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.

Of course he'd been aware of solitude in those early days, those assignments after Vietnam, after the careful, circuitous CIA suggestion mat he quit the regular army and serve his country another way.

Vienna the first time. January 1974. A bad month, operationally, because of the weather. Thick snow everywhere and the temperature hovering around freezing during the day and well below it after about four P.M., which made the necessary surveillance a problem because no one hung around on street corners or in doorways in conditions like that. His name had been Mohammad Mouhajer, and there had not been any doubt about his guilt, about why the sentence should be carried out, because the man had been paraded as a hero in Tripoli, leader of the PLO extremist group that hijacked a TWA plane and slaughtered ten Americans before blowing the aircraft up in front of selected television cameras. A freedom fighter, he'd been called. At a press conference he'd pledged himself to continue fighting to bring attention to the Palestinian cause. O'Farrell could even recall the translated phrase at that bombastic Libyan media event. It is inevitable that people must die. Inevitable, then, that Mouhajer had to die. His case was classic proof, in fact, of the doctrine preached at those top-secret training sessions at Fort Pearce and Fort Meade. Assassination saves lives. O'Farrell had spent two weeks watching the man's every move, tracing his every contact. Mouhajer had been boastful, oversure of himself, never taking any precautions. A single shot from the car-a Kalashnikov rifle, a provable Soviet bullet-as the man walked along the Naglergasse near midnight, the weather now a positive advantage because it was five degrees below and no one was on the street.

Alone then, but not a difficulty. Only away three weeks. He'd taken a leather purse back for Jill, a dirndl-dressed doll for Ellen, and a mechanical car for John.

How was Vienna, darling?

Pretty. I'll have to take you sometime.

I'd like that.

There'd been a connection with Vienna the second time: March 1975. Paris. The name this time had been Leonid Makarevich, although they discovered at least four aliases during the investigation. A KGB major, the guns-and-bombs delivery man for the terrorist groups. A similarity with the current operation, O'Farrell supposed. The proof was that Makarevich had supplied the explosives for the TWA bombing and O'Farrell recognized the Russian immediately from the photographs; he was the man with whom Mouhajer had conducted three meetings in Vienna. Assassination saves lives. True. Always true. He wouldn't be doing it, if it weren't true and justified, would he? Ridiculous self-doubt. A more complicated operation evolved when O'Farrell disclosed the Vienna information. More planning was necessary, too, because Makarevich was a professional who took no chances, always trying to clear his trail, aware of everything around him. The rule was that the method should be left to O'Farrell, but now a shooting was ordered, because the death had to tie in with Mouhajer's. On the street again, as Makarevich left the Hotel Angleterre, the weapon and the bullet as before: it had to appear tit-for-tat. O'Farrell had nothing to do with the anonymous telephone call to the hotel, supposedly from the PLO, talking of revenge. Or the planted stories in the CIA-controlled media-not in America, but in Italy and France itself-which were picked up and reported in the rest of the world's press, recounting a supposed feud between Moscow and the PLO. In fact, a rift actually did develop, because neither believed the other's denial of involvement in the two killings.

A Hermes scarf on this occasion for Jill, another nationally dressed doll for Ellen, a penknife for John.

Is Paris prettier than Vienna, darling?

I think so.

I'd like to see that, too.

One day we'll go.

They never had, though. Would he ever bring her here to London? O'Farrell wondered, as the airport bus left the motorway to become clogged in the morning rush-hour traffic. He doubted it. The decision to avoid all the operational places had been unconscious, until now. He never wanted to return anywhere he'd worked professionally, never wanted to be reminded by a street he'd walked, a building he'd passed, a restaurant where he'd eaten. Alone.

He was alone now. Had to be. The unseen, never-there man. Coming into the city by bus was the necessary initial move, mingling with a crowd and not risking a taxi. From the city terminal, garment bag in hand, he walked three streets before hailing one, changing transport this time because a person boarding a town bus with a suitcase is remembered. He paid the cab off in Courtfield Road and waited until it disappeared into Earls Court before setting out again to lose himself, crossing the Cromwell Road in the direction of Kensington but soon stopping short, locating the ideal guest house just past Cottesmore Gardens. The owner was a thin-faced, weak-eyed man who greeted O'Farrell in shirt sleeves and offered him the choice of a front or back room. O'Farrell chose the back and paid in cash for three nights, saying that he was on an economy vacation and would be going north, to Edinburgh, by the middle of the week. He was asked to enter his own registration, in an exercise-book type ledger. He used the name Bernard Hepplewhite, the First of the four aliases that had been decided upon, and said he would not be needing any food, not even breakfast.

