O'Farrell's Law

query. Could this, in fact, be that query? Unlikely, Rivera reassured himself. This wasn’t the level of first inquiry; this was far more serious.

Since Estelle’s death, Rivera had established a new routine with Jorge, arranging his ambassadorial commitments so that he could spend three evenings a week with the boy, and they ate together as often as possible. Tonight had been one of the three evenings, but whatever was coming from Havana took priority. He telephoned Maxine to tell her there was a possibility of his being delayed for dinner. She was to apologize to Jorge and hold the meal as long as possible, but perhaps no later than 8:30. He’d call again if he could.

Rivera had made the call on his private line; that phone sat now on his desk, a taunting reminder. Where the hell was Belac? Why didn’t the bastard call, to be told that everything was going to be settled between them? Indeed, why wasn’t it? It was infantile, an empty victory, wanting Belac to come to him. Rivera had the Belgian’s account number and the bank address: all he had to do was authorize the transfer, from one account to the other. Not yet, he decided: not now. He needed to know first what was coming from Cuba: to know if Belac had gone to Havana direct. To move money about, on the day of a signal from Havana so important that they’d gone through the intelligence network, could prove to be a mistake. Time enough tomorrow, early, if the incoming message were something completely and uncomplicatedly different. Definitely—without question—do it then. Tell the man everything was final between them. Would Belac still be in hiding in Paris? Somewhere at least away from his Brussels office? It wouldn’t matter. If Belac were not there, Rivera was sure the man would have established a procedure to get and convey messages. That’s what he’d do: make the approach himself. He hadn’t wanted to—infantile!—but things were different now. Very different. Too different.

The diplomatic wallet was hurried immediately to him. Surprisingly it contained only one envelope, but the seal was that of the president’s secretariat. His hands shaking, Rivera opened it, dry-throated with nervousness, and it was difficult for him at first to read.

The last shipment of Angola-bound tanks on the City of Athens had .been off- loaded in Cuba. Eight had proven to be completely inoperable; in four, the engines were so useless that they could not move the vehicles onto their heavy loaders from the dockside. None of the accompanying spares had been for the correct model or make of the tanks. A lot weren’t even tank spares at all: they were heavy-duty truck parts. Alarmed about everything in the consignment, the military had tested two of the Stinger missiles. Both were duds, making the rest doubtful.

For a long time Rivera sat unmoving, the still-trembling paper in his hands. His first cohesive reaction was toward Belac, putting against the man all the worn obscenities, but in the middle of the mental tirade Rivera stopped, a smile forming. Incredible! he thought. The opportunity was absolutely and utterly incredible! The tremble now was of excitement. Rivera went fully through the idea that had come to him, thinking it was all so simple, and his smile widened when he decided it could work. Completely.

Handled another way, he remembered. The precise words of Ramirez, the DGI general who’d flown from Cuba immediately after the explosion. If we discover who did it, everything could be handled another way. Now it would be. To everyone’s satisfaction, but most of all to his. He’d produce Belac as the man who’d cheated on the last consignment, desperate enough to try to kill the one man who could name him to Havana. There would need to be a meeting between himself and Belac, ostensibly for the benefit of the DGI but in fact for Rivera to be sure it was all settled without any revealing interrogation. And the meeting had to take place away from England, because in England the Diplomatic Protection Force was still assigned to him. That would be no problem, either. He was scheduled to travel to the Spanish conference accompanied only by his DGI professionals. There was even an additional explanation, as far as his own intelligence service was concerned, for his meeting with Belac: a payment refused. Because he had been so successful, Havana had trusted him and had no idea what had been agreed on for the faulty tanks and missiles, because he had not yet rendered the doctored accounts. Now they would be doctored even further. But not excessively so; maybe by two million. That sounded about right. Two million for himself, ten million repaid to Havana, and a very final settlement for Belac.

