Mendez shook his head. “It’ll be a public kiosk, easy enough to find,” he predicted. “Passersby usually answer a ringing telephone, and we could get the location that way. But it’s also a safeguard for Belac, although it’s pretty basic. All it takes is a few dollars to some kid to hang around to see if a call is made, to find out where it is, and Belac knows someone’s looking for it. And for him. It’s not worth the risk of frightening him off.”
Looking between Mendez and Rivera, the same man said, “What if the meeting is somewhere very public?”
“It doesn’t matter where it is,” Mendez said. Nodding in Rivera’s direction, he said, “You’ll be watching him. Once Belac gives him an envelope and leaves, you just follow the man: deal with him at the best time.”
That wouldn’t work, Rivera realized. Belac was expecting an envelope from him, not the other way around! And wouldn’t go from the meeting without it. He said, “What if Belac asks me to go somewhere with him instead of making the exchange in the open?”
Mendez gestured around the table. “They’ll be with you all the time. But don’t remain a moment longer than you have to; you have to get away, to distance yourself, as quickly as possible.”
“I know that,” Rivera said. He was sweating again, the familiar hollowness deep in his gut. It wasn’t going to work! he thought. It had seemed so easy, so plausible, in London. But not now. And there was nothing he could do about it now! He was trapped!
“Are we to move if there is no exchange?” asked a man nearer to Mendez.
Rivera at once saw that the possibility had not occurred to the intelligence chief and he enjoyed the other man’s discomfort, despite his own. At the same time he saw a wisp of hope, a way to extricate himself. Before Mendez could reply, Rivera said, “No! That’s to be the signal. No one is to move until the envelope is passed over.” It was still a desperate gamble, probably impossible if Belac wanted to meet during the day, but it was a chance and he had to seize any chance he saw. Or imagined he saw.
Mendez was slightly flushed at a decision being taken away from him. Rivera stared at the man, waiting for the challenge, but eventually the intelligence chief said, “That’s right. No move until that’s done.”
There was more general discussion in which Rivera took no part, talk about contact procedures and methods of recognition, and Rivera sat listening and looking at the quiet men grouped around the table. I’m sitting with killers, he thought, men who take other men’s lives, as a job. More unreality. The voice of Mendez broke into his reflection: “There’s nothing more to discuss until tomorrow.”
The four showed no sign of leaving, but Mendez rose, and Rivera rose with him. There were nods among them, but otherwise no farewells.
“That wasn’t how I imagined something like this being done,” Rivera said. He hadn’t known how to imagine it.
“Something like this?” Mendez asked, not understanding.
“Planning … planning the sort of thing that we were.”
“Why not?” The man shrugged. “What better way to gather a group together without suspicion than at a party in a restaurant?”
“Party?”
“The manager, the staff, were told it was a retirement celebration.” Mendez looked both ways along the street, waving for a taxi. As they went by the bench upon which Rivera had sat, trying to identify the Cubans entering the restaurant, Mendez said, “Weren’t you cold, sitting there as long as you did?”
Rivera, his face burning, didn’t reply. There was nothing to say.
There had been a lot of unexpected changes in a very short time, most of them to the good. The tense farewell conversation with Jill, in Chicago, had been the only practical upset and O’Farrell didn’t feel as badly about that as he normally might have done. He would have liked, somehow, to tell her why he’d made the decision to go away at this time; how important it was to her and the family. To all of them. But as with so much else it would never be possible. Not completely. He guessed he could talk about the most dramatic development, his official and impressive-sounding promotion ostensibly within the State Department. Special Financial Adviser.
O’Farrell fastened his seat belt for the Madrid landing, letting the title echo in his head, enjoying it. With every reason for enjoyment. Tinged with relief, although that was vague in his mind and he was letting it stay that way. This wasn’t another meaningless title, like so many in Washington. This represented an official, provable position within the government, something he’d never had before. Not with this job, anyway. He’d had it in the army, even when he was attached to Special Forces. Known there was authority, legality, behind him. Now he had it again. He wasn’t on his own anymore; no longer deniable. It gave him the same rank and the same financial grading as Petty and Erickson. According to Petty, at the meeting just before he’d left Washington, his elevation to join them in Lafayette Square was inevitable, although it still had to be confirmed.
The arrival was announced. O’Farrell gathered up his flight bag and ensured that his briefcase was secure. It contained one of the other surprises, possibly that last revelation he’d ever expected about his great-grandfather. O’Farrell had stuffed the latest material from the historical society into his briefcase at the very moment of walking out of die Alexandria house, to read during me flight, and come across the article very near the top of the pile. He’d thought, initially, it might become the centerpiece of his collection, because it was the only full interview with the man he’d ever discovered.
The astonishment—and O’Farrell genuinely had been astonished—came halfway through. There it was, in black and white, in the man’s own words: he’d grown to dislike the role of lawman. The explanation was rambling and badly formed—but then wasn’t his own?—and O’Farrell was chilled by the uncomfortable parallels. The old man had talked about the unsound laws of the time. And evidence he considered insufficient to obtain safe and proper convictions under those laws. The most chilling disclosure of all was the one O’Farrell found the easiest to understand. The fear that maybe once—and once was all it had to be—the wrong man, an innocent man, might be sentenced to death.
O’Farrell collected his bags from the carousel, passed unhindered through Customs, and quickly got a taxi to the city. He’d never had that problem, he thought, the familiar reassurance. Never an innocent man. The Vietnamese had been guilty, and the PLO hijacker had been guilty—convicted out of his own mouth—and Leonid Makarevich had been the most guilty of all. With Makarevich the cliché really did fit: that time assassination really had saved lives.
As he began to enter die city, O’Farrell felt the first stir of unease but was not perturbed by it. It wasn’t like the London uncertainties. Or even before, when he really started drinking. There was an objective, professional reason here. This time it had to be hurried—everything planned and completed in less than a week—without the normal allowance for preparation. And O’Farrell, the pattern-and-habit man, didn’t like any departure from normal. He hoped it would all be okay when he became accustomed to the place: became acclimatized.
Even the usual changes of accommodation wouldn’t be possible. His hotel was the Tirol, on the Calle de Princesa, a wide, horn-echoing highway; O’Farrell wished it were quieter. The last time, he consoled himself; just a few days and then never again. He was a Senior Financial Adviser now, a man with an accredited position.
The CIA station chief at the American embassy was a cheerful man. red-faced from obvious blood pressure, named Dick Lewis. He acknowledged Washington’s advice of O’Farrell’s arrival but carefully scrutinized O’Farrell’s documentation before handing over the material Langley had instructed him to collate.