"I want you to come to Paris with me." Rivera blurted finally. He'd not meant it to be as clumsy as this; he was stumbling about like an awkward schoolboy.

For a long time Henrietta remained staring at him, as if she expected him to say mote. When he didn't, she looked away, around the room, as if she were inspecting what he was suggesting she give up. "Divorce William? Marry you, d'you mean?"

"Yes."

She sniggered, at once clamping her mouth shut, her free hand to her face. "Oh darling!" she said. "Oh my darling!"

The word was right but the tone was wrong; it was more sympathetic than loving. "What?" he said.

"We don't marry, people like you and me. Not each other. We marry other, nice people. And cheat on our wedding night, because it's fun. I couldn't marry you! I'd never be able to trust you and you'd never be able to trust me. It would be a disaster. What goes on here-or doesn't go on-between William and me is unimportant, to both of us. I've got respect as his wife. I get invited to Downing Street to dine with the prime minister ... to Buckingham Palace. You're asking me to abandon all that...!"

Rivera regarded her with astonishment for a few unguarded moments and then hopefully concealed it. He'd never imagined, ever, that Henrietta would reject him! It was inconceivable; it still was, despite her arrogant, spoiled words. Every consideration had always been when, not if. Rivera felt foolish, abjectly foolish; he recalled her giggled outburst-Oh darling, oh my darling-and realized she had been laughing at him. Actually laughing! At him, Jose Gaviria Rivera! As she must have laughed before, when he didn't know she was doing so. Those at the dinner table tonight had doubtless laughed at him, knowing his function. A gigolo. He would have been perfect for the jokes, ideally qualified according to the tradition. A Latin, tango-dancing gigolo. Had she seen his brief, honest reaction to her dismissal? He hoped not-worried now about later jokes, among her friends-but it was too late. Only one thing mattered now. Getting out with as much dignity as possible. He tried an uncaring laugh, not sure if he fully succeeded, and said, "Of course I'm not asking you to abandon all that, not if it's important. I just thought I'd give you the chance...." Striving for lightness, he added, "It might have been a different sort of fun, for a while."

"That's just it, my darling: for a while. But where would we go from there?"

You could go to a whorehouse, where you're naturally suited, thought Rivera. He didn't try to laugh again but he smiled and said, "But you're right; Paris is only an hour away." It wouldn't be much of a victory, but he was trying to grab what he could and he'd enjoy turning her down when she suggested coming. And she would call, he knew. Flying to Paris for an assignation would be exciting to Henrietta-fun, like traveling with armed bodyguards.

In immediate confirmation Henrietta said, "I'd like that! And we'll have all the time in the world, won't we?"

Where was his dignified exit line? "Nothing to do except have fun!" he said. The bitch, he thought, in a fresh flush of rage, treating him like a gigolo!

"On the subject of fun," said Henrietta, coquettish again. "Is this a late-night-drinks party or do we fuck?"

This was the moment, Rivera thought, the moment to dismiss her and haughtily walk out. And then he paused. That would be turned into another joke, if he did. The poor darling was so crushed that he scuttled away with his tail-or maybe it was his prick-between his legs. He hoped she'd realize later he'd treated her like the whore she was, for that one last time. "We fuck," he said.

The City of Athens, upon which the tanks and the Stinger missiles had supposedly been loaded in San Diego, together with acceptable End-User Certificates naming France as their destination, was a rusting, engine-strained hulk of a freighter chartered by Belac because it was cheap and because he had gained $40,000 on the budgeted transportation costs. A day after sailing, one of the turbines failed, and the freighter put into Manzillo for makeshift repairs. It was there that the master received the expected instructions from Havana, rerouting the tanks direct to Angola. By return, the captain advised Havana of his engine troubles and warned of a delay.

It took a further four days for the City of Athens to cover the comparatively short distance to Balboa, almost at the mouth of the Panama Canal, and there the engines failed again. This time Havana cabled that the City of Athens should not attempt the Atlantic voyage.

It should make for Cuba.

A message advising Rivera of the unexpected detour was sent that night from Havana.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

O'FARRHLL HAD no idea how long everything would take, so he called Petty on the man's outside, insecure line and said he was being held in Chicago on family business for a few days; all the bookkeeping was up to date and there was nothing outstanding. Petty said he appreciated being told and solicitously asked if there were anything he could do. O'Farrell said he didn't think so.

