O'Farrell's Law (16 page)

“That's all right,” Petty said.

From the man's tone O'Farrell knew perfectly well that it was anything but all right. What the hell? he thought. He said, “I've read the file.”

“And?” Erickson said.

“I don't think it's sufficient,” O'Farrell declared bluntly. He felt empty-stomached and there was a dryness at the back of his throat; he was glad at the strength that appeared in his voice.

“What!” Erickson exclaimed, just ahead of Petty.

“I think it is too circumstantial,” O'Farrell said. “The requirement, surely, is that there is enough evidence to convince a court if a prosecution could be brought? Having talked to Rodgers and read all that's been assembled, I am not satisfied a jury would return a verdict of guilty.” There was still no difficulty with his voice, no indication of his uncertainty.

“Now let's just go through this again!” Petty leaned forward on his desk in his urgency. “We've got a drug smuggler testifying that Cuadrado told him about the use of diplomatic channels. We've got London positively named. And then we've got the Cuban ambassador to Britain provably associating with a known arms dealer. You call that circumstantial!”

“There is no direct link to Rivera, no definite identification, from anything Rodgers told me. Or from what Cuadrado told him,” O'Farrell insisted. “And there's no proof that Rivera is obtaining arms from Pierre Belac.”

“You think it's a social friendship, for Christ's sake?” Erickson demanded.

“I think there's insufficient proof, as I said. It might be different if we had separate testimony, from Belac.”

“He's a professional arms dealer!” Petty said. “He's not likely to volunteer anything even if we manage to bust him. And Commerce isn't ready to make a case yet.”

“I'm sorry,” O'Farrell said, with what he hoped was finality.

“You got anything else to tell us?” Erickson challenged openly.

“Like what?” O'Farrell asked, avoiding an immediate response.

“You having problems beyond the evidence you've seen?” Petty asked.

“Justifying things to yourself?” Erickson suggested.

There were reverting to their pitter-patter style of debate, O'Farrell realized. He said, “Not at all. I am just following procedure.”

“I think there's sufficient evidence,” Petty said.

“The assignment would not have been proposed if there weren't,” agreed the deputy.

“I have to be sure personally,” O'Farrell insisted. “I'm not.”

“So you're refusing?” Petty said.

“No!” said O'Farrell at once. “I'm seeking further evidence.”

“I don't see how we can provide more than we have already,” Petty said.

“Then I'm sorry.” O'Farrell wondered who else would be assigned to the job. It didn't matter; not his concern anymore.

“So am I,” Petty said heavily.

“Would you like to go through everything again? Reconsider?” Erickson offered.

O'Farrell shook his head. “I've studied everything. I don't think I need to reconsider.”

“Without stronger evidence?” Petty asked pedantically.

“Without stronger evidence,” agreed O'Farrell.

Petty made a production of lighting his pipe, speaking from within a cloud of smoke. “Then we'll have to get it, won't we?”

O'Farrell had begun to relax, imagining he had maneuvered himself away from an assignment without either refusing or resigning. Abruptly—sinkingly—he realized he had not done anything of the sort. The operation wasn't being abandoned or switched to someone else: it was simply being postponed.

José Rivera hesitated outside the Zurich bank, stretching. He'd picked up a cramp hunching over the statement of the working account he'd opened to handle the transactions with Belac. He'd done well, negotiating the interest-bearing facility. As well as he had done in outnegotiating Pierre Belac. Certainly the account would not remain at $60 million because Belac was due another $30-million installment for another shipload of weaponry on its way to Havana. But the account included the full $15 million Rivera had added to the price Havana was being charged, on the entire deal. He'd decided to leave it in the interest-bearing account for a few more weeks before transferring it to his private account. Rivera was glad he had taken the trouble to come to Zurich on his way to Brussels, awkward though the detour was: by putting all the money in a controlled withdrawal account he had obtained an extra half-point interest and at these sorts of levels that was a worthwhile increase. It was a good feeling, being a rich man.

On his way back to the airport, Rivera considered taking a further detour after the Brussels meeting, spending a day or two in Paris making preliminary inquiries among housing agents there. He had more than sufficient money and it made economic sense to buy at the current market prices rather than wait for some indeterminate period by which time the cost would undoubtedly have increased. Or should he go straight back to London, instead, and make the Paris trip later, perhaps bringing Henrietta with him? That might be an altogether better idea; make it more of a pleasure than a business trip.

There was no delay on the flight, and Rivera was in Brussels by midafternoon. Belac produced documentation showing that all the small arms and ammunition had been dispatched, along with half the missiles. He'd made preliminary approaches to Epetric, a Swedish company, about the VAX and intended confirming the order as soon as Rivera advanced the next allocation of funds necessary for a deposit.

“Thirty million?” suggested the ambassador, fresh from studying the Swiss accounts and sure of the amount.

“I know that's what we discussed,” said Belac. “But as well as back settlement for what's on its way to Havana, there are deposits for the VAX and a fourth ship to charter, to carry the tanks. I need fifty million to allow for the ten-percent withholding. Transferred direct to the
anstalt
, BHF Holdings.”

If he kept back the ten percent from the latest demand, he'd have five million gaining interest, Rivera calculated. He said, “I know the name well enough by now.”

So, of course, did Lars Henstrom, the Swedish informant within the Epetric contracts and finance department, when Belac placed the confirmed order two days later. Henstrom passed the information on at once, and within two days it was transmitted to both the U.S. Department of Commerce and Customs Service.

Under an American-Swiss treaty, Berne had agreed that the country's traditional bank secrecy laws can be abrogated and accounts made available to investigators if Washington satisfactorily proves that such accounts are benefitting from the proceeds of drug trafficking. The CIA used the sworn statement of Paul Rodgers to seek access to BHF Holdings' accounts, from which they learned of the multimillion-dollar transfer the day after a meeting they had observed in Brussels between Pierre Belac and Jose Rivera. They learned, however, about more than just the transfer. Against it was recorded the number of Rivera's account in the Swiss Banking Corporation on Zurich's Paradeplatz. The CIA made a further access request, and it was granted, giving them complete details of Rivera's secret deposits.

Petty reached O'Farrell at the Alexandria house. “You wanted better proof,” the section head said. “We've got it. It's time we talked again.”

Petty merely held down the lever to disconnect the call, keeping the receiver in his hand and dialing again immediately. Gus McCarthy, director of the Plans division, answered at once.

“We need to talk, just the two of us,” Petty said.

TWELVE

M
C
C
ARTHY AVIDLY
followed the social columns and the Style section of the
Washington Post
and chose Dominique's restaurant for the meeting. He arrived early and was already at the ledge away from the tiny bar, the whiskey sour half-finished, when Petty appeared. Petty ordered beer, a Miller Lite, instead of the milk he should have had, hoping his ulcer wouldn't act up; it had been at least six years since the doctor had allowed him any spirits. Sometimes, like now, he ignored the order.

“You read the writeup about this place last Sunday?” McCarthy asked at once.

“No,” Petty said. He had, but he didn't want to indulge the other man's pretensions.

“Got a hell of a recommendation,” McCarthy said. “Know something else about it?”

“What?” Petty asked, knowing he had to.

“Don't allow pipes at all.” The planning chief grinned. He was a nonsmoker and always tried to avoid any encounter with Petty where the man could light up. McCarthy looked around the bar, which he dominated by his size. “What's the problem?”

“I'm not sure there is one, not yet,” Petty said. “It could be worrying, though.”

“O'Farrell?”

“Yes,” Petty said shortly. He followed McCarthy's examination of the wall-to-wall crowd and for the same reason said, “Lot of people here.”

“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.”