O'Farrell's Law (23 page)

Customs and FBI had their first planning meeting an hour later.

“Maximum airport watch, everywhere we can think of,” said Morrison, addressing the assembled agents. “Let's not lose the son of a bitch this time.”

O'Farrell had coped so far with the screwing around in Washington but only just. Like so much else on this assignment, it hadn't happened before. It had always been the same routine: satisfy himself, go in, complete the job, and get out. Clean, expert, no loose ends. Not like this. It was ridiculous for Petty to insist, as the man had insisted on O'Farrell's second contact from the London embassy, that there was a problem assembling the requested material; in twenty-four hours the CIA could gather together enough weaponry and ordnance to start a war.

O'Farrell had found an answer in keeping himself busy. And not by concentrating on Hampstead or High Holborn or Pimlico; he actually reduced his surveillance there, worried that it might cause suspicion. He did ordinary, even touristy things, instead. He visited the Houses of Parliament and took a river trip on the Thames and saw a ludicrous movie about spies. He changed boardinghouses and rental cars and at the end of the week he carefully worked out the time difference to ensure that Jill would be home and called her collect from a telephone box. She asked when he would be returning and O'Farrell said he wasn't sure, but soon, he hoped. Patrick appeared to be contesting the alimony in rebuttal, so it looked like a protracted and nasty legal situation and Jill wished he were home. O'Farrell said he wished it, too, and promised to call again, when he had a definite return date.

Booze was no longer a problem because he did not allow himself to consider it one. He had a drink or two if he felt like it at lunchtime, and a couple more if he felt like it in the evening, and he finished off the brandy, although gradually, over a few evenings. It had to be sensible, the way he was treating it, because after the brandy night he never got drunk. He came close the day of his depressing conversation with Jill, having a couple more than usual, so there was an artificial belligerence to his manner when he got to the embassy. He hurried, although not rudely, the preliminaries with Matthews but began with unusual forcefulness his protests to Petty, who curtly cut him short.

“The stuff's being freighted to you today,” Petty said. “You can move two days from now.”

EIGHTEEN

M
ORRISON AND
Hoover arrived at Shepherd Industries in the afternoon, as they'd arranged. Morrison said that although every sort of interception was being attempted, the likeliest place to arrest Belac remained the factory complex itself.

“So it's cooperation all the way,” Hoover said.

“
Each
way,” Shepherd qualified, heavily. He'd actually talked it through with his attorney since that morning's call, suggesting the man be present when they arrived. He wished he'd insisted, despite the lawyer's caution that it would look as if he needed legal protection against wrongdoing.

The FBI man grinned, tight with excitement; the impending bust was good promotion material. He said, “Here's the deal. When Belac's in the bag, I'll make public all you've done, express official gratitude. How's that sound?”

“All right,” Shepherd agreed, missing the qualification.

The full planning meeting was the next day at noon, the time they expected Belac to be seized the following day. Eight other men, in addition to Morrison and Hoover, crowded into Shepherd's office, but were not introduced. It was Morrison who called the gathering to order. He had Shepherd recount the telephone conversation, and when the industrialist finished, the FBI man said. “It looks like the best chance we've ever had.”

“We hope,” Hoover said. The Customs inspector spread out maps on Shepherd's conference table. Upon them a series of outwardly radiating concentric circles were drawn, with the factory at the center. The group made an effort to isolate every road that could in some way or part be used to reach it. The total came to eighteen, and Morrison said, “We'd need an army to cover them all.”

“And have to include San Francisco police and Santa Clara county police and the highway patrol,” Hoover said.

“Too many,” Morrison said, and for the first time Shepherd realized the intended seizure was being confined to the FBI and Customs.

“Which brings us back to the factory, which is why we're here,” said one of the unidentified men, who carried a clipboard, although he hadn't yet written any notes.

