McCarthy appeared deep in thought, gazing sightlessly into his wineglass, but not drinking. All around, the aviary of the restaurant chattered and chirped, but the silence between them lasted so long that if Petty had not seen that the other man’s eyes were open—and that he occasionally blinked—he would have imagined McCarthy somehow to have fallen asleep or even into a coma. At last, his voice distant with continued reflection, the director of Plans said, “She was a Russian dissident, then?”
“Hardly,” Petty said, momentarily forgetting McCarthy’s legendary hatred of the Soviets and implacable distrust of the Gorbachev freedoms. “You know what these nationalist groups are like—a small room with a copier, lots of cigarette smoke, all the men with beards and all the women in cardigans talking about how different it would all be if they could get their hands on just one atom bomb. The reality is that they don’t count a bucket—”
“I heard you the first time,” McCarthy interrupted. “And I don’t disregard or sneer at genuine nationalist activity against Moscow.” Still to himself, but insistently, he said, “A dissident.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” McCarthy said, without offering to explain further. Sneider would have understood by now; seen the direction, at least. McCarthy doubted, though, that he would talk it through with his immediate deputy; better to keep things compartmentalized. He already knew it was a brilliant idea, if all the strands could be knitted together as they had to be. Makarevich, he remembered: that had been the name. Perhaps he would talk it through with Sneider after all. It was going to be a tricky one; tricky as hell.
The coffee arrived and McCarthy said, “Would you like a liqueur with that? Brandy or something?”
Petty heard a dismissive tone in the other man’s voice and decided he had made a mistake in requesting the meeting. He said, “We don’t seem to have gone any further forward.”
Petty expected some definite response, a decision even, but instead McCarthy turned the remark back. He said, “How much further could we take it at this stage?”
“You think we should proceed?” Petty asked openly, wanting to shift responsibility if anything went wrong.
Again McCarthy turned it back. “What do you think?”
He hadn’t shifted the responsibility at all, Petty saw. But then, how could he? There was no protection—no protection at all—in getting any sort of verbal assurance from this man. Petty said, “I think we should proceed.”
McCarthy grinned, the same sort of triumphant grin he’d shown earlier about pipe smoking. He said, “I’m glad that’s your recommendation.”
“It would be yours?” Petty asked, relieved.
“Unquestionably,” McCarthy said. “Absolutely without question.”
“I’m glad we agree,” Petty said, sincerely.
“But keep those watchers in place,” McCarthy said. “Particularly when the operation starts and he’s abroad.”
“Of course.” Perry’s relief was turning into a feeling of satisfaction.
“How’s Elizabeth and the kids?” McCarthy asked, in another abrupt shift of direction.
“Very well. Ann and your children?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said McCarthy. “Judy’s gotten into Miami University. Gus junior wants UCLA but I don’t know if he’s going to get in. It isn’t easy, I understand.”
“Kids are a worry, aren’t they?” Petty commiserated.
“Always a worry,” McCarthy agreed. “I’ve enjoyed the lunch.”
“Me too,” Petty said, knowing it was not a casual remark.
“We should do it again.”
“I’d like that.”
“Particularly when this gets under way. I want to be kept in close touch, all the time.”
McCarthy had never made such a direct request before. Petty said, “Of course.”
“Regards to Elizabeth,” McCarthy said.
“And mine to Ann.”
O’Farrell knew he should have gone up to Chicago, had known even when he’d made the excuses to Jill and then to Ellen, saying that there were too many things to do, when all it had amounted to was packing a suitcase, the work of an hour at the most. And he’d finished that a long time ago. In under an hour. There were the cars, of course: both his and Jill’s. He hadn’t cleaned them last weekend, either. He really didn’t feel like it. Too late now, anyway. Alexandria was packed with tourists at this time of the day, swarming up and down the streets. He’d leave them. For how long? An unanswerable question. As long as it took in London, however long that was. The file was very detailed. Rivera’s movements and habits charted, all the routine available. Shouldn’t take long. England is pretty efficiently policed. Who’d said that? He had, O’Farrell remembered. That day of the briefing at the Ellipse, with Petty and his stinking pipe and Erickson with his bald head that wasn’t really bald at all. Maybe not so quick then; dangerous to rush it and risk a mistake. He’d take his time, only move when he was absolutely sure. Certainly he had no doubt about Rivera’s guilt, now that the banking records were available. Guilty as judged, beyond any appeal; sentence duly returned to be carried out. For him to carry out. His job.
O’Farrell wished he had something else to do, to think about. He regretted now taking the archive to be copied. Jill could have done it while he was away, and it could have been waiting for him when he got back. Except that he’d wanted to do it himself, to explain how important it was that nothing was damaged. Jill could have done that just as well, of course. But the responsibility would have been hers then if anything had gone wrong. So it wouldn’t have been right, putting the burden on her. He would still have liked it to be here, though. Given him something to do: taken his mind off other things. No, not other things. Just one thing. He’d have to remember to ask Jill to pick the archive and the photograph up for him so it would all be here when he got back.
The martini pitcher was near at hand, still half-full because he’d made a big batch, and he topped up his glass. How was he going to do it? A premature question. Never able to decide until he’d carried out his own reconnaissance, trained better than anyone else to see the possibilities. What was there to think about then? Nothing. Should have gone up to Chicago. Except that he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to do anything but sit here in the den, hidden away, safe. But only for another few hours. Had a plane to catch in a few hours; less than a day. From National Airport, too. Not more than thirty minutes up the road. All so easy, so simple. Except … O’Farrell blinked, momentarily confused at the blurring in front of his eyes. And then the confusion became embarrassment and he was glad he was alone, hidden away, because he’d never want anyone to know how he’d broken down.
Lawmen didn’t cry, ever.
THIRTEEN
THE PROBLEM of being alone had always been just that. Being alone. Even when he was at home in Alexandria, apparently leading a normal life with Jill, there was always a feeling of being cut off, part of himself isolated and alone. Because it had to be that way. Always. He had not acknowledged it in the early days; he had certainly never understood how permanent the feeling would become. It was as if, in fact, he were two men. Charles William O’Farrell, faithful, loving husband and caring, loving father. And Charles William O’Farrell, unofficial, unrecognized government executioner. Neither knowing the other; neither, realized O’Farrell, extending the thought, wanting to know the other.