O’Farrell squatted again, this time with his back against the vehicle’s fender, to prepare the charges. Before separating the plastic into three, he put on the rubber gloves,-flexing his fingers against their thickness, wishing he had the thinner surgical type. He didn’t attempt to get into the car to reach the electrical system from the front; it would have brought the light on and meant lifting the hood, both impossible. O’Farrell waited until he was beneath the vehicle before turning on his flashlight. The gas pump was clearly visible, about eighteen inches from the fuel tank. O’Farrell taped the charge into the space between the two, and then, with the penknife, stripped the gas-pump lead back to its wires; the positive was the nearest to him. He scraped away the blue covering, attached the contact from the detonator to the bare wire, and sealed the join with adhesive tape. From this detonator he trailed a lead tightly along and beneath the car to a point directly under the driver’s seat, where he attached against the chassis his second charge. From it O’Farrell brought his continuous lead up through the engine housing to meet with the explosives he had already introduced through a bigger access and strapped in front of where the driver sat. A perfectionist, O’Farrell checked the placing and the connections from the rear to the front. The ignition activated the gas pump and the gas pump activated the detonator-placed charges. The entire vehicle was one huge bomb.
O’Farrell, finally satisfied, came crabwise from beneath the car. He was not hurrying, knowing he had to wait another passing of the police before he could leave. This was the first time, he reflected idly, that he had used his knowledge of cars and engines professionally, and wondered why; what he’d fixed up tonight was infallible. But this was no place for idle reflection. O’Farrell gathered everything back into the briefcase, propping it against his legs. There was absolutely no question of his being allowed to pass any police with it in his hand, he decided; it might be sufficient to cause an insomniac resident to raise an alarm, too. O’Farrell carefully cleaned the handle, trie only part he had touched with his bare hands, and went beneath the car again, strapping it tightly to the fuel tank in die recess available around the exhaust-pipe arch.
He settled down on his haunches in the shrubbery, where he had before, for the police return, unable to see but using the time to brush off the grit and dirt that stuck to him from being beneath the car. The cleanup wouldn’t. he knew, withstand any close scrutiny, but he didn’t expect there to be any.
The police pacing approached, as monotonously repetitious as their conversation.
“… why not ask the wife to have a word with her?”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“So you’re mistaken.”
“Not something I like talking about to the wife.”
“Don’t talk about sex to your wife!”
“Rarely a subject that comes up between us, as a matter on fact.”
O’Farrell was against the gate as the sound faded, edging into die road as soon as he felt it safe to do so; they were a blurred, moving blackness, as mey had been when he first saw them. O’Farrell went in the opposite direction, walking just short of the pace diat would have attracted attention, eager for the first corner. He slowed slightly when he rounded that and relaxed further when he turned into the road where the rental car was parked. For several moments, when he got inside, he sat without firing the ignition, letting the tension seep away.
The car started, first time, and O’Farrell drove a roundabout route, not taking the roads that would bring him past Rivera’s house again. The constables might note the number of a car driving so late. And he had a feeling beyond the need for such caution. He didn’t want any association, not even the association of driving by again. It was over. Finished. He was going home.
Petty considered the FBI debacle reason enough to suggest another meeting with McCarthy, although he didn’t say that when he called to arrange it. The Plans director of the CIA said he thought they did have things to talk about, although his schedule was blocked out for lunch for a month. Petty suggested the rooftop bar of the Washington Hotel for an evening drink, and McCarthy agreed at once; had Petty seen what the Post had written after its summer reopening a few weeks back? Petty said he hadn’t.
Petty arrived early, to get a suitably private table near the rail before the usual cocktail invasion, wondering if his ulcer would resist the happy-hour snacks that were available. Those he could see seemed to be in a fair amount of sauce, so he postponed any decision. He asked the waitress, hopefully, if pipe smoking were permitted and was told no. He ordered mineral water.
McCarthy arrived late, bustling expectantly past the line that had formed, confident Petty would have a table and ignoring the hostile looks from the people waiting.
The wickerwork seat creaked under his weight. “Kept you long?” he asked, the nearest he’d get to an apology.
“Not at all,” Petty said.
The Plans director signaled for a waitress, ordering a Bloody Mary. Gesturing to the Treasury Building and the White House beyond, and then encompassing the monument as well, McCarthy said, “Great view, isn’t it? That’s one of the things the Post said. Great view.”
“Great,” said Petty. He could actually see the spot where he’d briefed O’Farrell; it seemed a long time ago.
Their drinks were served, and the waitress left. McCarthy said, “Didn’t work out at all well in California, did it?”
“Many recriminations?” Petty asked.
“Practically a permanent tribunal,” McCarthy said, drinking noisily. “We can’t feel very good over it, though. Our guys fell on their ass in Brussels.”
“Picked him up yet?”
McCarthy shook his head. “He’ll have gone back into the woodwork now.”
“What about O’Farrell?” Petty asked. “I could have one of the surveillance teams make contact if you wanted to call it off; we’ve let him run, but we know from the early days the places where he’s staying.”
McCarthy gestured for refills, shaking his head against the suggestion as he turned back to the other man. “That’s why I wanted to see you. So far the score for our side is zero.…” He nodded in the direction of the White House. “At the moment everyone is down the toilet together; a success would be good for us*. You spoken?”
“And cleared him, in anticipation of California working as it was supposed to.”
“Remember Makarevich?” McCarthy demanded, without warning.
Petty didn’t, not at first. Then he said, “Of course.”
“Been running a check, the last few weeks,” the Plans director disclosed. “That put the Soviets back a lot: a hell of a lot.”
“So?” Petty queried, frowning.
“Just think it’s interesting, that’s all.”
TWENTY-ONE
THE BOARDINGHOUSE in Queens Gate Terrace proved the worst—professionally—that he’d chosen. It was run by a widow who insisted that all her guests call her Connie and who set out to be a mother figure to the unattached and a what-I-remember-about-London landlady to all. O’Farrell had stayed aloof and guessed she was offended, but didn’t think it mattered, now that he was leaving.