The room was basic but clean and the bed linen fresh, for which he was grateful; it was always necessary to use anonymous places like this, and sometimes they'd been dirty.

It had, of course, been an overnight flight-from New York, not Washington, a further security detour-and O'Farrell had not slept at all. He attempted to now. Tired, overly fatigued people made mistakes he couldn't make ... O'Farrell lay wide-eyed for an hour and then reluctantly took the prescribed pill, which gave him relief for four hours. He awoke just after midday, clog-eyed and dry-mouthed and unrested. Water, that's all; all he'd take was water. Didn't need anything else. A lot to do. Not Rivera yet, though. One of those first lessons: Think backward, not forward. Plan escape routes before looking the other way.

He ignored the bars and restaurants and hotels on Kensington High Street and others in Kensington Church Street and Earls Court Road, noting instead the name of a boardinghouse in Holland Street and another in Queen's Gate Terrace. He found an unvandalized telephone booth back on Kensington High Street from which he called both boardinghouses, setting up consecutive reservations for when he left Courtfield Road. Always move on; never remain long enough to be remembered afterward.

O'Farrell used a map of the London underground to cross the city and locate another boardinghouse in Marylebone-in Crossmore Road-and a fifth, a small commercial hotel, two miles to the west off Warwick Road. It was more difficult this time to find a telephone box that worked but he managed it at last, in Porteus Road, and made three-night reservations to continue from those he'd already secured in Kensington.

By 5:30 he felt exhausted, heavy-eyed and heavy-limbed, aching everywhere. And thirsty; very thirsty. Carefully he chose an unlicensed coffee bar, where the actual coffee was disgusting, and ate chicken coated in a gluti-nously cold sauce and papier-mache peas.

Completely drained as O'Farrell was, he still had to observe other professional necessities before he went back to Courtfield Road, but it was a halfhearted performance for the watchers he knew would be in place.

He walked to Marble Arch underground station, several times using doorway reflections and crossing streets abruptly to check for pursuit. He passed by one entrance to the subway and turned into Oxford Street before darting sideways to enter the system. O'Farrell remained on the Central line for only two stops, getting off at Oxford Circus to pick up the Victoria line but going north instead of south. Too tired and disinterested to do anything else, he caught a cruising taxi at Euston and rode it all the way to Gloucester Road. So tired was he that he was aware of his feet scuffing, too heavy to lift into a definite step. Didn't matter how tired he was. Not yet. Not even reconnaissance at this stage. Basic groundwork, that's all. Which he still had to complete. Plenty of time tomorrow. The day after that, if it were necessary. No hurry, no panic. Always wrong to hurry and panic. Dangerous.

The weak-eyed man was still in his shirt sleeves when O'Farrell pulled himself up the worn steps of the board-inghouse, nodding at him but not smiling.

"Too late for dinner," he challenged at once.

"I said I didn't want to eat," O'Farrell reminded him.

"There's the bar, though; not really a bar. You tell me what you want, and I get it for you and bring it into the lounge." He nodded toward a closed door to his right. "It's very comfortable. There's television."

O'Farrell clenched his hands again. "No, thank you," he said. "Nothing."

"Seen all you wanted to, the first day?"

"I think so," O'Farrell said.

"This is a shitty job. You ever think what a shitty job this is?" The driver's name was Wentworth. He was bulged from junk food and sitting around, the necessities of a watcher's life.

"All the time," Connors agreed. The observer was a music enthusiast; the personal stereo and earphones were in his lap now, the Tchaikovsky tape twice exhausted. He disconsolately lifted and then dropped the stereo in his lap and said, "I can't believe I forgot the other fucking tapes!"

"You think he's in for the night?"

"How the fuck do I know!" demanded the observer. "It's only nine."

