O'Farrell's Law (15 page)

“That's all,” Rodgers said. “You satisfied?”

“Not by a long way. We're going to need to meet again.”

“When?”

“What's your hurry?” O'Farrell said, intentionally bullying. “You got all the time in the world.”

Before leaving the building, O'Farrell requested material he wanted from Washington and received the immediate assurance that it would be provided the following day. He ate, early and without interest, in the motel coffee shop, and afterwards went directly to his room. By coincidence a segment of “Sixty Minutes” was devoted to Nicaragua, with a lot of footage of American troop exercises in neighboring Honduras. Cut into the report was film of protests throughout America against the United States's involvement. O'Farrell was curious: How many Americans were already in-country, “advisers” or “aid officials,” working with the Contras? There'd be quite a lot, he knew, despite congressional objections and protest marchers with banners.

After “Sixty Minutes” O'Farrell turned off the television, wishing he'd bought a book or a copy of the
Miami Herald
at least. He'd noticed a liquor store two blocks away on his return from the interview and determinedly driven past. It meant he hadn't had even his customary martinis. It would be a five-minute walk, ten at the outside; not even necessary to cross the highway. Nothing wrong with a nightcap, hadn't had anything all day. Well, just those on a plane on the flight down. Only three. Long time ago. Hardly counted. O'Farrell stretched out both arms before him, pleased at how little movement there was.

Determinedly—as determinedly as he'd driven past the liquor store—O'Farrell undressed and put out the light and lay in the darkness, sleepless but proud of himself. He didn't need booze; just
proved
to himself that he didn't need booze.

The file arrived the next day as promised. There was confirmation that a Rene Cuadrado held the post of junior minister in Cuba's export ministry and a sparse biography putting his age around forty. He was believed to be married, with one child. He was said to live in Matanzas. There were three photographs. The file upon Fabio Ochoa was far more extensive and obtained mostly, O'Farrell guessed, from Drug Enforcement Administration sources. There were five photographs of the Colombian. O'Farrell chose the best picture of each man and intermingled them among fifteen other prints of unnamed, unconnected people shipped at his request in the overnight package. In addition to what had been sent down from Washington, local authorities confirmed the three abandoned aircraft landings Rodgers had talked about. So he'd told the truth there; but then he'd had no reason to lie.

Rodgers sat correctly on the chair this time, sifting through the photographs, laying out each print as he'd studied it as if he were dealing cards. He made a first-time, unequivocal identification of both Cuadrado and Ochoa.

“You sure?” O'Farrell persisted, nevertheless. That was what he had to be, sure; one-hundred-percent sure.

“You think I don't know these guys!” He extended his hand, forefinger against that next to it. “We were that close!”

There was something he'd forgotten, O'Farrell realized. He said, “Just you? Or were there others?”

The question appeared to disconcert the other man. “There were others,” he conceded dismissively. “But I was the one.” The fingers came out again. “We were that close, believe me!”

So Rodgers's seizure hadn't stopped the traffic.
Stuff that makes you feel funny
. O'Farrell collected the photographs and said, “All right.”

“What now?” Rodgers smiled, knowing he'd done well.

“You wait some more,” O'Farrell said, slotting the prints into the delivery envelope.

“Hey man!” protested the smuggler. “I've cooperated, like you asked! How about a little feedback here! How long I gotta wait!”

Man
. O'Farrell felt himself growing physically hot. “As long as it takes,” he said. Maybe longer, he thought.

Both encounters were recorded, on film as well as tape, and Petty and Erickson considered them, comparing them with the earlier transcripts of Customs and FBI interviews.

“I think he was too aggressive,” Erickson said. From his spot by the window he could see the protestors against something, but could not hear their chants to discover what it was.

“I don't know.” Petty pointed to the film. “Look at Rodgers; pimp-rolling son of a bitch. He needed to be knocked off balance, and O'Farrell certainly did just that. And by doing so he got more than anyone else.”

“Anything particular strike you?” Erickson demanded pointedly, looking back into the room.