O'Farrell went to see McMasters on the second day. Billy's description had rung some bells with people in the narcotics division. There was a blank on anyone named Rick, but there was a rap sheet for narcotics dealing on a Felipe Lopez Portillo, who was known to drive a Toyota. He was gay, so Rick was probably the current lover; Felipe got them through their drug dependence and could always take his pick. Boxer had been identified. There were two possession and three supplying convictions against a Rene Ibanez. He'd fought flyweight and briefly been considered a Golden Gloves contender in his class. He'd started living the good life before the good live arrived and had screwed up: he'd fought so badly in his last official fight that there'd been a drug test that had proven positive and he had lost his license. He still fought sometimes on the fifty-dollar-a-night circuit, so he kept himself in shape; particularly by bicycling on a racing machine. And he had a red rose tattooed on the middle finger of his left hand.

"Portillo?" O'Farrell asked. "Ibanez? What nationalities?"

"Portillo's Colombian. Ibanez is Cuban-American."

O'Farrell waited to feel something, but nothing came. The anger-the forbidden emotion-of that first night had gone now, and he knew although he had an identification he wouldn't go seeking them, tonight or any other night. It was still difficult to believe that he'd done that, someone with his supposed control. He said, "You going to pick them up?"

McMasters shook his head. "They're not on the streets, won't be, I guess, until they think the heat's off. And we won't, even then. Not for what happened with Billy."

"What!"

McMasters frowned. "You think we're going to arraign streetwise drug dealers on the word of an eight-year-old kid? Their lawyers would suck us up and blow us out in bubbles."

"Then what the fuck was it all about?" O'Farrell exploded. "Why'd you have me drive Billy so far into the ground that he'll need a psychiatrist, if it was all one great big waste of time!"

"It wasn't a great big waste of time, Mr. O'Farrell," the other man said calmly. "We didn't know Portillo and Ibanez were operating. Now we do. And we know how they're operating, which is something else we didn't know. There's a marker sheet on both of them and we wait and we watch. We watch until they try it again and this time we catch them, only we have more than the word of a kid who believes spacemen exist. We have the evidence of an equally streetwise, hairy-assed narcotics officer who won't be sliced up like chopped liver in the witness box."

"Bullshit!" O'Farrell said. "They won't try a kid from Billy's school again, if they're as streetwise as you say. So what have they got? The choice of a hundred schools, all over the city. You got enough officers to stake out every likely school, for as long as it takes? Your way they could go on operating for months! Years!"

"What's your way, Mr. O'Farrell?" McMasters asked. "Pick them up off the streets, when we do see them, or bust into wherever we find they're living? Take them to some back lot and tell them they don't deserve to live, which they don't, and blow them away? Summary justice, quick and neat and tidy, no need to bother a judge or jury? That's not the way justice works in this country, sir, irritating though it is sometimes."

O'Farrell swallowed, gazing at the other man, any response jumbled and clouded in his mind like those children's toys that instantly become an obliterating snowstorm by being turned upside down. Finding them and killing them had been exactly what he'd been thinking, what he still thought. Justice-the justice of courts and attorneys and measured argument-didn't come into it, had no place. At last he said, "And so it goes on?"

"And so it goes on, although we try to stop as much as possible," McMasters said. "And I agree; it's not enough."

There was no purpose in discussing the philosophy of drug prevention on the streets of Chicago and its suburbs, O'Farrell thought. He said, "Ellen's clean, according to the drug tests. We got a copy today."

"So did I," McMasters confirmed. "I'm glad."

O'Farrell came close to asking the man's recommendation, for a child psychiatrist, but at the last moment recalled that he knew someone else far better qualified. When he telephoned, Lambert listened without interruption, promised to get back to him, and did so within the day. He would, he said, recommend a female over a male and the best in the area was Patricia Dwyer. She turned out to be a motherly, big-chested woman whose office was like the toy-cluttered interview room at the police station. From her fees O'Farrell decided she had to be the best, but she and Billy developed an immediate rapport, so O'Farrell judged whatever it cost to be worthwhile. Before Billy's first session he and Ellen spent an hour with the woman, answering every question. On impulse, because she told them of frequent involvement in matrimonial cases, O'Farrell asked her to recommend a lawyer through whom he could pursue Patrick.

Steven Giles was a nervously thin, stripe-suited man with rimless spectacles and a marine haircut-although he hardly looked robust enough to have served. Giles was peremptory and impatiently aggressive, which O'Farrell decided might be a good attitude for them.

Halfway through their first interview Giles said to Ellen, "So your reason for working late sometimes was that Patrick repeatedly reneged on alimony and child support?"

"Yes," Ellen said, subdued.

"What took you so long to try to get the payments made through the court? The system exists."

"He kept promising," Ellen said emptily.

