O'Farrell's Law

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.

Strangely, ill though he felt, O’Farrell did not actually regret the alcoholic breakdown. That was all it had been, an isolated, unforeseen breakdown like breakdowns always were. And they could always be overcome. Never again, he vowed. A drink or two, sure—and no more of this crap about counting how many or feeling guilty—but never again like last night. Not, as it eventually became, breakneck attempted oblivion. That was wino stuff, like-the hair-matted wrecks lying in their own piss on 14th Street or in Union station. O’Farrell shuddered, immediately wincing at the discomfort the slight movement caused. He wasn’t heading for 14th Street: never. Last night had been a warning. A release and a warning. Now he’d get on with the job.

Which he could do. He’d been thrown off balance, badly, by the woman and the boy, and he shouldn’t have been, but he’d recovered now. Breakdown over. He had to forget the family. Not forget, precisely; that was stupid because he knew they existed. Compartmentalize them; that was the professional phrase. Compartmentalize anything likely to be a distraction, an interference. Hundreds … thousands … saved, he thought, not just lives. Suffering and hardship … Breakdown most definitely over. Assassination saves lives.

It took O’Farrell a long time to get ready but he still found himself among the rush-hour workers when he left the boardinghouse. He made his way to a fast-order café and forced himself to consume dry toast he didn’t want and coffee he couldn’t taste, knowing he had to get something into his stomach if he ever wanted to feel better. It didn’t settle easily, but it settled. Just.

When O’Farrell got there, the BMW with which he had become familiar the previous night was still parked outside the Hampstead house. He drove past and concealed himself almost completely in a side street about fifty yards farther on, reminding himself he’d kept this rental car three days, which was long enough. The large package in Rivera’s garage would prevent the BMW being put away, thought O’Farrell, an idea flickering unformed. How long would it stay there?

It was just past ten when Rivera left the house. O’Farrell noted the time and the surprising fact that the ambassador was not driven by an embassy chauffeur. He followed, sure of the destination and therefore not bothering to keep close surveillance, but he was able to anyway, because of the freak lightness of the traffic. He was glad he had because he was able to see a uniformed man—the chauffeur, he guessed—and two other men waiting expectantly at the embassy entrance to receive the man. So just after ten was Rivera’s routine departure time from home and just after 10:30 his routine arrival time at the embassy. The American sighed in disbelief at the nonexistent security. Rivera appeared so unguarded it almost seemed suspicious.

Rivera went inside. The car was driven off by the uniformed man, confirming O’Farrell’s impression. It was a simple around-the-block journey to the rear of the premises, where there was a small, name-designated parking area. Rivera’s reserved spot was in the very center, in full view of all the rooms at the rear. Not possible here, thought O’Farrell, whose earlier idea had hardened. The chauffeur got out and went into the building. O’Farrell pulled in just beyond the embassy, on a double yellow line, watching the vehicle in his rearview mirror. Almost at once the chauffeur reappeared in an apron and with a bucket and cloth and started to clean the vehicle. O’Farrell eased out into the traffic again, expecting Rivera to remain within the embassy for the morning at least. It was unimportant anyway; he had other things to do.

Nausea was still a threat and O’Farrell drove tight lipped, feeling cold but aware that he was sweating at the same time. The headache ebbed and flowed and the light hurt his eyes, causing a different and quite separate pain. His first full-blown, tie-and-tails hangover, he recognized. Even at college and later, in the army, on furloughs or celebrating something, he’d never drunk enough to lose control of himself, like the previous night. And was damn glad he hadn’t, if this were the result. He was absolutely sure—and grateful—of one thing about the binge. If these were the aftereffects, there was no danger of his ever becoming an alcoholic.

He was glad to deliver the rental car at Kennington, retrieving the credit-card slip and paying in cash, assuring the counter clerk that the car had been perfect and he would use them again. O’Farrell crossed to Acton by underground, stomach and head in turmoil from the jolting claustrophobia of the subway car, which stank of stale people too close together.

In Acton he chose a dark blue Ford and arranged the same payment method as before, wondering as he drove east toward the embassy and the first contact with Petty since his arrival in England whether he would need all the rental cars he had carefully reserved. Or the boardinghouse accommodations, either. Hardly, if it remained as easy as this.

O’Farrell was lucky and actually found a parking place in Grosvenor Square. At the embassy reception area he identified himself as Hepplewhite, the alias he had used at the first boardinghouse and which was his agreed cover name during any planned embassy visits. The CIA station chief came out at once. He said his name was Slim Matthews, but he wasn’t, at all: he was a roly-poly man who smiled a lot and rocked back and forth in an odd, wobbling gait when he walked.

“Been messaged you might stop by,” Matthews said when they reached the security of the CIA section.

With a security classification and in a code from which Matthews would know not to ask questions, O’Farrell knew. He said, “At the moment, I just need the communications.”

