“And so it goes on, although we try to stop as much as possible,” McMasters said. “And I agree; it’s not enough.”
There was no purpose in discussing the philosophy of drug prevention on the streets of Chicago and its suburbs, O’Farrell thought. He said, “Ellen’s clean, according to the drug tests. We got a copy today.”
“So did I,” McMasters confirmed. “I’m glad.”
O’Farrell came close to asking the man’s recommendation, for a child psychiatrist, but at the last moment recalled that he knew someone else far better qualified. When he telephoned, Lambert listened without interruption, promised to get back to him, and did so within the day. He would, he said, recommend a female over a male and the best in the area was Patricia Dwyer. She turned out to be a motherly, big-chested woman whose office was like the toy-cluttered interview room at the police station. From her fees O’Farrell decided she had to be the best, but she and Billy developed an immediate rapport, so O’Farrell judged whatever it cost to be worthwhile. Before Billy’s first session he and Ellen spent an hour with the woman, answering every question. On impulse, because she told them of frequent involvement in matrimonial cases, O’Farrell asked her to recommend a lawyer through whom he could pursue Patrick.
Steven Giles was a nervously thin, stripe-suited man with rimless spectacles and a marine haircut—although he hardly looked robust enough to have served. Giles was peremptory and impatiently aggressive, which O’Farrell decided might be a good attitude for them.
Halfway through their first interview Giles said to Ellen, “So your reason for working late sometimes was that Patrick repeatedly reneged on alimony and child support?”
“Yes,” Ellen said, subdued.
“What took you so long to try to get the payments made through the court? The system exists.”
“He kept promising,” Ellen said emptily.
Giles sighed. “That doesn’t say much about your judgment.”
“Not a lot does,” Ellen said, depressed into self-pity.
The attorney took Ellen through the details of her job, the hours worked, and her income and expenditures and then said, “You don’t live a life of luxury, do you?”
“I’m giving her an allowance,” O’Farrell said. “She’ll be able to manage all right if the alimony and child-support arrears are paid up and then maintained.”
Speaking directly to Ellen, Giles said, “I can do my part, and if the facts are as you’ve outlined them, I don’t see we’ve got a great problem. But you’ve got to help yourself more if you want to stay ahead in the future.”
“What do you mean?”
“The moment he tries to duck, you’ve got to tell me so I can go back through the courts,” the lawyer insisted. “And I mean duck on anything: if he misses more than one visit with Billy without a proper excuse, you tell me. Likewise if there’s any job change, I want to hear that, too.…” The man hesitated, looking briefly at O’Farrell. “Your father’s right. Patrick left you; he’s responsible for you. He doesn’t deserve any breaks.”
“I know,” Ellen said sadly.
“So stop being a wimp,” Giles said. “Start standing up for yourself. And for Billy.”
“Well! well! well!” McCarthy said, putting aside the documentation that had been collated. “Here’s some more ingredients for the pot. O’Farrell has got some personal involvement with drugs, through what’s happened to his grandson. And José Gaviria Rivera is an official delegate to a conference in Spain. What can we make out of that?”
Sneider said, “Spain could be an excellent opportunity. O’Farrell’s the one we can’t anticipate or second-guess.”
“Yet the one who’s got to do it,” McCarthy said. To the third man in the room, the Plans director said, “So could he be persuaded?”
“Providing the argument was carefully enough prepared, I think he could,” Lambert said.
McCarthy smiled at his deputy. “You still got the Makarevich file out of records?”
“Yes,” Sneider said.
“It could all come good,” McCarthy said, distantly. “Then let’s see what people say about Soviet freedom and glasnost and all that other shit.”
TWENTY-NINE
THE WARNING that something particularly important was arriving by diplomatic courier came in code through the intelligence service’s supposedly secure electronics link with Havana, so Rivera was prepared. And worried. It was a method that had never been used before—openly connecting him with the DGI—so the risk had to have been judged acceptable even if the communication channel wasn’t secure from the British after all. Very important, then. Well aware that speculation was fruitless, Rivera speculated anyway, convinced there could only be one thing to justify it. But what could have gone wrong! His excuse about the VAX—that highly classified, state-of-the-art technology would take much longer to obtain—had been accepted, and everything else had been supplied. There’d been congratulations, the promise of the unwanted promotion. Which left only the siphoned-off bank account. But it was impossible for that to have been discovered! Or was it? If Belac had bypassed him about the held-back payment and complained or sought settlement direct from Havana (Why in God’s name hadn’t he paid! Why had he been so greedy!) it would have been possible to locate it by working backward, from Belac’s Swiss account to the other account from which the earlier money had come.
The pendulum swung, from pessimism to optimism. So what? Because of the Swiss bank secrecy regulations, Havana could only have gotten, at best, an account number. No amount. No evidence of what he’d been doing. And he would have known if Belac had approached Havana, Rivera reasoned. Havana didn’t know Belac was the supplier: Rivera’s refusal to disclose his or any other arms dealer’s identity had been essential to his remaining the indispensable intermediary. If Belac, someone completely unknown to Havana, managed somehow to penetrate the governmental layers demanding money, Rivera would receive a 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.