Giles sighed. "That doesn't say much about your judgment."

"Not a lot does," Ellen said, depressed into self-pity.

The attorney took Ellen through the details of her job, the hours worked, and her income and expenditures and then said, "You don't live a life of luxury, do you?"

"I'm giving her an allowance," O'Farrell said. "She'll be able to manage all right if the alimony and child-support arrears are paid up and then maintained."

Speaking directly to Ellen, Giles said, "I can do my part, and if the facts are as you've outlined them, I don't see we've got a great problem. But you've got to help yourself more if you want to stay ahead in the future."

"What do you mean?"

"The moment he tries to duck, you've got to tell me so I can go back through the courts," the lawyer insisted. "And I mean duck on anything: if he misses more than one visit with Billy without a proper excuse, you tell me. Likewise if there's any job change, I want to hear that, too...." The man hesitated, looking briefly at O'Farrell. "Your father's right. Patrick left you; he's responsible for you. He doesn't deserve any breaks."

"I know," Ellen said sadly.

"So stop being a wimp," Giles said. "Start standing up for yourself. And for Billy."

"Well! well! well!" McCarthy said, putting aside the documentation that had been collated. "Here's some more ingredients for the pot. O'Farrell has got some personal involvement with drugs, through what's happened to his grandson. And Jose Gaviria Rivera is an official delegate to a conference in Spain. What can we make out of that?"

Sneider said, "Spain could be an excellent opportunity. O'Farrell's the one we can't anticipate or second-guess."

"Yet the one who's got to do it," McCarthy said. To the third man in the room, the Plans director said, "So could he be persuaded?"

"Providing the argument was carefully enough prepared, I think he could," Lambert said.

McCarthy smiled at his deputy. "You still got the Makarevich file out of records?"

"Yes," Sneider said.

"It could all come good," McCarthy said, distantly. "Then let's see what people say about Soviet freedom and glasnost and all that other shit."

TWENTY-NINE.

THE WARNING that something particularly important was arriving by diplomatic courier came in code through the intelligence service's supposedly secure electronics link with Havana, so Rivera was prepared. And worried. It was a method that had never been used before-openly connecting him with the DGI-so the risk had to have been judged acceptable even if the communication channel wasn't secure from the British after all. Very important, then. Well aware that speculation was fruitless, Rivera speculated anyway, convinced there could only be one thing to justify it. But what could have gone wrong! His excuse about the VAX-that highly classified, state-of-the-art technology would take much longer to obtain-had been accepted, and everything else had been supplied. There'd been congratulations, the promise of the unwanted promotion. Which left only the siphoned-off bank account. But it was impossible for that to have been discovered! Or was it? If Belac had bypassed him about the held-back payment and complained or sought settlement direct from Havana (Why in God's name hadn't he paid! Why had he been so greedy!) it would have been possible to locate it by working backward, from Belac's Swiss account to the other account from which the earlier money had come.

The pendulum swung, from pessimism to optimism. So what? Because of the Swiss bank secrecy regulations, Havana could only have gotten, at best, an account number. No amount. No evidence of what he'd been doing. And he would have known if Belac had approached Havana, Rivera reasoned. Havana didn't know Belac was the supplier: Rivera's refusal to disclose his or any other arms dealer's identity had been essential to his remaining the indispensable intermediary. If Belac, someone completely unknown to Havana, managed somehow to penetrate the governmental layers demanding money, Rivera would receive a query. Could this, in fact, be that query? Unlikely, Rivera reassured himself. This wasn't the level of first inquiry; this was far more serious.

Since Estelle's death, Rivera had established a new routine with Jorge, arranging his ambassadorial commitments so that he could spend three evenings a week with the boy, and they ate together as often as possible. Tonight had been one of the three evenings, but whatever was coming from Havana took priority. He telephoned Maxine to tell her there was a possibility of his being delayed for dinner. She was to apologize to Jorge and hold the meal as long as possible, but perhaps no later than 8:30. He'd call again if he could.

Rivera had made the call on his private line; that phone sat now on his desk, a taunting reminder. Where the hell was Belac? Why didn't the bastard call, to be told that everything was going to be settled between them? Indeed, why wasn't it? It was infantile, an empty victory, wanting Belac to come to him. Rivera had the Belgian's account number and the bank address: all he had to do was authorize the transfer, from one account to the other. Not yet, he decided: not now. He needed to know first what was coming from Cuba: to know if Belac had gone to Havana direct. To move money about, on the day of a signal from Havana so important that they'd gone through the intelligence network, could prove to be a mistake. Time enough tomorrow, early, if the incoming message were something completely and uncomplicatedly different. Definitely-without question-do it then. Tell the man everything was final between them. Would Belac still be in hiding in Paris? Somewhere at least away from his Brussels office? It wouldn't matter. If Belac were not there, Rivera was sure the man would have established a procedure to get and convey messages. That's what he'd do: make the approach himself. He hadn't wanted to-infantile!-but things were different now. Very different. Too different.

