"I've got nothing to confront her with," came a policeman's reply.

"So you're going to wait until she gets pregnant or catches the clap?"

"'Course not," said the voice, fading.

"What then?"

The reply was too indistinct to hear. Forty-five minutes, O'Farrell calculated. The BMW was not directly in front of the house, as it usually was, but to the side near the garage. It was a doubtful advantage. The vehicle was out of the direct line from the road, making it easier to work on undetected either from the house or by any passerby, but increasing the distance, he had to move across the noisy gravel. O'Farrell used the grassed garden border until there was no more and hesitated with each seemingly echoed step toward the car. Around him everything slumbered, undisturbed.

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.

He had refused any meals, as he had in those before, but the last morning was different. He needed a news broadcast, and the television ran permanently in the breakfast room, which would normally have been sufficient reason to avoid the meal anyway.

O'Farrell was up and packed early, downstairs to pay her ahead of anyone else, and asked if he could change his mind and have coffee and toast maybe. Connie beamed and offered eggs, but O'Farrell said toast would be fine.

All the morning papers were displayed on a table just inside the room and O'Farrell flicked through them, apparently unable to choose. He guessed it would have been front-page and there wasn't a report in any of them: too late, he guessed. He chose the Times and then orange juice, nodding to the four people already in the room, who, thankfully, ignored him. O'Farrell took a table near the wall. He went through the motions of reading the newspaper, seeing nothing. Predictably the television was on; the set was attached to a support arm suspended quite high on the wall, so the lift of the watchers' heads gave them all an attitude of piety. O'Farrell supposed it was fitting, for the awe in which television was held.

A rock group plugged their latest release, a trade-union leader insisted some labor dispute was the government's fault, and a tongue-tied gardener tried to explain how he grew prizewinning produce. Then the anchor person started "... extended news because of last night's horrific incident in Hampstead ..."

The first picture on the screen was a long shot of Rivera's house from the far side of Christchurch Road. The house itself had sustained hardly any damage apart from broken windows, but the front of the garage was completely blown in, with firemen still dowsing the embers. What remained of the BMW, a pressed-flat piece of metal attached to one wheel and a few engine parts, was propped oddly on its edge against the garage wall, and a large area of the gravel was scorched black.

The camera panned in closer. A reporter stood at the gate next to a policeman self-consciously aware of being on camera.

"... no explanation yet for the outrage," the reporter was saying. "What is known is that because of this morning's rain Mrs. Estelle Rivera"-here the screen was filled with a still photograph of the woman, obviously at a reception with Rivera-"wife of the Cuban ambassador, Jose Rivera, went to their BMW car to get it closer to the house to pick up their son, Jorge, to deliver him to the lycee. I understand the explosion, which in turn created a fireball, was immediate. Death would have been instantaneous. Forensic and bomb-disposal experts have recovered parts of an explosive device but are disclosing no details, although one expert has told me it was clearly planted by an expert to cause ..."

A swirl of dizziness engulfed O'Farrell, so much so that he could not clearly see the television screen, and a sickness rose through him, like it had after the stupidity of the brandy, and a coldness, a chilling, shivering coldness tightened around him, taking his breath. Mouth clamped, he tried to push the sensation back, wanting to see and to hear everything before the newscast finished.

"We have learned," came the voice distantly, through a fog, "that the housekeeper who normally drives the boy to school in her car has recently been ill and unable to do so. Jorge, twelve, was at the rear of the house at the time of the explosion and was fortunately uninjured, although he is being treated for shock. Senor Rivera is also said by the household to be deeply shocked...."

With the promise to report further as information became available, the remote broadcast returned to the studio. O'Farrell let the screen recede into a blur again, trying to think-to create another order of priority as he had so very recently done-but nothing rational came through the cold sickness.

"... shocking. Absolutely shocking ..."

O'Farrell blinked up at the landlady. How long had she been standing at the table, talking to him? She handed him the toast and said, "Here you are. Eat it while it's hot."

O'Farrell nodded, unable to speak, accepting the toast he didn't know what to do with.

The woman gestured toward the television. "Can you imagine the mentality of anyone able to do such a thing!" she demanded.

"No," O'Farrell managed.

"Shot," the woman insisted. "That's what should happen to him when he's caught. Stood up against a wall and shot."

"Yes," O'Farrell agreed shortly. He'd killed-murdered-an innocent person! The awareness flooded in upon him, and his need to vomit worsened. That first morning's surveillance had begun too late to monitor any school run; he'd only been interested in Rivera's pattern. Yet he'd seen the wife and child! Should have considered how he got to school! Slipshod. Careless. So because he'd been slipshod and careless, he murdered an innocent person; come close to murdering an innocent kid as well. Unprof-O'Farrell stopped himself even completing the word, refusing it. What the fuck was professional about what he did! Where was the profession-the art-in killing? Innocent, he thought, unable to get the word out of his mind. Completely innocent; beautiful and poised and innocent. Christ-oh dear Christ-what had he done! No turning back, no putting together what was destroyed, no expiation. Innocent.

Now he had to run. Run like a rat would run, away from something it had fouled or contaminated. Destroy but don't be destroyed, judge but avoid judgment, catch but don't get caught. Innocent.

O'Farrell felt suspended, almost as if he were outside his own body, watching himself perform. He crumbled the bread to convey the impression of having eaten and forced some coffee down. He went through the charade of farewell and drove the rental car without any conscious awareness back to its garage, remembering to get the credit-card slip back for cash. He canceled the remaining boarding-house, in Crossmore Road, and took two taxis to the embassy, finally approaching Grosvenor Square on foot from Park Lane. Petty spoke first when the connection was made.

"It's very bad."

"Yes."

"Any risk of our involvement becoming known?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"Everything cleared up behind you?"

"Everything."

"Get out."

"The reservation is for two this afternoon. TWA."

"Don't tell your wife."

"Why?"

"We'll meet you."

Rivera had no difficulty displaying the attitude the police and the Special Branch and the Diplomatic Protection Squad expected. He was, after all, genuinely frightened for himself and it showed, and he let it, unashamedly. And he was frightened, maybe more, for Jorge. He'd insisted upon hospital observation of the child, although the doctors disagreed on the need, and insisted further that members of the embassy staff, in reality officers of the Direccion Generale de Inteligencia, guard the child in addition to the British protectors now assigned.

He had some feeling, too, about Estelle. Whatever he'd felt, or rather not felt, it was difficult to conceive of her being blown apart as she had been, so that identification had to be made from items of jewelry. So he cried, although not for long.

It was the afternoon before he had any proper interview with the authorities, who told him more than he was able to tell them. The forensic experts believed both the explosive and the detonators were from the communist bloc, almost certainly Czechoslovakian; they'd know definitely after more tests. The materials had been placed throughout the vehicle, not concentrated in one spot; it was undoubtedly the work of a professional assassin. It was impossible to be sure, until they caught whoever did it, but they were working on the theory that the bomb had been intended for him, not his wife.

"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?"