“‘You ever think about what you were doing, worry about it,'” quoted the section leader at once. “Of course I noticed it.”

“So?”

Instead of replying, Petty fast-forwarded the video, stabbing it to hold on a freeze-frame at the moment of O'Farrell's question. Petty said, “There's no facial expression to indicate it meant anything to O'Farrell himself.”

“It didn't have a context,” Erickson said.

“It might have produced an angry reaction; got the bastard to say something he was holding back,” Petty suggested.

“I've got an uneasy feeling,” Erickson said.

“I've always got an uneasy feeling until an assignment is satisfactorily concluded,” said Petty.

ELEVEN

O'F
ARRELL COMPLETED
the files in the Lafayette Square office by midmorning. To ensure his success in the argument with Petty he carefully went through everything again, intently studying the photographs as well as the case reports.
A real hotshot
, he thought; then,
glossy son of a bitch
. José Gaviria Rivera certainly appeared that. The photographs were not just the snatched, concealed-camera shots of the ambassador with Pierre Belac. There were some posed pictures, at official diplomatic functions—sometimes with his dark-haired, statuesque wife—and others taken at various polo functions, several showing the man with an equally statuesque but fine-featured woman whom the captions identified as Henrietta Blanchard. From the accompanying biography O'Farrell knew the diplomat to be fifty-two years old; the photographs showed a man who kept in shape, and who dressed in clothes designed to accentuate that fitness, like Rodgers. There was another similarity in the perfect evenness of the teeth. The ambassador seemed to smile a lot. Although the circumstances of his studying both men were different, and it was difficult for him to reach a conclusion without seeing how Rivera moved and behaved, O'Farrell did not get the impression that Rivera was flashy, like Rodgers was flashy. Glossy, certainly, but the gloss of someone accustomed to luxurious surroundings and fitting naturally into them. O'Farrell decided that although the word hardly seemed appropriate for a representative of Cuba, the man's stance and his demeanor appeared aristocratic, the chin always lifted, the arm and the frozen gesture invariably languid.

The second examination finished, O'Farrell reassembled the file and restored it to the safe, thinking about what he was going to do. He was right, he told himself; he was un-arguably right. And
they'd
made the rules, not him. He was merely—but quite properly—obeying them. To the letter, maybe, but wasn't that how rules should be obeyed, to the letter? Of course it was. His decision. Always his decision. Another rule. Theirs again, not his.

Petty would see him immediately, O'Farrell knew, but he held back from making the contact at once. Lunchtime, after all. And he'd finally brought the sepia photograph and the cuttings in from Alexandria and made appointments at the copiers recommended by the helpful archivist at the Library of Congress. The afternoon would be fine for seeing Petty. Not that O'Farrell was avoiding the confrontation. He was giving the evidence he had studied the proper consideration it deserved, not rushing anything. Was there a chance of his changing his mind? Unlikely, but there was nothing to lose by thinking everything through again. The sort of reflection they would expect, would want from him.

At the copy shop O'Farrell impressed upon the manager the importance of the cracked and flaking newspaper cuttings, and the man assured him that he would personally make the copies. The discussion took longer at the photographic studio. The restorer there offered to touch up the original, assuring O'Farrell that it would be undetectable, but O'Farrell refused, unwilling to have it tampered with. There was then a long conversation about the paper and finish of the copy. The man suggested the heaviest paper and a high-sheen reproduction, which was precisely what O'Farrell did not want. He listened to various other suggestions and finally chose the heaviest paper but a matte finish, which he thought most closely resembled the photograph taken all those years ago. Not the same but close.

O'Farrell completed everything with almost an hour to go before he was due to return to Lafayette Square. He found a bar on 16th Street, near the National Geographic Society building, a heavily paneled, dark place. It was crowded, but O'Farrell managed a slot at a stand-up shelf that ran around one wall. Because the jostle was so thick at the bar he'd ordered a double gin and tonic and wondered when he tasted it if the man had heard him, because it did not seem particularly strong.