"So we gotta wait?"

" 'Course we gotta wait."

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About how he's behaved so far, that's about what!" Wentworth said. "What else do you think I mean, for Christ's sake!"

Connors considered the question. Then he said, "By the book. Everything he should have done so far."

"Didn't lose us on that runaround, did he?" There was a triumphant note in Wentworth's voice.

"He was only going through the motions," Connors guessed, groping around and beneath the seat yet again for the mislaid cassette carrier. "I don't think he was really trying."

"Would you have admitted it if he had lost us?"

" 'Course not, asshole!" the observer said.

"We could have been suspended," the driver said.

Connors stopped searching, grinning sideways. "Almost worth lying over, on a shitty job like this," he agreed.

FOURTEEN.

BARNEY SHEPHERD wore a baseball cap backward, with the rim covering his neck, an apron declaring "Ole King o' the Coals" over his bermuda shorts and sweatshirt, Docksiders without socks on his large feet, and a grin of complete contentment on his smooth, round face. He stood in the expansive barbecue area to the left of the pool, surrounded by marinated ribs, ground beef patties, and more dissecting tools than an average surgeon in an average operating room, waiting for the cue from the magic man that the act had just ten more minutes to run. That would be the time to start cooking. Janie was in front of the performer, jumping up and down with the demands of a birthday girl, whooping with delight when she got the candy stick for winning whatever the game had been. Shepherd smiled and waved, but she was too absorbed in the party to notice him. Beautiful, he thought; genuinely beautiful. Blond, like Sheree, and blue eyes like her mother's, too. Beautiful mother, beautiful daughter. He looked beyond the screaming kids, over the landscaped garden and the shrubs and trees to the silver glitter of the Pacific, and then back to encompass the sprawling California ranchhouse that he'd had built to his detailed specifications, including the Jacuzzi and the sauna and the tennis court and the four-car garage. Everything beautiful. Shepherd knew-guessed, at least-that some people thought it ostentatious but he didn't give a damn. It was a symbol-his symbol-of achievement, and he deserved it. It was good, not having to give a damn, ever again.

The problem was keeping things that way, now mat the slump had hit Silicon Valley. Shepherd's firm had so far ridden out the recession better than most other hi-tech companies in Santa Clara county. But he'd had to cut some corners and not ask as many questions about some orders as he should have asked. Shepherd wished he could have avoided that, because he didn't want to risk those all-important Defense Department contracts. The shortcuts were necessary, to maintain cash flow, but it was the long-term defense stuff that mattered for the prestige of the company. And guaranteed the real heavy profits. The sort of profits that enabled him to have a house overlooking Monterey Bay, with a live-in maid and a Rolls as well as a Mercedes in the garage (Sheree had a 928 Porsche and a Golf GTI runaround) and to take time off for the cookout for Janie's tenth birthday.

Shepherd was still looking expectantly toward the magic man, so he wasn't immediately aware of Sheree emerging through the patio doors, salad bowl before her. He turned at the movement. So very beautiful. Except for her ass, maybe. Not as tight as it used to be; the definite suggestion of a sag, in fact. He'd have to suggest she get it lifted. Use Dr. Willick again. He'd done her tits and her eyes and her chin and made a good job of all of them.

"Good party, eh?" he said when she reached him.

"I thought I'd leave the Jell-O and the ice cream in the kitchen refrigerator rather than bring it out here yet," she said, nodding to the cabinet set apart from the barbecue pit. An outside refrigerator had been one of Shepherd's specifications: it meant the wine was always chilled.

"Good idea." Definitely a sag; he'd talk to her tonight about getting it fixed.

"There's some men to see you."

"What?"

"Two guys." Sheree jerked her head back toward the house. "From the government."

"I do business at the office!" Shepherd erupted, annoyed. "Didn't you tell them that? It's Janie's birthday party, for Christ's sake!"

"I asked them if you expected them ... whether they had an appointment ... and they said no, but they thought you'd see them-" The woman broke off, looking toward the magician. "You see that! Janie got the dove out of the guy's hat and it's sitting on her arm!"

"They say who they were?" Shepherd felt a vague stir of unease.

"Uh-huh. Customs and FBI."

