"Why?"

"There were two purposes in this operation," said Mendez. "Recovering the money. Then dealing with Belac. I'm sure of one. Not the other."

"I have told you the money has been returned," said Rivera. "That is sufficient."

"I may tell Havana that, upon your authority?" Mendez fought back, weakly.

"No you may not!" Rivera said at once. "You will tell Havana nothing in my name. Confine yourself to your own service and your own authority."

The following morning Rivera expected to see the other men, but they did not appear, and he refused to give Mendez the satisfaction of asking. Their train to Paris, from where they were to fly to Madrid, did not leave until midday, so they were able to read all the newspapers. The most comprehensive account of Belac's death appeared in Der Telegraph, the story newsworthy because the man had a .375 Magnum still in his shoulder holster and was identified as an arms dealer for whom two indictments were outstanding in the United States. A Commerce Department spokesman in Washington was quoted as saying Pierre Belac was a much-wanted criminal under other investigations at the time of his death. There was a further statement from an Amsterdam police spokesman. An autopsy was still to be carried out, but at that stage there was no evidence of foul play; the death appeared to be either an accident or suicide.

"How was it done?" Rivera asked.

Mendez sat regarding him and Rivera knew the man was debating whether to tell him. In the end Mendez said, "A concentrated gas, from a capsule gun. Forces the heart muscles to contract into the appearance of a heart attack. It dissipates completely from the body in minutes: nothing suspicious will show up during any postmortem examination."

"Clever," Rivera said.

"A Russian invention," Mendez disclosed.

"Well, now!" Petty said. The U.S. indictments had automatically placed Pierre Belac's name on the watch list of Interpol, the international police communication organization, so the death in Amsterdam and all its circumstances were relayed to Washington within hours of the body being dragged from the canal.

"Intriguing," Erickson agreed. Getting in first with the question, he said, "What odds do you give on there being a Cuban connection?"

"No bet," Petty said. "It's an obvious thought, but people like Belac are mixed up in too many things." He picked up and put down a pipe, unlighted. "I couldn't give a shit how or why Pierre Belac died," he went on. "What I am worried about is it spooking Rivera in some way."

"I'll signal Madrid for us to be told the moment the Cuban group gets in," Erickson said.

"Wouldn't that be a bastard, after all the effort that's gone into it!" said the division chief bitterly.

"What about O'Farrell?"

"Nothing more than the local man's confirmation that he's arrived," Petty said.

"Belac's death is being publicly reported," Erickson pointed out. "What if O'Farrell reads about it and gets spooked as well?"

Petty lighted up at last. His face obscured, he said, "I'd like something to be easy! Just once I'd like something to be fucking easy!"

THIRTY-THREE.

BY INCREDIBLE coincidence O'Farrell witnessed Rivera's arrival; saw the man through the car window, autocratically gazing straight ahead from his seal behind the chauffeur, a second escorting limousine tight behind. The barred gates of the embassy opened-presumably from some advance warning radioed from the car-and then snapped shut again, swallowing up the cavalcade like a devouring mouth.

O'Farrell strode on up the incline. A perfect target, he thought ironically; jnst what he needed, and hist what he had been searching for, for hours. Guided by the information he'd picked up at his own embassy. O'Farrell had on foot explored the conference hall approaches and the designated link roads and the ambassador's official residence and finally this, the embassy itself. And there Rivera had been, impossible to miss. Not that he could have done anything, of course; exposed himself, making his arrest inevitable. How-or when-could he act, then? The conference area was impossible. It was already obvious that the security would be at its highest there, army units and police and militia moving themselves and their vehicles into position, all main and side roads cordoned off with crash barriers. The routes to and from the Cuban embassy and the official residence appeared out of the question, too; they were largely closed off by more crash barriers, and from the documents he'd collected from the U.S. embassy he knew traffic lights and intersections were going to be police-controlled to enable all the delegates' vehicles to travel at high speed.

At the top of the incline O'Farrell paused, hot from exertion, gazing back in the direction from which he'd come. It had to be here, somehow, he decided. Or at the residence. Both walled and both guarded, by Cuban as well as Spanish security. But possible, O'Farrell calculated, making his way back to the Calle de la Princesa through side roads to avoid passing by the embassy again. Just possible. And by virtue of that strict security.

The arrival and departure of each delegation was to be rigidly regulated, timed and distanced and ordered. And from the U.S. embassy guidance O'Farrell knew precisely when it was intended that Rivera should set out and return. The gate operation was extremely smooth, but the limousine had been forced to slow. Just possible, O'Farrell thought once more.