Would he still be called upon to make a recommendation about Paul Rodgers, now that he had reached a decision about Rivera? O'Farrell supposed the man could give sufficient evidence before a grand jury to get an indictment against Rene Cuadrado. In practical terms that would not mean much, because of course Cuadrado would remain safe from arrest in Cuba, but the media coverage would expose the Havana government as drug traffickers and Congress or the White House might consider that useful. What happened before a grand jury wasn't his concern, O'Farrell recognized. It was the district attorney who would have to decide what deal to offer Rodgers in return for his cooperation. So what was he going to say, if he were asked?
Stuff that makes you feel funny
, he thought. Fuck him. Fuck Rodgers and his shoulder swagger and finger-snapping jive talk.
Coke mainly, of course. Marijuana too. And pills. Methaqualone. Just
like a salesman, offering his wares. How many kids—how many people—had been destroyed by the shit brought in by the bastard? Impossible to calculate, over the period he'd boasted—yes, actually
boasted
!—of operating. So he could go to hell. Literally to the hell of a penitentiary and O'Farrell hoped it would be for thirty-five years, which was a figure he'd made up at the interviews, just wanting to frighten the man. Perhaps the sentence could be longer than that. O'Farrell hoped it was. Clear the scum off the streets for life.
Hey, you my man?
No, thought O'Farrell. I'm not your man. If I'm asked, I am going to be the guy who screws you.

O'Farrell went to the bar and ensured this time that the man knew he wanted a double, and not so much tonic this time. He supposed he should eat something but he didn't feel hungry. He'd wait until dinner, maybe cook himself a big steak. If he were going to do that, then he'd have to stop off on the way home and get some wine. It was becoming ridiculous, constantly buying one bottle at a time. Why didn't he get a case: French even, because French was supposed to be superior, wasn't it? Ask the guy's opinion and buy something decent and lay it out like you were supposed to in the cellar. Ask about that, too; get the right temperature and ask whether to stand it up or lay it on its side. All the pictures he'd ever seen had the wine lying in racks, on its side. Okay, why not buy a rack then? Nothing too big. Just enough for say a dozen bottles, maybe two dozen, so he wouldn't have to keep stopping.

He'd tell Jill about it when he telephoned that evening. She'd seemed okay when he called last night, although she was worried that Ellen's payments still hadn't been straightened out. Ellen was being silly about Patrick, holding back from taking the bastard to court. He'd try to talk to Ellen about it this weekend, when he went up. make her see that it wasn't just herself and how she felt—although he could not conceive her retaining any feeling for the guy—but that she had to consider Billy now. That Billy, in fact, was more important, far more important, than her own emotions.

Just time for one more, O'Farrell decided. The lunch-time crowd was thinning, and when O'Farrell reached me bar and got the drink, he decided to stay there. He hoped the copier wouldn't screw up and damage the cuttings. The Library of Congress archivist had been very helpful, talking of special acid-free storage boxes that sealed hermetically, cutting down on the deterioration caused by exposure to air. O'Farrell wondered if he should get some. He didn't have a lot of stuff, so one would probably do by itself; two at the outside. He decided to call the man again to ask about it. Maybe this afternoon. No, couldn't do it this afternoon. Had something else to do this afternoon. Soon now; less than an hour. Time for…? No. Had to get back. Make his argument. No problem. Knew the file by heart.

O'Farrell was sure he could get a taxi, so he didn't hurry over the third drink, but there weren't any cabs cruising 16th Street when he left the bar. He moved impatiently from one foot to another on the curb, looking both ways along the street, then started to walk, which was a mistake, because when he glanced back he saw someone get a cab from where he had been standing. When he finally picked one up, his watch was showing only five minutes from the appointment time, and two cars had collided at the junction with L Street, so there was a further delay getting through.

He was twenty minutes late reaching Petty's office. The section head was tight-lipped with irritation, and Erickson, from his window spot, looked pointedly at his watch when O'Farrell entered.

“Sorry,” O'Farrell said. “One car rear-ended another on L; caused a hell of a tie-up.”