Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘It’s too many,’ insisted Terrilli, not accepting casual dismissal.

  Santano shifted uneasily and Patridge remained gazing down at his figures.

  ‘The boat captains were new,’ Santano attempted to explain. ‘They bunched up, which they’d been told not to do, and didn’t allow sufficient time for the lead boat to make the chicken run.’

  ‘It’s too many,’ repeated Terrilli, his voice disarmingly soft and conversational. ‘If the captains are inexperienced, we don’t employ them. This puts us down …’ He paused, going back to the papers before him ‘… something like $8,000,000.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Santano.

  ‘So am I sorry,’ said Terrilli. ‘I’m sorry and other people are going to be sorry and everyone is going to ask why it happened. Maybe even spread the sorrow.’

  ‘Perhaps I should go down to Colombia, to tighten up the recruitment of ships?’ suggested Santano.

  ‘If the alternative is to lose $8,000,000 a week, then I think you should,’ said Terrilli.

  ‘Four vessels did get through,’ said Patridge, trying to smooth the awkwardness. ‘That’s $9,500,000 on what they were carrying.’

  Terrilli turned to him, his voice remaining hard.

  ‘Are you satisfied with just 55 per cent profit?’ he demanded. ‘I’m certainly not.’

  ‘It’s the first time it’s happened,’ said Santano.

  ‘It should never have happened at all!’ shouted Terrilli unexpectedly, and both men jumped, startled by the change in the older man’s voice. ‘One ship, we budget for. Two is an occasional but still acceptable risk. Three is ridiculous. There’ll be a demand for explanations … and they’ll want better answers than the problem of employing inexperienced people …’

  ‘I could go down to Colombia first thing tomorrow,’ offered Santano.

  Terrilli’s pause was almost unnoticeable. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you here for Thursday. Call the airport and have them put an aircraft on standby for you on Friday morning.’

  Terrilli wondered what Santano’s reaction would be to learning that he had put a personal matter above the interests of the organisation. The man looked curiously across the desk at him but said nothing.

  Terrilli nodded for Patridge to continue and the man went back to his papers. The accountant had received the estimated crop yield from Colombia’s La Guajira peninsula and from it he predicted a 30 per cent increase over the previous year’s profits. It provided the opportunity for Terrilli to remark that profitability depended upon lack of interception, but he held back from the sarcasm, knowing that Santano was curious at being delayed until Friday and unwilling to alienate the man further than he had already done.

  When Patridge had finished, Terrilli turned to Santano and said, ‘Anything?’

  The lieutenant shook his head.

  ‘Thank you both,’ said Terrilli shortly. There were times when he invited them to stay on for a drink and even occasionally for dinner, but from his demeanour it was obvious to both of them that this was not going to be such a night. They were at the door when Terrilli called out.

  ‘I want to talk to you alone, Tony.’

  The man came back into the room and the accountant lingered uncertainly near the door.

  ‘It’ll take a while,’ said Terrilli.

  ‘I’ll say goodnight then,’ said Patridge, going out and closing the door carefully behind him.

  ‘I’m sorry about the interceptions,’ began Santano immediately, imagining that that was the reason for his being held back.

  ‘It mustn’t happen again,’ said Terrilli, not wanting to talk at once about the robbery.

  ‘I’ll get positive guarantees about employment in Colombia,’ promised Santano eagerly. ‘We’ve had a good run lately and obviously our people there are getting careless …’

  ‘If it’s carelessness, then it must be stopped,’ insisted Terrilli. ‘We’ve made examples in the past. It’s time we made some more. If they’ve got to be taught the hard way, it’s really their fault.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ said Santano. ‘Sure you don’t want me to go down tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s a reason for you to stay,’ said Terrilli. ‘I want you here on Thursday night to organise something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want the gates opened, the alarms turned off and the guards warned to expect a group of people, arriving in a hurry, sometime between twelve-fifteen and twelve-forty-five.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Santano. Because he had known the man for so long, Terrilli was aware of his changed attitude. Soon it would become resentment.

  ‘Something is being delivered,’ said Terrilli.

  ‘By outside people?’

  ‘It will be safer,’ said Terrilli. ‘If anything goes wrong, there’s no association with us. And I couldn’t risk that, right on our doorstep.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Russian stamp collection.’

  ‘A personal thing,’ said Santano immediately.

  The speed of the man’s reaction showed that his loyalty was first to the organisation and then to him, Terrilli realised. It would be well to get Chambine alongside as soon as possible.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Terrilli, ‘a personal thing.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of outside people,’ said Santano, coming as near as he dared to criticism.

  Again Terrilli judged the man’s concern to be over the danger to their set-up, rather than any possible personal difficulty.

