, “You debriefing me?”

Petty shook his head. “There are experts at Fort Pearce.”

“Specialists,” Erickson finished.

“In what?” O’Farrell demanded pointedly.

“Everything.” Petty was avoiding him once more.

How much O’Farrell would have liked, just once, to have trapped the man, talked him into a corner and pinned him into some definite commitment. Feeling it was time—and surprised they hadn’t prompted him into it in their ventriloquist’s act—O’Farrell said, “It was a disaster. I know it was a disaster.…”

Petty raised his hand, stopping the apology. “Not now …” the section head said.

“Better later …”

“More appropriate …”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“We do …”

“Completely …”

The vehicle slowed and O’Farrell saw they were at the gates of Fort Pearce, the driver already going through the identification and entry formalities. O’Farrell would have expected the passengers to be checked, but they weren’t. The car went on for quite a long way inside the complex, wending along roads between barracks-type buildings, before stopping. When O’Farrell emerged, it was into an area he did not know from his other visits. They stood before a white-painted, clapboard building styled like barracks but taller, two storeys. The bottom floor was encircled by a covered veranda reached by steps wide enough for two or three people to climb abreast. But they didn’t. Petty led, O’Farrell followed, waved forward, with Erickson at the rear. The prisoner was under close escort, thought O’Farrell. There was a guard at the entrance, and Petty made the identification before leading on with apparent familiarity down the wide, polished-clean corridor. All the doors leading onto it were closed and there was no noise from behind any of them. Halfway down was a bulletin board forlornly bare of any notices. O’Farrell realized that after all the drinking he needed a bathroom. He looked around for one; none of the doors were designated or marked, not even with numbers.

Petty entered one practically at the end. It led into an unexpectedly expansive office whose occupant was already standing, smiling, in front of his desk. O’Farrell stared at the man curiously. He looked impossibly young, practically college age. He nodded to Petty and Erickson, previous acquaintances, but held out his hand to O’Farrell. “Lambert, John Lambert,” he said. “And you’re Charles O’Farrell. Is it Charles or Chuck?”

“It varies,” O’Farrell said. It sounded like a cocktail-party greeting and Lambert actually seemed dressed for one in his subdued Ivy League suit, pin-collared shirt, and inconspicuous club tie. Lambert wouldn’t be his real name; probably adopted just for this encounter. The man’s nose wrinkled against the pervading tobacco smell.

“Want you to understand something,” Petty said. “John’s cleared for everything. He knows what you do and all about Rivera and the accident with his wife.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” O’Farrell said quietly. He knew now why the two men had met him at Dulles Airport. Lambert had to be personally introduced and guaranteed, by people he trusted, for the debriefing to progress at all. He guessed Lambert was a psychologist more highly cleared than Symmons, one of the get-your-head-right brigade. The man really did look young.

“We’ll get to that in time,” Lambert said dismissively. “Not now. You’ll be bushed after the flight.”

How much of the tiredness was genuine fatigue and how much was alcohol-induced? O’Farrell wondered. He said, “I’m okay.”

“Tomorrow’s soon enough,” Lambert said. “Let’s get settled in first.”

Petty and Erickson, their function fulfilled, looked at each other, and Petty said, “We’ll be getting back. We’ve got a drive.”

“A few days,” O’Farrell said, sufficiently sober now to be unsettled by what was happening. It never had before, after any previous mission. But then, he reminded himself, no previous mission had ended like this one.

“That’s what we’re talking about,” Petty said.

Why was the talk like this: the casual chitchat of a cocktail party! Why weren’t they talking about a blown-apart woman named Estelle Rivera who had a well-mannered, cute little kid who’d missed being blown apart with her only by a fluke, because a car had been parked in an inconvenient place and it was raining?

“I killed someone!” O’Farrell yelled, so unexpectedly loud that Erickson, by the door, jumped. “I murdered an innocent person!”

“Easy now, easy,” Lambert soothed. “Not tonight. Later.”

“Why’s everyone avoiding it, as if it never happened! Why later?”

“No one’s avoiding it,” Lambert said, still soothing. “We’ll talk it all through, you and me, tomorrow.”

Another twenty-four hours—twelve at least—for them to discover if he’d left any trace? A possibility, O’Farrell knew. What would they do to him if he had, if there were the likelihood of the whole mess becoming a public disaster? He shifted, unsettled; the business of these men was killing potential embarrassment, wasn’t it? Wrong, perhaps, to erupt as he had. Could he back down without appearing to do so? He said, “What will the result be, after we’ve talked it all through?” and wished he’d thought of something better, something stronger.

“We won’t know that until we’ve talked, will we?” said Lambert, making a perceptible gesture for the other two men to leave. “Let’s go see where you’re going to bunk down.”

Despite the suggestion, it wasn’t a bunk. It was a bed in a single room a little farther along the same corridor. There were built-in closets and a private bathroom, a remote-controlled television, and Newsweek and Time on a table separating two easy chairs. Like every motel room in which he’d ever stayed, O’Farrell thought. He was glad to see the bathroom.

“Anything you want—food, booze, anything—just pick up the phone and tell the operator,” Lambert said.

There were two phones, one beside the bed, the second on the magazine table. O’Farrell saw that neither had a dialing mechanism. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the man had just slightly stressed the word “booze” when he’d made the offer. Testing, O’Farrell said, “It was a long flight. I wouldn’t mind walking around a little.”

Lambert grimaced, a man imparting rules he hasn’t made and doesn’t approve. “There’s not been time to get