“You look like hell,” Matthews said. “You all right?”

“Ate something that came back at me,” O’Farrell said, easily. He realized, gratefully, he was feeling better.

“Food in England is shit,” Matthews declared. “Hardly had a decent meal since I got here.”

It didn’t seem to be having much effect upon the man’s weight problem; perhaps it was glandular. O’Farrell said, “There’ll be stuff arriving for me, packed, in the pouch. It shouldn’t be opened, of course. I’ll collect.”

“Understood. Anything else?”

“Nothing,” O’Farrell said. He hoped.

Matthews escorted O’Farrell through the barred, marine-guarded inner sanctum. His verbal authorization was enough. No note was made in the log in which all entries and exits were supposed to be recorded.

O’Farrell used a priority number to reach Langley and was quickly patched through to Petty. The section chief answered the telephone coughing and O’Farrell wondered if the pipe had been just lighted or extinguished. “How’s it look?” the department head began.

“I’ve decided the way,” O’Farrell announced.

Petty grunted. “It has to be coordinated with the move against Belac, don’t forget. We haven’t heard from the Bureau or from Customs yet.”

“The opportunity won’t last,” O’Farrell said. Jesus, don’t say they were going to pussyfoot around when he had the chance to do it and get out!

“It’s got to be in the proper sequence,” Petty insisted. “Which is Belac first.”

“What if it can’t be that way!”

“We don’t want to spook Belac.”

“So what’s more important?”

“Both,” Petty said infuriatingly. “How much time have we really got?”

“I don’t know,” O’Farrell admitted. “Not long.”

“If it goes, you’ll have to find another way,” Petty said.

Just like that! O’Farrell thought. “This isn’t easy, you know!”

“No one ever said it was,” Petty said. “What do you need?”

O’Farrell listed the materials he wanted shipped from Washington. He added, “And I want the watchers withdrawn. I don’t want an audience.”

Petty went silent for a few moments. He said, “Just the usual precaution.”

“It isn’t necessary. And they’re amateur. Get them off my back.”

“Okay.” The clumsy sons of bitches, Petty thought. But then O’Farrell always had been good; it was encouraging to know that he still was.

“I mean it,” insisted O’Farrell. “No watchers.”

“Speak to me before you move,” Petty said.

“All right.” He was definitely on hold, O’Farrell knew.

“And well done.”

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

“I know it will,” Petty said. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re our best man?”

Crap, thought O’Farrell. He said, “You don’t have to bother.”

“Another thing,” Petty said, as if he’d suddenly remembered, which O’Farrell knew couldn’t be, because Petty never forgot anything. “Got a query channeled through from Florida. DA’s talking deals with the pilot, Rodgers, in exchange for testimony to a grand jury against the Cuban. DA wants to know if we’ve got a mitigating recommendation, to go with his.”

You my man, thought O’Farrell. He said, “What’s the District Attorney offering him?”

“No idea,” Petty said. “An indictment against Cuadrado has political mileage; it’ll make some waves and headlines here in Washington. So I guess it’ll be worthwhile.”

“Nothing!” O’Farrell announced shortly. “I don’t think we should recommend any mitigation at all.”

There was a further silence from the other end. Then Petty said, “I thought Rodgers told you all he could.”

“He played with me,” O’Farrell said. “Acted out some B-movie bullshit. What he told me he’s telling the DA. So why does he get the same favor twice?”

“Your decision,” Petty said. “Don’t move without us talking again, okay?”

“I’ll wait,” O’Farrell said, resigned.

Back in the outer section, O’Farrell thanked Matthews, and the station chief said he’d like to offer O’Farrell a drink but knew he couldn’t. O’Farrell, who would have liked to accept and have someone briefly to talk with, said he would have enjoyed it, too, but he had to decline.

The BMW was still in the rear parking area at the Cuban embassy, and O’Farrell settled himself for an indeterminate wait, which in the event wasn’t long at all. Rivera himself came out of the rear door to take the car, and O’Farrell guessed the destination within minutes of the departure. The door of the Pimlico house opened and closed quickly, and O’Farrell thought they had to be pretty anxious to risk a quickie in the afternoon but then remembered they hadn’t been together the previous night and guessed it was a case of catching up.

It was a quickie. From Pimlico, Rivera went back within the hour to Hampstead, where again the car was left outside. Rivera departed at the same time the following morning—and the morning after that—and again the car was parked outside at night. And again there was a complete absence of security.

All O’Farrell could do was wait, like he’d promised Petty. He was reluctant to do that; he’d gotten through the last few days, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last.

He attended a church in Kensington on two consecutive mornings, but it didn’t help, not like it usually had. On the second occasion a cleric tried to get into a conversation, but O’Farrell cut the man short, although not rudely.