For a moment Shepherd made no response, his mind refusing to function. He said, "They say what they want?"

"Look at that!" Sheree said, ignoring her husband. "The bird's actually eating corn out of her hand now! This is going to be Janie's best party yet!"

Shepherd forced the patience. "Did they say what they wanted?" he repeated.

She turned back to him, smiling, innocent-faced. "Just to see you. They said they didn't think you'd mind."

Something that he couldn't immediately identify registered with Shepherd, and then he remembered the arranged signal in the act to tell him to start the barbecue. "Shit!" he said, "I gotta put the food on."

"They said it was important."

Briefly Shepherd looked between the house and the concluding magic show. "You'll have to take over; hamburgers to the right, ribs to the left. Coals are cooler on the left, for when things cook through. Don't forget to keep brushing the sauce on."

He hurried across the expansive patio, threading his way between the umbrellaed furniture. He'd been careful; bloody careful. They couldn't hang anything on him.

Two men were standing in the panoramic room, the one that extended practically the rear width of the house and looked out over the pool and the ocean beyond. They turned as he entered, one young, full-haired, the other older, balding but trying to disguise it by combing what was left forward. Both wore Californian lightweight suits and ties, and Shepherd looked down at his King Coal apron and felt foolish. Self-consciously he took it off and threw it over the nearest chair and said, "What's this all about?"

The elder man moved, coming forward and offering his shield. "Hoover," he said. "U.S. Customs. My colleague here is Morrison, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

The younger man offered his identification and Shepherd glanced briefly at the wallet, not knowing what he was expected to confirm. Mother of Christ! he thought, looking up again.

"We've been admiring your house while we waited," said Morrison. "It's fantastic, absolutely fantastic."

Shepherd realized that the younger man had an eye defect, the left one skewed outward. Don't panic, Shepherd thought; nothing to panic about. Hear them out first. He said. "Thank you. I designed most of it myself."

"You're a lucky man," said the Customs investigator.

"You come here to admire my house?" Shepherd demanded. It was important to strike the balance, stay calm but not take any shit, not yet. He supposed he should suggest they sit, offer them a drink, but he did neither.

"You carry a few government contracts?" Hoover said. "High-security electronic stuff?"

"Yes," Shepherd said cautiously.

"Your corporation is highly regarded," Morrison said.

"I like to think so," Shepherd replied.

"You know the reason for the COCOM regulations, Mr. Shepherd?" asked Hoover.

"To prevent restricted, dual-use hi-tech material and development going to proscribed countries, usually communist," replied Shepherd. What the fuck was it? He kept a personal handle on orders that might be questionable and was sure there hadn't been one.

Hoover smiled and nodded, patronizing. "And you observe the Export Controls List?"

"I keep right up to date with it," Shepherd said.

"You know anyone named Pierre Belac?"

"No, I don't know anyone named Pierre Belac. Should I?" They were serving shit. Who the fuck was Pierre Belac?

"No, Mr. Shepherd, you definitely shouldn't know him," Hoover said.

The floor-to-ceiling windows were double-glazed, so there was no sound, but Shepherd could see the kids clamoring around Sheree for food. She was looking anxiously toward the house, seeking assistance. He yelled out toward the kitchen, "Maria! Go out and help Mrs. Shepherd, will you?"

Morrison smiled in the direction of the patio. "Looks like a great party. My boy was eight, two weeks ago. Took them all to Disneyland."

"Why don't we sit down?" Shepherd suggested. "You guys like a drink? Anything?"

Speaking for both of them, Morrison said, "Nothing."

"Couldn't we be a little more direct about all this?" Shepherd asked. The air-conditioning was on high and he felt cold, dressed as he was.

"Pierre Belac's an arms dealer operating out of Brussels," Hoover disclosed. "Very big. Gets things they shouldn't have for people and countries who shouldn't have them. Sneaky as hell: false passports, stuff like that. We've been trying to pin him for years. Come close but never close enough."

"What's this got to do with me?" He was clear, Shepherd thought hopefully. There was nothing in his books or records connected with anyone called Pierre Belac.

"You make the VAX 11/78?" Morrison said. "Your biggest defense contract at the moment, in fact?"