Had that been how his great-grandfather felt when he retired? But at sixty, O’Farrell remembered, not forty-six. He shuddered the question away, not able to answer it anyway. There was something he could answer, positively resolve. Now that he’d let the unwelcome shadow take a form—present itself—O’Farrell was sure he could defeat it. As long as he didn’t make a mistake—and wasn’t that the thrust of all the training and retraining and exercises?—he didn’t run the risk of becoming a victim. There was a slight lift of relief, but very slight, not as much as he warned. Enough, though. He’d isolated the problem, and having isolated it, he could easily defeat it. He hoped that really was his problem.
O’Farrell responded at once to his wife’s call, curious when he stood to see that his glass was empty, because he couldn’t remember finishing it. He carried it with him to the kitchen and smiled at Jill, who smiled back.
“I was writing to Ellen and I burned the meat loaf,” she apologized.
O’Farrell became aware of the smell. “I like my meat loaf well done.”
“You got it!”
The gin and vermouth were still on the counter, where he had left the bottles after making his martini. He put his empty glass beside the sink, away from them. With his back to his wife, O’Farrell said, “Would you like a drink with dinner?”
“Drink?”
“I bought some California burgundy—Napa Valley—on the way home.”
“No,” said Jill, very definitely.
“Then I won’t, either,” he said, turning and smiling at her again. Another proving test, showing (showing who?) that he didn’t need it.
They sat with their heads lowered and O’Farrell gave thanks, wondering for the first time ever if there were an hypocrisy in how easy he found it to pray. Why should there be? Were more regular lawmen—FBI agents and CIA officers and sheriffs and policemen and marshals and drug enforcement agents and Customs investigators—precluded from acknowledging God because of the occasional outcome of their vocation?
“I told Ellen we’d go up next weekend,” Jill announced, serving the meal. “I haven’t sealed the letter, though; just in case you didn’t want to.”
“Is that likely?”
“I didn’t want to take it for granted.”
“I love you,” O’Farrell blurted. And he did. He felt a physical warmth, a surge of emotion, toward her; he could have made love to her, right there, and decided to, later.
Jill smiled across the table at him, appearing surprised. “I love you, too,” she said.
“There’s something I want to tell you—” O’Farrell started to say, and then jerked to a stop, horrified at how close he’d come to bringing about an absolute disaster. He’d actually set out to explain to her—the words were jumbled there, in his mind—what he truly did! The incredulous awareness momentarily robbed him of any speech, although his mind still functioned. What was the right order of words?
I think you should know, darling, that I kill people. But don’t be alarmed. I am one of a select few, executioners who operate within their own concepts of legality, justified—although not officially acknowledged or recognized—by the United States of America to rid it (and the world) of men who deserve to die but are beyond the reach or jurisdiction of any normal court of justice. Think how many lives would have been saved—assassination actually saves lives, you know—if someone had removed Hitler or Stalin or Amin. I just thought you should know and the meat loaf isn’t burned too badly at all!
“What?” prompted Jill.
“Nothing … I … nothing …” O’Farrell mumbled.
“But you started to say—”
“I wasn’t thinking.…”
“Darling! You’re not making sense! And you’re sweating! The sweat’s all over your face. What is it!”
“Nothing.” He was still groping, seeking an escape. What were the words! The explanation!
Jill laid down her knife and fork, staring at him across the table. “Are you all right!”
“Hot, that’s all,” he said, mumbling. “Maybe a fever.” Could he get away with something as facile as that? She wasn’t stupid—and she worked in a medical environment, for Christ’s sake!
“Can I get you anything?”
The meat loaf was dry in his mouth, the ground beef like sawdust blocking his throat. He gulped at the water she’d set out, wishing it were the red wine he’d brought (better still, a strong gin). “It was an odd feeling, that’s all. It’s gone now. I’m all right. Honest.” Why had he done it? What insanity had momentarily seized him and carried him so close to the cliff edge like that?
“So?” Jill prompted.
“So?” O’Farrell was stalling, still without the proper words.
“You started to say there was something you wanted to tell me?” she reminded him gently.
“The money,” O’Farrell said desperately. “I made some calculations in the den tonight. I think we can afford to go on making the kids the sort of allowance that we are at the moment.”
Jill frowned at him. “But we already decided that.”
“I wasn’t sure,” O’Farrell said, a drowning man finding firmer ground. ‘That’s why I made the calculations. Now I am. Sure, I mean.”
Jill stayed frowning. “Good,” she said curiously.
“It is good, isn’t it?” O’Farrell started to eat again, forcing himself to swallow.
“Very good,” she agreed, still doubtful.
That night they didn’t make love after all. O’Farrell remained awake long after Jill had fallen asleep beside him, his body as well as his mind held rigid by the enormity of his near collapse. His body was wet with the recollection but his mouth was dry, parched, so that he lay with his mouth open and had the impression that his lips were about to crack. He desperately wanted a drink but refused to get out of bed, fearing that if he went to the kitchen for water, he would change his mind and pour something else. Didn’t need it, he told himself. Didn’t need it. Couldn’t give in. Wouldn’t give in.
“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed McCarthy. “Holy sweet Jesus!” He was given to blasphemous outbursts when he was excited and he was excited now.
“Quite a picture,” Sneider agreed, seeking a lead from the other man.
“We can close down Belac,” the CIA department head said. “Lure the bastard here, have the FBI arrest him, and then hit him with so many indictments he won’t know which way is which.”
“What about the ambassador, Rivera?”
“Which is what he is, an ambassador,” said McCarthy, with logic that would have been absurdly obscure to any other man.
“He’s not committing a crime within the jurisdiction of any American court. And he can always cop a plea of diplomatic immunity if we save it up for later.”
McCarthy nodded in agreement. “He’s got to be stopped, though.”
“No doubt about it.” Sneider knew the way now.
McCarthy used the private telephone on his desk, one that was security-cleared but did not go through the CIA switchboard. “George!” he greeted when Petty answered. “How are things?”
“Good,” said Petty, from his office near Lafayette Park.
“Busy?”
“Not particularly.”
“Thought we might meet?”
“You choose.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s good.”
“Twelve-thirty?”
“Fine.”
The summons to Charles O’Farrell came twenty-four hours after that.