Technically, that is. He recognized that the biggest uncertainty remained himself. He wouldn't get drunk this afternoon, not like he had last night, anesthetizing himself to what he had to do and how he felt about doing it. Had to force himself on, to perfect the planning. It would mean explosives again. In a car parked at the cross street he'd noted and isolated, just before Rivera's limousine swept by. The side roads brought O'Farrell out very close to his hotel, and despite the earlier resolution he went unhurriedly to the bar, his mind busy. It definitely needed a car and explosives. But it wouldn't be possible to activate the detonator by a preset clock, because there was no guarantee that the listed timings would be kept precisely to the second. He had to allow for a variable of up to five minutes. Which meant exploding the device himself, by electrical remote control, from some vantage point from which he could watch and wait until Rivera's vehicle was in exactly the right position.

O'Farrell chose local brandy, harsh to his throat. The glass wobbled with the unsteadiness of his hands as he lifted it, like the glass had the previous night. Watch, he thought; he'd have to watch and see it happen. Hear the roar and see the metal tear and split and know a body was being torn and split and- No! He wouldn't do it! Never again! It wasn't right; it had never been right, and he'd always known it. Why so long! Why had he for so long postured about patriotism and hidden justice, and sought parallels with a long-dead relative when there weren't any parallels! He didn't know; so much he didn't know. Or want to know. Maybe he could rationalize it, in time. Rationalize but never excuse it. What about now, this very moment? That was the pressing consideration, the problem he had to solve first. There was a way out. Simple, in fact, Easy. Perhaps not the way to conclude his active career in the eyes of a very few people back in Washington-Petty and Erickson and the others he knew existed, although he didn't know who they were-but that's all. Very few indeed. They might suspect, he supposed. It was practically inevitable that they would suspect. But suspicion wasn't proof, and there certainly wouldn't be any proof. He'd ensure that well enough. Nothing they would be able to do. Nothing at all.

O'Farrell gestured for another drink, sure that already there was less movement in his hands. He certainly felt better; felt great. He'd have to make the right moves, in their proper order. Petty first then. Describe the supposed plan and stress the problems as strongly as possible, without making it sound like excuses in advance. Ask for the explosives and timing device at the same time. Then reserve a car. All so easy, so incredibly easy. He was free! It became another word to lodge in his mind. That was exactly how he did feel, free of a burden physically grinding him down, like a weight that was too great for him to support anymore. Overly dramatic, O'Farrell decided. But just how it was.

O'Farrell telephoned the embassy to advise that he was on his way, instinctively cautious on an open link, so the station chief was waiting when he arrived. The air conditioner had broken, and Lewis was redder-faced than before, puffing in his distress.

"Sometimes it's days before they fix it," the man complained. "You don't know what it's like to be without it until you don't have it."

"I can imagine," O'Farrell said sympathetically. Preparing the ground for any later inquiry from Langley or Petty, he said, "You were certainly right about security. The Spanish are locking this place up tighter than a drum."

"Trying to," the fat man qualified. "Something will happen. Mark my words."

"You warned the State Department?" O'Farrell pressed.

"Three separate memoranda," Lewis said. "The Secret Service increased their escort because of it."

A bonus, O'Farrell reflected. The secure communication area was in the basement of the embassy and the clear telephones were isolated in small cubicles. The lack of air-conditioning made it ovenlike. The connection, as always, was immediate. As he invariably did at the beginning of such contact, Petty remained completely silent while O'Farrell talked himself out. This time Petty was waiting for O'Farrell to make some reference to Belac's death, in Holland, but there was nothing. He shook his head to Erickson, on the other side of the room.

"A lot of obstacles," Petty agreed.

"A car bomb is the only way," O'Farrell said.

"Just like London," Petty mused. "That's not a bad idea; it'll send the investigators around in circles."

"Semtex explosive, like before," O'Farrell requested. "And a remote control, like I said."

"In tonight's pouch," the division head promised. "I'm sorry there wasn't time for more preparation."

O'Farrell took the opening. "To be absolutely safe I needed it."

"You've got all the routes and timings?"

"Yes."

"Check them thoroughly, every morning and night," Petty instructed. "Those schedules can screw up."

"Of course," O'Farrell said.

"You got the job," Petty said.

The announcement was so abrupt and O'FarreH's mind so occupied elsewhere that initially he did not comprehend what he was being told. "What?"

"Your promotion here, to join Erickson and me. It's been confirmed."

"That's wonderful news," O'Farrell managed, his throat working up and down. How could it be! There was no moral difference between initiating a killing in the comfort of a Washington office and carrying it out in some backstreet part of the world. One thing at a time, he told himself; concentrate upon evading this assignment before worrying about anything else.