  ‘I’ve chosen them carefully,’ said Terrilli. ‘They’re good men.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I run a check, just to make sure? There are still four full days.’

  ‘I told you,’ Terrilli reminded him. ‘I don’t want anything to be associated with us.’

  ‘But they must know!’

  ‘One does, that’s all.’

  ‘So all he’s got to do is talk, if he gets picked up.’

  ‘I don’t think he will.’

  ‘It’s difficult to assess what a man will do, offered the choice between twenty years and a deal.’

  ‘He knows I’d have him killed, whatever protection was promised.’

  ‘Let’s hope he remembers,’ said Santano.

  ‘There are two vehicles,’ said Terrilli. From his wallet he took the numbers of the hire cars that Chambine had given him earlier in Disneyworld. ‘Once they’re in, close the gates. But have people standing by. They’re leaving immediately after the pay-off. No one will remain here longer than fifteen minutes.’

  ‘If there’s a chase, the law will be led straight to us,’ said Santano.

  ‘I’m confident there won’t be.’

  ‘We can’t be sure.’

  ‘This is how I want it to be,’ said Terrilli, rejecting the argument. Santano was right, he knew.

  ‘All right,’ said the younger man tightly.

  ‘I want everyone ready,’ emphasised Terrilli. ‘No mistakes.’

  ‘There won’t be any,’ promised Santano.

  Terrilli decided he had been wise to wait until now before telling Santano what was to happen. There was insufficient time for the organisation to make any effective protest. But one would be made, he was sure.

  ‘No method of identification apart from the car numbers?’ queried Santano.

  ‘That’ll be all that’s necessary.’

  Santano rose, moving towards the door again.

  ‘Make sure everyone knows,’ repeated Terrilli, not appreciating the opening he was giving the other man.

  ‘Everyone will know,’ said Santano heavily.

  Charlie Muffin knew that if they had reacted to his telephone call, the Russians had to be in place by now. Which meant he must identify them. Idly, through most of the day, he had moved about the exhibition and its immediate vicinity, aware of the pointlessness of his actions, but trying to mark the Russian agents anyway. He had suspected no one, which could be either good – if they were that expert – or bad, if Mo
scow hadn’t bothered to respond. He planned the test carefully, knowing there would not be a second chance. By one o’clock in the morning, the hotel was becoming deserted, only a few late-night drinkers and a noisy party remained in the Alcazar. He had needed Pendlebury with him, because in his company those watching Charlie would be less alert. Pendlebury had maintained some reserve, even though he had drunk enough for Charlie to have expected him to relax. Charlie left his barstool at one-fifteen, heading towards the washroom. In his jacket pocket, the knife he had taken from the breakfast table and which he was still unsure would be strong enough for the purpose, bumped against his side. At the door to the washroom, he suddenly veered away, hurrying now towards the car park. He had already chosen the window into the exhibition room, one that was furthest away from the lights.

  The window edge was rimmed, which made it difficult to put the blade between it and the sill and twice Charlie slipped, once almost cutting his hand. Satisfied at last that there was sufficient leverage, he paused, breathing heavily to prepare himself for the run that was to follow, then twisted and jerked the knife upwards.

  The blade snapped with sufficient force to sting his hand, but the window opened wide enough to trigger the alarm. It burst out, a discordantly strident note.

  Charlie managed to regain the foyer seconds after Pendlebury had lumbered, startled, from the bar. Charlie stood just inside the entrance, alert to everything. The uniformed security men came running from their cubbyhole, holster flaps unbuttoned, gazing wildly around and making for the main entrance to the hall. Those whom Charlie had already identified from their surveillance of him, and about five whom he had not, rushed flustered into the foyer, making their identification as F.B.I. operatives easy by looking to Pendlebury for guidance.

  That left about fifteen other people just ahead of the curiosity seekers, who were filling the reception area. Foreign, judged Charlie, immediately. But they were certainly not Slavic. More Latin, from their colouring. And there was one man who didn’t fit the pattern or appear to be part of the group, very fair and American-looking. Someone who had been in the lobby by chance, decided Charlie, looking away from Williamson.

  The Russian made no response to Charlie’s scrutiny. An hour before, he had had confirmation from Washington, from their voice-print test, that it was Charlie on the tape, and he was now considering how to kill the man, obedient to his instructions. It wouldn’t be very difficult, he decided.

  At Pendlebury’s urging, the security men unlocked the main doors into the exhibition room and flooded it with light. As they were about to enter, another of Pendlebury’s people came in from the car park carrying the handle of the broken knife. As Pendlebury seized it, remaining near the entrance, Charlie wandered up and said quietly, ‘It took eight minutes.’