At Morrison's request, Shepherd produced the plans of the factory, both internal and external. The man with the clipboard said, “Going to be a bitch sealing the outside, without his seeing it as he enters. The parking lot at the rear is fenced and containable, but this open area at the front is hopeless. He'd spot any concentration of men a mile away.”

“So there can't be any,” Morrison said. “He's got to be allowed onto the premises and into the elevator before there's any move.”

“Don't we need that anyway?” Hoover asked. “Don't we need Shepherd wired to get some discussion between him and Belac, linking Belac to the VAX order, to go with ail the documentary stuff?”

Morrison shifted, annoyed at Hoover suggesting it first. To the industrialist, Morrison said, “You feel okay about that?”

“What do I have to do?” Shepherd asked.

“I fit you with an undetectable microphone: it's voice-activated so everything either of you say is automatically recorded,” said another of the FBI team. “It'll tie Belac in absolutely, with everything.”

Shepherd guessed that each man within the room was some sort of section chief or expert. It seemed vaguely dangerous, but with no alternative Shepherd said, “Sure, I'll do it.”

To Morrison, the electronics man said, “As we're pretty sure where the conversation is going to take place—right here—why don't I rig this office as a backup? By noon tomorrow I could get this place live enough to record everyone's thoughts.”

“Good,” Morrison said. “What about photographs?”

The man squinted professionally around the office and said, “Noon's a perfect time, and the light looks plenty strong enough.…” He turned, locating a door. “That a closet?” he asked Shepherd.

Shepherd nodded.

“Ideal,” said the man. “I can fit a fish-eye lens in there that'll take in just about the entire room.”

To the man with the clipboard, Morrison said, “So here's how we'll back up. We'll have someone in the foyer, overalls, stuff like that, tending the plants like those contract people do. As soon as he hears Belac say he's from Epetric and sees him inside the elevator, he walks out of the building. Just that. It'll be the signal for your people, who've held back, to move in with vehicles, sealing every ground floor exit.… ” To another man, Morrison said, “From nine
A.M.
tomorrow morning we'll have the elevators staffed by our officers. Belac going up in the elevator will be the bell for more people to move in, sealing the building at each level. The supervisor of each unit will be wired. If Belac smells a rat and runs for it—and even if he manages to clear one floor—it won't matter because we'll all be talking to each other, following him down from level to level. And every way out at the ground will be bolted, barred, and locked.” Morrison smiled around at the assembled group, as if he were expecting congratulations. “How's that sound? Anything left out?”

There were looks and headshakes among the men. The electronics officer said, “I'd like to get started as soon as possible. I'll do the office first.” To Shepherd, he said, “I'll fix you up tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock all right?”

“I'll be here,” promised Shepherd. He'd been doing some private reconsideration; within yards of where these men were standing had to be half a dozen ledgers that could get him at least five years in a penitentiary.

The section leaders filed from the room but Morrison and Hoover remained, watching the electronics man. Shepherd was determined he wouldn't leave either of them alone in his office if he could help it.

“You know something that makes me uneasy?” Hoover asked. “How easy it suddenly all seems. It's like he's walking up to us with his hands outstretched to have the cuffs put on.”

“If he came, which it looks as if he has, then how else could it be?” Morrison demanded. “This is the only place he could come to.”

“I guess.” Hoover agreed. “But it just doesn't seem to fit with how he left those CIA guys in Brussels looking like Mr. Magoo.”

“You got a better idea than going along with it?” the FBI man asked aggressively.

“I'm just expressing an opinion, is all,” Hoover said.

The technician reappeared from the closet and said, “Since you're still here, give me a voice level.”

“Abandon all hope, you who enter,” Morrison recited.

“Perfect,” the man said.

“With luck,” Hoover qualified.

Belac rented another car, a Pontiac compact, under a false name this time, and drove it to San Jose to check the Lincoln Continental again. He waited in the mall almost an hour, until he was sure, and this time opened the vehicle and hid the ignition key beneath the mat on the driver's side.