The diplomatic wallet was hurried immediately to him. Surprisingly it contained only one envelope, but the seal was that of the president's secretariat. His hands shaking, Rivera opened it, dry-throated with nervousness, and it was difficult for him at first to read.

The last shipment of Angola-bound tanks on the City of Athens had .been off-loaded in Cuba. Eight had proven to be completely inoperable; in four, the engines were so useless that they could not move the vehicles onto their heavy loaders from the dockside. None of the accompanying spares had been for the correct model or make of the tanks. A lot weren't even tank spares at all: they were heavy-duty truck parts. Alarmed about everything in the consignment, the military had tested two of the Stinger missiles. Both were duds, making the rest doubtful.

For a long time Rivera sat unmoving, the still-trembling paper in his hands. His first cohesive reaction was toward Belac, putting against the man all the worn obscenities, but in the middle of the mental tirade Rivera stopped, a smile forming. Incredible! he thought. The opportunity was absolutely and utterly incredible! The tremble now was of excitement. Rivera went fully through the idea that had come to him, thinking it was all so simple, and his smile widened when he decided it could work. Completely.

Handled another way, he remembered. The precise words of Ramirez, the DGI general who'd flown from Cuba immediately after the explosion. If we discover who did it, everything could be handled another way. Now it would be. To everyone's satisfaction, but most of all to his. He'd produce Belac as the man who'd cheated on the last consignment, desperate enough to try to kill the one man who could name him to Havana. There would need to be a meeting between himself and Belac, ostensibly for the benefit of the DGI but in fact for Rivera to be sure it was all settled without any revealing interrogation. And the meeting had to take place away from England, because in England the Diplomatic Protection Force was still assigned to him. That would be no problem, either. He was scheduled to travel to the Spanish conference accompanied only by his DGI professionals. There was even an additional explanation, as far as his own intelligence service was concerned, for his meeting with Belac: a payment refused. Because he had been so successful, Havana had trusted him and had no idea what had been agreed on for the faulty tanks and missiles, because he had not yet rendered the doctored accounts. Now they would be doctored even further. But not excessively so; maybe by two million. That sounded about right. Two million for himself, ten million repaid to Havana, and a very final settlement for Belac.

Rivera examined his proposal from the other side, to locate the faults. There weren't many. The greatest would be the DGI wanting to interrogate the arms dealer independently, but Rivera was reasonably confident he could maneuver that. Which left Belac himself. And the necessary meeting. Again, Rivera reasoned everything to be in his favor. Briefly the ambassador read part of the letter again and got up to consult a map on his conference table, trying to make a calculation. Three weeks. He guessed Belac would have allowed three weeks for the shipment to get from San Diego all the way across the Atlantic before it was discovered to be worthless scrap upon its East African arrival. And maybe that discovery would have taken another few days. Whatever, it gave the unsuspecting Belac a fairly tight time schedule if he were to get the money before Havana learned what he'd sold them. There'd be contact. Rivera assured himself; sooner rather than later. He found it difficult to conceive how completely perfectly everything had resolved itself.

Rivera was tempted to respond in full and at once to Havana, but he realized it would be premature. He had to allow himself sufficient time in their eyes supposedly to investigate. Instead he formally acknowledged the message and said he was immediately commencing inquiries and went home for dinner with Jorge.

Rivera had come genuinely to enjoy their increased time together, time he supposed would have been more difficult if he had still been involved with Henrietta. Her, he tried to convince himself, he missed not at all and ignored his pride to concede that she didn't miss him, either. After that humiliating night in Pimlico he had not bothered to call her. She'd telephoned him three times, the first time accepting the message that he was occupied with official duties, the second asking what the hell was wrong, and the third telling him to go fuck himself. He said it would probably be more exciting than fucking her. And so it had ended. Deep down he still wished it hadn't.

