“Have you any idea, Excellency, who might want to do a thing like this?”
Rivera spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said.
He had, of course. He’d never imagined Belac would go this far.
Havana predictably labeled the attack a capitalist conspiracy, but with some irony accused America of being the originator. A State Department spokesman in Washington said the claim was too ridiculous to be treated seriously.
TWENTY-TWO
O’FARRELL DRANK steadily throughout the flight and by the time the plane landed at Dulles had attained that frowning, carefully moving I-know-but-nobody-else-does level of drunkenness. He high-stepped his way off the aircraft onto the elevated debarkation bus, and in the terminal he missed his bag the first time it came around the carousel He thought that was funny and giggled, grinning back at people nearby who stared nervously at him.
Erickson was waiting inside the customs hall, on the other side of the checkpoint. Somebody had spoken to somebody, because O’Farrell was passed through without any hindrance. He swayed in front of Erickson and said, spacing his words, “Didn’t expect you: didn’t know what to expect, but didn’t expect you.”
“You’re drunk,” the deputy said.
“Still standing.”
“Only just,” the man said. He steered O’Farrell down to the lower level; the limousine was right outside the entrance, the driver reaching out for his bag. Tobacco smoke swirled out like fog when the door was opened and O’Farrell was further surprised.
“Didn’t expect you, either,” he said to Petty. “And Erickson’s already told me I’m drunk, so you needn’t bother.…” He’d perched on the jump seat of the limousine and turned back to the door. “Where is Erickson?” he said. “With me a moment ago.”
“He won’t be long,” Petty promised. He coughed thickly and said, “Not really the circumstance to ask how you are, is it?”
O’Farrell twisted, ensuring that the driver’s compartment was sealed off from the rear, and said, “For the record, I’m absolutely fucking awful.” He’d never sworn at Petty before, never shown the man any disrespect at all. Didn’t matter now; nothing seemed to matter now. The damned pipe smoke was making his eyes water.
“We’ll get you better,” Petty said.
O’Farrell thought the remark funny, like missing his luggage had been funny, and he giggled. “I’m not sick!” he said.
“Sure,” Petty said infuriatingly.
The passenger door opened, admitting Erickson and a welcome draft of unfogged air. To his deputy, Petty said, “Everything okay?”
“No problem,” Erickson said. “No one at all.”
O’Farrell’s drunken frown returned as he looked at the two men, and then his face cleared, in understanding. “A baby-sitter! You gave me a baby-sitter from, the embassy for the flight over, in case I got confessional.”
“Just a precaution,” Petty confirmed.
“You think I’m that fucked up!” There was a schoolboy pleasure in saying rude words to the section head.
“You’re tired; had a few drinks,” Petty said. “We’ll talk in a day or two.”
“What if I had spoken to someone on the flight?” O’Farrell persisted, with alcoholic bravado.
“Couldn’t have happened,” Petty said conversationally. “You’d have been interrupted, diverted. Forget it.”
Although the limousine was already almost to the Beltway, O’Farrell said, “Shouldn’t we tell the driver…?” and then trailed away, in belated awareness. “Where am I going?”
“Fort Pearce,” Petty said. “We need to debrief you. Give you a few days’ rest as well … just a few days.”
O’Farrell knew Fort Pearce; years ago—he couldn’t recall exactly when—he’d attended a couple of advanced training courses there on behind-the-lines survival. It was officially designated an army installation but in reality it was a CIA complex, mostly for warfare and sabotage instruction. He said, “So I’m being locked up in the stockade?”
“Of course you’re not,” Erickson said without conviction. “It’s a debriefing, that’s all. And the people at Fort Pearce have the highest clearance, so it’s the most obvious and convenient place.”
O’Farrell didn’t believe it. He wondered, although without any fear, what was going to happen to him. Whatever, he deserved it. He said, “How long is a few days?”
“Two … three …” Petty started.
“Whatever. A few days …” Erickson said.
“What then?” O’Farrell demanded.
“Let’s get the debriefing over first.” Petty said.
Erickson indicated the liquor cabinet recessed between the jump seats. “You want a drink?”
“No,” O’Farrell said at once. He squinted through the darkened windows of the car, but could not gauge where they were. “I’m not going to become unreliable,” he said, and at once regretted the remark. It sounded as if he were scared, which he wasn’t, not yet.
“We know that!” Petty said.
“Not even a consideration,” Erickson added.
“Just important to get you fit again,” Petty said.
The back-and-forth delivery seemed to be ingrained, thought O’Farrell. Annoyed at being patronized, he began, “I’m not …” but stopped, deciding it wasn’t worth the bother. He wished he’d taken Erickson’s offered drink, although he was proud that he’d held back. Would Fort Pearce be dry? He couldn’t remember from his previous visits, although he doubted this was going to be anything like his previous visits. He said, “You debriefing me?”
Petty shook his head. “There are experts at Fort Pearce.”
“Specialists,” Erickson finished.
“In what?” O’Farrell demanded pointedly.
“Everything.” Petty was avoiding him once more.
How much O’Farrell would have liked, just once, to have trapped the man, talked him into a corner and pinned him into some definite commitment. Feeling it was time—and surprised they hadn’t prompted him into it in their ventriloquist’s act—O’Farrell said, “It was a disaster. I know it was a disaster.…”
Petty raised his hand, stopping the apology. “Not now …” the section head said.
“Better later …”
“More appropriate …”
“I just wanted you to know.”
“We do …”
“Completely …”
The vehicle slowed and O’Farrell saw they were at the gates of Fort Pearce, the driver already going through the identification and entry formalities. O’Farrell would have expected the passengers to be checked, but they weren’t. The car went on for quite a long way inside the complex, wending along roads between barracks-type buildings, before stopping. When O’Farrell emerged, it was into an area he did not know from his other visits. They stood before a white-painted, clapboard building styled like barracks but taller, two storeys. The bottom floor was encircled by a covered veranda reached by steps wide enough for two or three people to climb abreast. But they didn’t. Petty led, O’Farrell followed, waved forward, with Erickson at the rear. The prisoner was under close escort, thought O’Farrell. There was a guard at the entrance, and Petty made the identification before leading on with apparent familiarity down the wide, polished-clean corridor. All the doors leading onto it were closed and there was no noise from behind any of them. Halfway down was a bulletin board forlornly bare of any notices. O’Farrell realized that after all the drinking he needed a bathroom. He looked around for one; none of the doors were designated or marked, not even with numbers.
Petty entered one practically at the end. It led into an unexpectedly expansive office whose occupant was already standing, smiling, in front of his desk. O’Farrell stared at the man curiously. He looked impossibly young, practically college age. He nodded to Petty and Erickson, previous acquaintances, but held out his hand to O’Farrell. “Lambert, John Lambert,” he said. “And you’re Charles O’Farrell. Is it Charles or Chuck?”