“But that’s precisely what we do now,” she cut in.
“If you try to force any sort of divorce action upon me, I shall see that you are returned to Havana and that all travel permission is withdrawn. You’ll never see Lopelle again.”
“Why!” Estelle wailed.
“I said ‘at this time.’ “
“Please explain that,” Estelle said, subdued.
“To my timing and to my choice you can have your divorce,” Rivera said. “It’s the timing to which I object.”
“When?” she asked eagerly, smiling hopefully.
“I don’t know, not specifically. Not a long time.” The current deal with Belac should be over before the year’s end, Rivera thought. Which was when he’d already decided to quit and find that Paris home. In passing, Rivera was caught by the coincidence of his deciding to live in France and Estelle choosing a French lover. “Well?” he said.
“It’s hardly a choice, is it?”
“I think so,” Rivera said. “My way gives you everything you want with just a delay, that’s all.”
The smile came again, not as easily but still a smile. “I suppose it docs, really. You do mean it, don’t you?”
“I promise you,” Rivera said.
“Not long?” Estelle pressed.
“That’s what I said,” Rivera reiterated. “And during that time, perhaps we could have a little less hostility.”
“I’d like that, too,” Estelle said sincerely. “And thank you.”
The idea of having Estelle returned to Cuba and held there had come suddenly to Rivera, without any forethought, but considering it more fully, he decided it would be an excellent ploy when he decided to leave London. His planning would have to be precise, officially informing his intelligence people about her association with a French spy to absolve himself from any suspicion, but it shouldn’t be too difficult. He certainly didn’t intend to be cast aside publicly at her whim, in favor of another man. She was stupid not to know better.
O’Farrell had moved into the second guest house toward evening and afterward went to the Christchurch Hill house to try to spot any obvious security precautions, like guard dogs or patrols. He was startled to see Rivera emerging with his family and on impulse followed them to the theater. It was impossible for him to get a ticket so late, but he had their car as a marker and spent the time in a pub from which he could see it, strictly rationing himself to three drinks. He was ready a good half hour before they left, and he followed them again to the restaurant.
For a long time after they entered, O’Farrell remained undecided in- the rental car, his reluctance to enter after them shaking through him, so that he actually cupped one hand over the other for control. Eventually he did go in, declining a table but sitting at the bar, where he risked a martini, which was surprisingly good.
Rivera was maybe ten feet away. All the words like “glossy” and “smooth” and “hotshot” applied to the man, O’Farrell decided. The woman was very beautiful and the kid polite and attentive, but it didn’t appear a particularly happy trio. It was a brief speculation because O’Farrell’s professional concentration was upon Rivera. The man’s movements were languid, as they had seemed in the photographs: very self-assured, expecting every attention without having to ask, but interestingly not bothering at all with his surroundings. Not someone who felt in any personal danger, then.
O’Farrell ordered a second drink, assuring himself it was necessary for the observation he was conducting, remaining for a further thirty minutes without adding anything to his impressions of the ambassador. The shaking threatened him again, and so he left, getting to Hampstead ahead of them, intent upon what he’d first come to the house to discover. There was no barking, and no guards appeared, when the family returned, no hesitation when the woman entered first to indicate the switching off of any alarm system. For a full ten minutes Rivera stood clearly identifiable in the brightly lighted garage, showing something very large and wrapped to the boy before the two followed the woman into the house. As he watched, O’Farrell established the time sequence of the police foot patrols, two men who paid no particular attention to the ambassador’s residence.
The surveillance had been worthwhile, O’Farrell decided as he was driving away. Difficult though it was to believe, it seemed that Rivera had no security precautions or alarms at all at the house.
O’Farrell took a wrong turn on his way back but was unworried, knowing the names of the central districts by now and using them as a guide until he recognized the streets again. He joined a road he knew and saw an off-license on the corner. He made a decision, stopping the car and going in. Gin would require mixes and create too bulky a package, he decided. So he bought brandy.
At the guest house he rinsed out the bathroom glass and poured himself a measure, needing it. The liquor warmed through him, relaxing, and the twitch from his hands diminished at last. O’Farrell lay on the top of the bed, reviewing the evening. He could have done it tonight. Without any specially adapted rifle he could have dropped Rivera as he was silhouetted in that garage, so obvious a target that he could probably have gotten in a second shot before the man hit the ground.
In front of the boy.
In his imagination Rivera seemed to fade into a hazy, indistinct outline, but O’Farrell could remember everything about the child’s features and appearance and mannerisms. Older than Billy, obviously, and certainly more sophisticated even for his age, but still a kid. A kid whose father he was assigned to kill, could have killed that night, right in front of him. Stuff that makes you feel funny, O’Farrell thought, clinging to a litany. Millions in a Swiss bank. Unquestionably guilty, arms for drugs, drugs for arms.
O’Farrell slopped more brandy into his glass, blinking to clear the picture of the child from his mind. Never like this before. Never seen the victim with his family, doing something as natural as eating dinner. Talking. Being normal. Looking normal. It might have been a constructive, worthwhile evening, but he wished to hell he hadn’t gone, just the same. He didn’t want to know the kid and the woman. He wanted to remain aloof and impersonal, and he didn’t feel that anymore. He’d always know, now, know what the boy looked like and the woman, able to picture them in black, grieving, weeping.
He added to his glass again, waiting for the drink to anesthetize him, but nothing happened, not even drunkenness.
“How much longer is this going to go on, for Christ’s sake!” Wentworth protested, outside in the observation car.
“Until we’re told to stop, I guess,” Connors said.
“I don’t like watching one of our own guys.”
“You could always quit and become a school crossing guard.”
SIXTEEN
O’FARRELL FELT terrible when he awoke, not needing to feign continuing sleep to check his surroundings. The slightest movement was agony. He was sick the moment he reached the closet-bathroom, dry-heaving long after he couldn’t be sick anymore, the crushing headache worsening every time he retched until desperately he bunched the thin towel against his face to stop. The ache did ease very slightly but it was still bad, worse than he could ever remember any headache before. Or ever wanted to know again.
Because it was the only one available, he had to swill out the brandy-smelling glass of the previous night, briefly causing a fresh spasm of heaves, before he could get some water, which he carried unsteadily back into the bedroom, lowering himself gently onto the disheveled bed. His mouth was gratingly dry but he sipped the water carefully, not wanting to cause any more vomiting. The brandy bottle was on a side chest—like his great-grandfather’s photograph back in Alexandria—and showed just about a third full. So he deserved to feel like he did; he practically deserved to be in a hospital, attached to a stomach pump.