Church visits were an excuse, he decided. Like a lot of other things.

Apart from the very first few months—or maybe weeks—of their marriage, Rivera could not recall things being easier between himself and Estelle. Her attitude towards him changed completely, to one of friendship he had never known from her, and he positively relaxed in her company, as she relaxed in his. They attended two official receptions. At both she was dazzling and attentive to him, and he actually enjoyed them, and when she went to her assignations with the Frenchman, she did so more discreetly than she had before, not Haunting her early departure and late return as a challenge. They talked about Lopelle only once after her drawing-room revelation. Estelle said his wife had agreed to a divorce and Lopelle himself had accepted Rivera’s terms, believing it would be better for his own diplomatic position, too. Rivera said he was glad everything was going to work out. Rivera was curious to see what the man looked like but had not asked if he were at the two receptions; he didn’t think the man could have been, from the closeness with which Estelle stayed with him.

Estelle even began breakfasting with him, which was something she had never done, and it was at breakfast that she said, “Maxine’s ill.”

Maxine had come to them as a nanny for Jorge and stayed on to act as housekeeper when the boy had grown older.

“What’s wrong?”

“Some flu-type virus,” Estelle said. “The doctor says it’s contagious, so I’m keeping her away from Jorge.”

“Do that,” Rivera said, immediately concernéd. “How long will she be off work?”

“I don’t know,” Estelle said.

John Herbeck had worked for them all—Apple and Hewlett Packard and IBM—as a development engineer and still considered himself the best, even though the last of them, IBM, had been a few years ago now. He kept up with everything—all the trade mags and the in-house publications that were slipped to him by friends still in the business—and knew he gave value for money to those who retained him as a consultant on technological innovations. And as a spotter, too, directing buyer to seller. That was the easiest money of all. Less now than there had been, in the halcyon days of Silicon Valley, but still enough to keep him comfortably in the style to which he had become accustomed. But only just. It seemed to be getting more difficult, with every passing month. He was becoming quite anxious to attract new clients.

SEVENTEEN

TOO MANY things were going wrong too quickly, and Belac was making mistakes. Which he acknowledged, and which further upset him; that it was all costing him money upset him most of all. By now he should have gained his entire profit but he hadn’t, because of that damned ten-percent withholding. And trying to handle the Swedish business by letter—actually trying to save money by not going—was a mistake. It had taken nearly a month of correspondence, Belac using the cover of his Swiss shell company, before it became clear from Epetric that the blocking of the VAX order was not their decision but that of the California company, which refused to supply any more material until they were better satisfied with die documentation, as required by the American export authorities.

Nearly a whole month wasted! And now he had to confront the biggest problem of all. America.

Belac conducted his special trade fully aware of its risks and knew every detail of the indictments outstanding against him in the United States. He genuinely considered both to be ridiculous, like so much that COCOM prohibited, because each indictment was for supplying the communist bloc with computers that could be manufactured from components available over shop counters practically anywhere in the West. Ridiculous or not, however, the indictments remained two very good and convincing reasons why he should not risk entering the country.

But he hardly had any choice. He’d built a clear $2.5-million profit into the VAX order alone and laid out a nonreturnable deposit of $250,000. If he didn’t supply and Rivera had to purchase elsewhere, it meant not only his losing almost three million. It meant the all-important word getting around among the other dealers: it meant losing his reputation and possible future customers. The considerations didn’t end there. Belac had to know why Shepherd Industries was objecting to documentation that at this stage was foolproof, whether the objection indicated that he was definitely being targeted by U.S. agencies. He’d gone in and out of America, since the indictments had been handed down; he had enough passports for a dozen trips. But this time it would be more dangerous; he’d have to use his own passport at some stage to run hare to their hounds to see if there were a pursuit. It was time to stop making mistakes, time to start being very careful.

Belac went three days after receiving the explanatory letter from Sweden.

A man of habit, which disastrously lulled the CIA watchers into carelessness, Belac began the evening as he normally did by going to the fixed-price restaurant in which he normally ate. But after half an hour, he left through its rear door for the waiting taxi that took him directly to the railway station, where he caught the Swiss-bound trans-European express with minutes to spare. He was fifteen minutes into the train journey before the CIA discovered that he had left the restaurant, but some days would pass before they would admit losing him completely.

Belac crossed the Swiss border on a valid German passport in the name of Hans Krebs. In the same name he booked into Zurich’s Baur au Lac Hotel. In the morning he flew to London.

Belac flew into the United States by a circuitous route, from London and through Toronto, so that he entered from Canada. It was on the last leg of the journey, into Seattle, that he took the big risk, booking the ticket in his real name of Pierre Réné Belac. But he went through passport and immigration control on the Krebs document, knowing passenger manifests are not compared against the passports of arriving passengers. There was not the slightest hindrance, and within forty-five minutes, his trail having been laid, he was waiting by the boarding gate of the last San Francisco flight of the day. Deciding not to press his luck, he traveled on the German name.