Rivera examined his proposal from the other side, to locate the faults. There weren’t many. The greatest would be the DGI wanting to interrogate the arms dealer independently, but Rivera was reasonably confident he could maneuver that. Which left Belac himself. And the necessary meeting. Again, Rivera reasoned everything to be in his favor. Briefly the ambassador read part of the letter again and got up to consult a map on his conference table, trying to make a calculation. Three weeks. He guessed Belac would have allowed three weeks for the shipment to get from San Diego all the way across the Atlantic before it was discovered to be worthless scrap upon its East African arrival. And maybe that discovery would have taken another few days. Whatever, it gave the unsuspecting Belac a fairly tight time schedule if he were to get the money before Havana learned what he’d sold them. There’d be contact. Rivera assured himself; sooner rather than later. He found it difficult to conceive how completely perfectly everything had resolved itself.

Rivera was tempted to respond in full and at once to Havana, but he realized it would be premature. He had to allow himself sufficient time in their eyes supposedly to investigate. Instead he formally acknowledged the message and said he was immediately commencing inquiries and went home for dinner with Jorge.

Rivera had come genuinely to enjoy their increased time together, time he supposed would have been more difficult if he had still been involved with Henrietta. Her, he tried to convince himself, he missed not at all and ignored his pride to concede that she didn’t miss him, either. After that humiliating night in Pimlico he had not bothered to call her. She’d telephoned him three times, the first time accepting the message that he was occupied with official duties, the second asking what the hell was wrong, and the third telling him to go fuck himself. He said it would probably be more exciting than fucking her. And so it had ended. Deep down he still wished it hadn’t.

Jorge seemed to enjoy their evenings just as much. Rivera listened to the boy chatter on about the lycee and its schoolboy feuds and factions and how well—and sometimes not so well—Jorge believed himself to be doing. Because the opportunity was obvious, Rivera asked his son how he would feel about moving to Paris and Jorge solemnly considered the question before saying that he wouldn’t mind, and was it a possibility? Rivera said it was, uncomfortably aware that the whole idea seemed less attractive now that Henrietta was not coming. Paris provided a conversation for much of the meal, although Rivera kept everything vague, making no commitment. How long would it be? There was no benefit in remaining much after the Madrid conference, which now had added, essential importance. But Rivera thought—without bothering at that moment with any detailed consideration—that his resignation had to be timed properly. Too soon after the Belac episode might not be the right timing at all. It would be better if there were an interval between the two, as he had imposed an interval between Estelle’s death and his reappearing in public.

About Estelle an unspoken agreement had formed between them. She was never mentioned. Ever. Rivera accepted it to be Jorge’s way of coping with the horror of his mother’s death and did nothing to disturb it; if they were to talk about her, it had to be at Jorge’s choosing, no one else’s. In the immediate days after the assassination Rivera had even considered removing Estelle’s photographs from the house but didn’t, again taking his lead from the boy, in whose bedroom two pictures were still on display. From the first day, when it might have been expected. Jorge had never shown the slightest interest in the new security at the house or in being escorted to school by bodyguards. To the boy the arrangements seemed not to exist. So Rivera never remarked upon them, either.

There was a reminder from Havana within twenty-four hours that the inquiry was urgent. Despite the temptation, Rivera sent only a brief acknowledgment and late in the afternoon was actually considering ringing the Brussels number when the sound came on his private line. For a few seconds Rivera gazed at it, contemplating the pleasure and hoping it was not someone else. It wasn’t.

“There’s some unfinished business,” Belac declared at once, glad they were not face-to-face because he was sure his relief at Rivera taking the call would have been obvious.

“I know,” Rivera said. There was no uncertainty in the arrogant bastard’s voice, no hesitation with the words.

“I made allowances for the death of your wife, but I can’t understand why the settlement is still outstanding.” Belac began to relax.

“How could I have completed the settlement!” Rivera demanded, every move worked out.

Belac’s confidence faltered. It couldn’t have been discovered already! The City of Athens had days at seat yet. Weeks even. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t think the payment account could remain open under the sort of investigation I was under, did