"Congratulations," Petty said. "We're looking forward to your joining us. You take care now, you hear?"

Practically an invitation for what he intended to do! O'Farrell thought He said, "You know I will."

"All luck."

"Thanks."

O'Farrell left the embassy, still promising to drink sometime with Lewis, deciding he might as well occupy the afternoon renting the car. He ignored the big agencies, as he had in London. On the outskirts of the city, on the road toward Las Rozas, he rented a Seat from a broken-toothed garage owner grateful for the cash transaction, and considered himself lucky to make it back to central Madrid. The drinking that night was quite different from before. It was for pleasure, relaxation, and not for oblivion, and although he had a bottle of wine with dinner and brandy afterward, O'Farrell went to bed feeling quite sober.

The following day, the last before the conference began, O'Farrell repeated his earlier surveillance and climbed the incline toward the embassy, knowing that the brief moment of Rivera's car slowing upon entry and departure really would have been the only opportunity had he intended going through with it. It would, of course, be necessary to continue making it appear that he was: monitor the daily movements, as Petty advised, and create the bomb and park the Seat in the street he had selected. There was always the possibility of a watch squad that he hadn't bothered this time to locate, and they would have to support his account that he'd done everything possible before aborting the attempt because his own detection and seizure would have been inevitable. The taking care that Petty had insisted upon.

O'Farrell hid himself among a small crowd watching Rivera's departure that first morning and, afterward, in his hotel room, watched the television coverage of the formal opening, although he couldn't understand the commentary. He saw Rivera on three occasions, each time enclosed by security men. He checked the man in and out of the embassy during the luncheon adjournment, saw more television coverage in the afternoon, and was standing on the pavement again in the evening when Rivera returned. It was interesting, O'Farrell reflected, that the scheduled timings had been remarkably accurate, the only difference being in the evening, and that by Rivera being just two minutes late.

The sealed, eyes-only package containing the Semtex and the timer would be at the embassy by now. It would be wrong if he didn't collect them sometime the following day. He'd do it after seeing Rivera away. It would mean his carrying a bomb around a city on full security alert, but by itself Semtex looked like gray cement, and he could leave it in the trunk. The timer he would keep in his room, a rather elaborate alarm clock to anything but the closest of examinations.

O'Farrell was awake early, once more without any discomfort from .the previous night's intake, setting out in good time for what was becoming routine. He was attracted by a perfume shop on the opposite side of the road and crossed, spending several minutes looking at the window selection, trying to decide upon a present for Jill. Definitely perfume, because she enjoyed perfume. And something for Ellen, too. Her birthday, he remembered; the birthday for which Billy had been saving. They could say it was from both of them.

The window-shopping had delayed him and the crowd had already formed ahead as he approached. He was still about thirty yards away when the gates of the embassy opened and the diplomatic vehicles began emerging. The timing's off today, thought O'Farrell. Rivera's car was just clear of the entrance when the explosion came, a window-shattering eruption with an immediate after-punch blast of air that knocked him heavily into the bordering wall. Rivera's limousine disintegrated in front of his eyes: O'Farrell was just able, to its left, to see the other car that had formed the bomb, its cratered and burning shell visible through the debris and dust.

O'Farrell's training automatically took over. He rebounded off the wall, already turning to get away from a scene of violence. What the hell! What or who in the name of Christ had- It was as far as O'Farrell's bewilderment ever got. The shot was perfect, absolutely professional, a spread-on-impact, high-velocity shell that caught him midchest, gouging the life from him. It was too quick for there to be the slightest pain. He was dead before his body landed, half on the pavement, half on the road. But his face was frozen by shock. His eyes were wide open, staring, an expression of astonishment.

THIRTY-FOUR.

IT WAS the first bad day of a Washington autumn, gray and sullen with a spiteful wind strong enough to howl through the larger catafalques and burial vaults. There was a lot of security because of the Secretary of State's attendance, secret servicemen with their walkie-talkies and earpieces standing point around the entire grave area. The official cars had been allowed to pull very close, a further precaution, but McCarthy's vehicle, a long stretch limousine to accommodate all the people, had been allowed to park on a promontory separate from the rest. Against the smoke-glassed windshield were attached sufficient passes and official clearances to allow it to go anywhere it wanted.

There were five men in the vehicle. All were dressed solemnly, although just short of funeral black. The elevation of the vehicle enabled them to see everything.

"There's the family," Petty said as a group got from one of the huddled cars and slowly led the way to the grave edge. "Billy's the one to the right."