Back in the Pontiac, Belac continued on down Route 208 and detoured to drive past Shepherd Industries, imprinting the layout in his mind. He knew there would be another opportunity on the return journey. At San Francisco airport, he found three internal flights—no need for passports—all leaving within an hour of each other the following afternoon. Constantly aware of the money he was spending. Belac bought tickets for each, to Phoenix, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas, from three different clerks. If he were taking unnecessary precautions, at least he could recover his money, Belac thought, driving northward again.

He went slowly by Shepherd Industries again, checking his initial impression, and got back to Milpitas by midafternoon. From the parking-lot pay phone, he made a reservation for the following day under his proper name at the Mark Hopkins hotel because he remembered it from his meeting with Herbeck. Afterward, still at the telephone, he wondered how the consultant would react to his approach when he made it. It was a good feeling to be the manipulator instead of being manipulated, Belac decided. Irrationally he began blaming Rivera for all the trouble he was having and pulled his mouth back into his ugly smile as the idea came to him: the Cuban would have to pay. It would be enjoyable, ensuring that the man did. The decision cheered him.

Back in his motel room Belac slumped in the only easy chair, a displaced spring driving itself uncomfortably into his leg, reviewing every precaution he had taken and trying to think of anything he had overlooked. There was nothing, he decided. It was going to be a long evening.

Morrison and Hoover imagined the same thing until the call came for them, in Hoover's office.

“Seattle!” Morrison yelled to the Customs man, the telephone still cradled at his ear. Morrison outstretched his free hand, commanding silence while he listened. He was beaming when he replaced the receiver. “Came in on an Air Canada flight from Toronto three days ago under his own name. Immigration identified his photograph, but he must have used one of his Mickey Mouse passports.” The FBI man paused, looking at Hoover. “Well?” he demanded. “Still doubtful now?”

“I guess not,” Hoover conceded.

NINETEEN

A
T THE
first attempt Belac got an answering machine and paced nervously up and down in front of the booth, counting the minutes, keeping the relief from his voice when he got Herbeck's secretary at the second attempt and was connected immediately to the consultant.

“I think I'd like us to work together,” Belac announced. He went along with the small talk about what a worthwhile relationship the other man knew it was going to be and the benefits that were going to result for both of them, before cutting in with his demands. Herbeck listened without interruption but repeated the important details when Belac finished.

“I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this,” Belac said. “But there's no way I can get up from Los Angeles in time and I want the appointment kept.”

“I understand,” Herbeck said. “But you'll be here by this afternoon?”

“Three at the outside. I've got a reservation at the Mark Hopkins. I'll call from there.”

“What time do you think you could get to Shepherd Industries?”

“Four-thirty. Stress that I want the meeting today, if he can possibly manage it.”

“I'll fix it,” the American promised.

“It's an imposition, before we've really started working together. I know that,” Belac said.

Herbeck took the opening. “We only talked around the relationship.”

“Your suggestion is fine by me,” Belac said.

“With expenses?”

“Naturally,” Belac said. “We'll settle it all contractually this afternoon, when I get up.”

The urge to arrive early at the back road from which he had a view of Shepherd Industries was very strong, but Belac resisted it, knowing that a car stationary for too long a time would attract attention. Still, he checked out early and drove along 208, from near the factory to the airport; the journey took within five minutes of what it had taken him the previous day. He considered a late breakfast but decided to save the money, reckoning that he could safely return to the factory complex now.

When Belac reached the back road, he spotted the vehicles at once. They would have been concealed from the normal approach but from his position he could see them and their occupants clearly; two of the vans even had the heavy-duty aerials for radio equipment. Belac refused to panic, remaining where he was and picking out the Lincoln Continental the moment it turned into the approach road.

Herbeck parked it neatly within the painted lines of the designated area and considerately locked it. The men assembled around the sprawled building moved as soon as Herbeck entered it, as if one were linked to the other, motivating them into action. There were men running on foot as well as vehicles swarming to seal the building off. From a place he could not see earlier came two small-windowed armored vehicles.