Jorge seemed to enjoy their evenings just as much. Rivera listened to the boy chatter on about the lycee and its schoolboy feuds and factions and how well-and sometimes not so well-Jorge believed himself to be doing. Because the opportunity was obvious, Rivera asked his son how he would feel about moving to Paris and Jorge solemnly considered the question before saying that he wouldn't mind, and was it a possibility? Rivera said it was, uncomfortably aware that the whole idea seemed less attractive now that Henrietta was not coming. Paris provided a conversation for much of the meal, although Rivera kept everything vague, making no commitment. How long would it be? There was no benefit in remaining much after the Madrid conference, which now had added, essential importance. But Rivera thought-without bothering at that moment with any detailed consideration-that his resignation had to be timed properly. Too soon after the Belac episode might not be the right timing at all. It would be better if there were an interval between the two, as he had imposed an interval between Estelle's death and his reappearing in public.

About Estelle an unspoken agreement had formed between them. She was never mentioned. Ever. Rivera accepted it to be Jorge's way of coping with the horror of his mother's death and did nothing to disturb it; if they were to talk about her, it had to be at Jorge's choosing, no one else's. In the immediate days after the assassination Rivera had even considered removing Estelle's photographs from the house but didn't, again taking his lead from the boy, in whose bedroom two pictures were still on display. From the first day, when it might have been expected. Jorge had never shown the slightest interest in the new security at the house or in being escorted to school by bodyguards. To the boy the arrangements seemed not to exist. So Rivera never remarked upon them, either.

There was a reminder from Havana within twenty-four hours that the inquiry was urgent. Despite the temptation, Rivera sent only a brief acknowledgment and late in the afternoon was actually considering ringing the Brussels number when the sound came on his private line. For a few seconds Rivera gazed at it, contemplating the pleasure and hoping it was not someone else. It wasn't.

"There's some unfinished business," Belac declared at once, glad they were not face-to-face because he was sure his relief at Rivera taking the call would have been obvious.

"I know," Rivera said. There was no uncertainty in the arrogant bastard's voice, no hesitation with the words.

"I made allowances for the death of your wife, but I can't understand why the settlement is still outstanding." Belac began to relax.

"How could I have completed the settlement!" Rivera demanded, every move worked out.

Belac's confidence faltered. It couldn't have been discovered already! The City of Athens had days at seat yet. Weeks even. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't think the payment account could remain open under the sort of investigation I was under, did you!"

A reasonable explanation, thought Belac. There was no friendliness in the ambassador's voice, but then there never had been; friendship had not come into their association. But there was no suspicion, either. Which was the important thing. The fool still thought he was getting what he wanted; instead of which he was getting what he deserved. Belac grinned to himself, enjoying his play on words. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted. "How are you going to settle?"

"A letter of credit," Rivera said smoothly.

"What's wrong with another money transfer from a different account?"

"Any account with which I'm associated is too dangerous." Rivera said. Referring to the American episode, he added. "I thought you were being very cautious."

"Upon whose account is the letter of credit to be drawn?"

"Government," Rivera said. "No traceable link with me at all."

"I'm still keeping away from Brussels, away from anywhere the Americans might be looking," Belac said. "I'll give you an address-"

"It must be handed over personally," Rivera said. Without having to be tricked into it, the Belgian had just resolved the one remaining obstacle. If there had been a risk of U.S. surveillance, he couldn't have moved against the man.

"Why?" Belac demanded, instantly apprehensive.

"Think of it!" Rivera urged. "It's a government letter of credit. Going to someone under American investigation, someone whose name is on official files. Think about the result of it being intercepted and discovered. Besides, it's an openly negotiable document, and we're not risking that to any postal service; the idea is absurd."

It was, Belac conceded. But the prospect of a personal meeting meant further delay. He'd have to find out the whereabouts of that damned freighter. It wouldn't be difficult; he knew the way. Belac said, "What chance do we have of a safe, unobserved meeting?"

"I'll come to you. in Europe," Rivera offered. "Out of England I shall only be escorted by people who know, people who will actually provide protection!" The retribution became sweeter by the minute; there was just a minimal distortion of the truth.

"Where?" Belac demanded. "And when?"

Rivera had expected far more objection-why not transmit the letter through a one-off bank transaction, for instance, a question for which he'd prepared an answer-and was surprised at Belac's apparently easy acceptance. And then he remembered that the arms dealer was in a hurry, and why. Flatter the sow's ass, Rivera thought. He said, "I've got an official reason to come to Europe. The place and the time can be your choice. I don't need more than two or three days' warning."

Time enough to find out about die City of Athens, Belac calculated. The arms dealer, who was staying in a small commercial hotel on Amsterdam's Rozen Straat, near die Prinsen Canal, lied and said, "I am still in Paris but I'm moving on. I haven't definitely decided where. I could call you in four days; arrange everything then."