The boy was in fact holding his mother's hand and weeping bitterly. Ellen was walking with difficulty, trying to support her head-bowed, sobbing mother on her other arm. John was helping on the other side, and Beth was holding tightly to their son. Mother and son were crying, too.

"You put the fix in, with Chicago?" McCarthy asked.

Petty nodded. "Patrick's payments are being computer-monitored. There's no chance of his falling behind."

"That's good," the Plans director said absently.

There was a flurry of movement from cameramen as the Secretary of State and his party came into shot with the family.

"We can't go down there. We could be photographed too easily," Sneider said from behind the wheel. He was driving because of the need for absolute security within the vehicle.

"I'm still not sure that O'Farrell had cracked completely, that he would have fouled up some way," Petty said. "He'd made all the right moves."

"He would have cracked," Lambert said, with quiet, expert insistence. "My guess is that he wouldn't have fouled up; he was still too good for that. My guess is that in the end he wouldn't have gone through with it."

"We owe a lot to you, doctor," McCarthy said, the architect of everything that had happened. "If it hadn't been for you, O'Farrell would have stayed a basket case after London, and none of the rest would have been possible. Not so perfectly as it has turned out."

"He certainly developed a strong dependence," Lambert agreed modestly. "It was too strong for him to continue on his own anymore. The doubt was too deep."

"So often the way it happens." McCarthy sighed.

"He was doing every thing he should have done in Ma drid," Erickson insisted, coming out in support of his division chief.

"What was the point in taking the risk!" McCarthy said, with strained patience. "This way everything is boxed and tied with ribbon. Rivera's dead, as we intended. The speculation about the who's and why's of that killing will go on for weeks, and every day it'll act as the warning we always planned it to be to Havana. And in Spanish custody is a man provably a Soviet assassin; it doesn't matter a damn that the guy won't talk or admit anything. They got him in the room with the gun still in his hand, for Christ's sake! It fits perfectly with the history of O'Farrell's mother; Moscow pursuing relentlessly the son of a nationalist dissident. We can even seed the doubt that the murder-suicide verdict on the parents was wrong. That their deaths were Soviet orchestrated, too ..." McCarthy looked at Petty, as the doubter. "You see anything hanging loose from that?"

Petty wished he could. He still believed absolutely in the correctness of what he and his department had to do, but this was the first time they'd turned on one of their own people. It frightened him. He said, "I agree it wraps everything up."

"Maneuvering the Soviet involvement and then alerting the Spanish authorities was brilliant," Sneider said syco-phantically, stroking McCarthy's favorite hobbyhorse.

"Didn't I say that's what the Russians would do when we leaked O'Farrell as the killer of Leonid Makarevich?" McCarthy said.

The arrested Soviet assassin was named Vladimir Kopalin, Petty knew. He knew, too, that the Agency had monitored the man's arrival in Madrid and watched him stalk O'Farrell and let it happen: wanted it to happen. He said, "We're going to keep O'Farrell's State Department appointment, right? It wasn't just a way to guarantee the media hype by getting the Secretary of State here today?"

"Sure, why not?" The Plans director shrugged. "That way Mrs. O'Farrell collects a nice fat pension as well as the insurance."

"What about the new man, who really took Rivera out?" Lambert queried.

"What about him?" Erickson demanded. He was as unsettled as Petty.

"He okay?"

"He said it was easy; called it a piece of cake," Petty reported. "Actually it was the way suggested by O'Farrell...." He paused and added defiantly, 'The way he was going to do it."

Lambert appeared to miss the jab. He said, "We'd better tell Symmons to keep an eye on him. Let's not recruit someone who enjoys it. That's dangerous."

"I thought everything we did was dangerous," Petty said. He felt oppressed within the limousine and desperately wanted a pipe. Below them, through the protectively black windows, he saw that the interment was almost over. The mourners were shifting, about to leave, and the limousine drivers were standing ready to open the doors. Abruptly Petty announced, "I'm going down to speak to her."

"That's not wise," Sneider said.

"A lot of things aren't," Petty said. "I'll make my own way back."

He left the car before there could be any more objection, shivering at once as the wind cut through his topcoat. It was too strong to attempt lighting a pipe, he realized miserably. He shrugged his collar up further and took a pathway to bring him out by the other official cars, as if he had emerged from one of them.

The family group were still some way away when he got there and he hung back from the media rush as the Secretary of State spoke briefly to them. Mrs. O'Farrell was shiny-faced and very red around the eyes, but she wasn't crying anymore. She didn't appear to speak a lot, hardly at all, but nodded and even smiled faintly at what was being said to her.

Petty waited until the woman had almost reached her car before stepping forward. "Mrs. O'Farrell?"