He changed back again to his real identity at San Francisco airport and used his own driver’s license to rent a Lincoln Continental from the Hertz office. He stopped in San Jose, parking the car in a shopping mall, and continued his journey by taxi, although not into San Francisco. In Milpitas he found a cheap motel, which, in comparison to his apartment in Brussels, was practically luxurious. At last he slept, exhausted by traveling for so long and drained by the nervous strain as well.

He woke in the morning feeling refreshed. From Brussels he’d carried the names of three consultants known within the arms trade to have responded to hi-tech inquiries in the past. With the first he got an answering machine. The second was John Herbeck, who came on to the line as soon as Belac explained his requirements to the secretary. After a few minutes’ conversation they arranged to meet for cocktails at the Mark Hopkins, on Nob Hill.

The consultant turned out to be a swarthy, deeply suntanned man with the tendency to laugh after speaking, as if he were nervous of his listener disagreeing with what he said.

Belac knew his business and was easily able to keep the conversation going about technology developments throughout Santa Clara Valley and the tightness of the industry compared to a few years ago. Then Belac mentioned the restrictive problems of COCOM.

Belac waited for the American to pick up the lead, and Herbeck took it.

“It’s a mine field,” Herbeck said, in clumsy cliché. “Commerce and Customs seem to change their minds day by day; it’s hell keeping abreast of it.”

“Which is why I need somebody here, on the spot,” Belac said. “In Europe it’s impossible for me to keep track.”

“A retainer, you mean?” Herbeck pounced.

“If we come to a satisfactory arrangement, then most certainly it would involve a retainer,” Belac said.

Spotting, thought Herbeck: what he enjoyed doing most. He said, “I’d like to get some idea of your activities.”

So would a lot of people, Belac thought. He smiled his sparse smile and said, “I think it’s best summed up as being a middle man between interested parties.”

“I see,” Herbeck said slowly, believing that he did. “What, specifically, would be my part in the operation?”

Belac shrugged. “Variable, I would imagine,” he said. “At the moment I would see myself contacting you if I had a tentative order, to get your advice on the most likely supplier and for guidance upon any export infringements.”

“Would you have me become involved in any negotiations?” the American asked.

“As I said, it might be variable. The normal way for my company is to deal direct.”

No illegality! Herbeck thought. If all he did was identify companies, he wasn’t breaking the law; if he set out the COCOM restrictions every time, he would actually be observing it. “What sort of retainer are we talking about here?”

“Something else I seek your advice about,” lured Belac. “What’s the normal scale?”

Don’t go too high but don’t go too low, either, Herbeck thought. He said, “Again it would depend on the work involved, but I would think something in the region of thirty-five thousand a year.”

The absurdity of paying anyone money like that! Belac kept any reaction from his face and said, “That would be quite acceptable. I would expect to meet your expenses as well.”

Happy days are here again, thought Herbeck. He said, “What more, then, can we talk about?”

“I can’t make a positive decision tonight, you understand,” Belac said. “You’re the first consultant with whom I’ve opened discussions. I have other appointments.”

“I understand,” Herbeck said, miserably. “Is there a number where I could reach you?”

“I’ll call you in a few days,” Belac said.

“I’ll be waiting,” the consultant assured him hopefully.

Belac left the Mark Hopkins and hailed a cab, bitterly regretting the money he was spending on taxis but knowing it was necessary. He paid the vehicle off in San Jose and went on foot through one of the mall entrances to check for any surveillance upon the car. He gave himself an hour, wandering in and out of stores, and finally decided he would have identified the watch had any been imposed.

He hailed a taxi and returned to his motel, ate watery scrambled eggs and drank gray coffee in the motel diner, and reflected, unamused, that the whole artificial performance could easily be an expensive waste of time.

Belac waited until ten the following morning before ringing Shepherd Industries. There was the briefest of pauses when he identified himself as a representative of Epetric before he was connected to Bernard Shepherd himself. Epetric was sending him from Sweden to resolve the problem of the VAX contract, Belac lied. Could they meet in two days’ time? Shepherd agreed, almost too quickly to have consulted a diary. Noon was convenient to both.

Shepherd’s immediate nerve-jangled reaction was to call Morrison’s San Francisco number, but he had a second thought. The connection to Stockholm was swift, as was the assurance from Epetric’s chairman that no executive of theirs was being sent to California.

The number must have been direct to Morrison’s desk, because the FBI man answered at once.

“It’s worked; he’s coming!” Shepherd announced. And you bastards can get off my back, he thought.

“When!” Morrison asked.

“We’ve arranged a meeting in two days’ time.”

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

MORRISON 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.