  Pendlebury frowned up at him.

  ‘From the moment the alarm sounded to the time the security men went in. It was eight minutes,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Did you stage this?’ demanded Pendlebury, his face whitening with the beginning of rage. There was none of the drunkenness which Charlie had suspected earlier in the bar.

  ‘Hardly good enough, eight minutes,’ said Charlie. ‘Thieves could be half way to Miami by now.’

  Heppert hurried up to Pendlebury. Charlie could see pyjama bottoms leaking from beneath the man’s trousers.

  ‘Nothing gone,’ reported the Pinkerton’s man. ‘Knife snapped as the window was being forced.’

  ‘I’m waiting for an answer,’ said Pendlebury to Charlie.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Charlie. ‘I wanted to see how efficient things really were. I’m not impressed.’

  ‘And I’m not impressed by fucking play-acting.’

  ‘It wasn’t play-acting,’ said Charlie. ‘It was a valid security exercise that I’ve got every right to make. So don’t fuck and rage at me; you should be shouting at people asleep on the job.’

  From outside came the sound of sirens and then the flashing of revolving lights as the local police tyre-howled into the car park.

  ‘And their arrival took twenty-two minutes,’ said Charlie, offering the American a sight of his watch for confirmation. ‘I’d been assured it would only take ten.’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Pendlebury, still angry but more controlled now.

  ‘My job,’ replied Charlie. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  It had taken all Chambine’s self control to remain in the cocktail lounge when the alarm sounded, waiting for the protection of the small crowd that took several minutes to form before running to the foyer, but he managed it. He stayed on the edge and therefore concealed, watching the conversation between Pendlebury and Charlie and the local police. News that it was a false alarm quickly spread through the people in the foyer, who began drifting back to the other rooms. Chambine remained where he was able to see into the hall while the window was being checked for permanent damage before being refastened and the doors relocked by the uniformed guards.

  It was another five minutes before one passed near enough for Chambine to address him without it appearing suspect.

  ‘What was it?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Some sort of test,’ said the man. ‘Frightened the shit out of me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Chambine honestly.

  19

  For three hours after his inconclusive and latterly, with Pendlebury, rowdy attempt to discover if the Russians had responded to his Washington call, Charlie had tried to evolve a further, confirming check. He was unhappy with the only idea that occurred to him, but couldn’t think of another, so he decided to try it anyway. If it proved nothing, then he was the only person inconvenienced. The alarm call awoke him gritty-eyed and disorientated and immediately convinced that his plan was more stupid now than it had seemed barely four hours earlier. But he was awake now, so sod it.

  It was not yet dawn, although there was a faint yellow tinge where the sun would rise. Without its hardness, both the sky and sea were smudged grey. Charlie dressed quickly without bothering to wash or shave, and although he knew he’d be buggered at the end, ignored the lift and descended the eighteen floors by the stairs. He was panting by the time he reached the first floor and remained for several minutes inside the stair-well, recovering his breath, before finally going down to the ground level. He opened the doors with the minimum of noise and then strode purposefully across the lobby towards the exit. The night staff were still behind the desk in the reception area and several porters were clustered in the bell captain’s annexe. One of the uniformed guards of the exhibition had just finished his half-hourly check and nodded to Charlie, who responded, looking beyond the man to where the seats were.

  Three of the men whom he had identified with his phoney alarm the night before were still sitting there, trying their best to look like dawn-party people who would not go to bed.

  As he went through the exit into the car park, attempting to give the impression of someone embarking upon an early morning constitutional walk, Charlie was reminded of his earlier impression: definitely Latin. That would provide excellent cover, in a State as Spanish-influenced as Florida; exactly the sort of precaution that Kalenin would consider.

  Remembering his own surveillance, Charlie went briskly north along South County Road, past the private road entrance and then turned left into Royal Poinciana Way. Once he turned, trying to catch sight of those whom he expected to be following, but saw no one. At the next junction he turned south, down Cocoanut Row and then completed the square into Cocoanut Walk to take him back to the Breakers. By the time he approached the hotel the sun was up and there was already the slight, breathless warmth indicating that it would be a hot day. As he went through the car park, he saw two more of the men he’d picked out in the lobby the previous night. The three he had seen earlier had left the reception area.

  ‘The guard has changed,’ he told himself.

  Charlie took the lift back to his suite. He showered away the earl
y morning perspiration and then gratefully clambered back into bed. His feet and legs throbbed from the unaccustomed exercise and he sat with his back to the headboard, trying to massage some relief into them.

  He could still be mistaken about the people whom he believed the Russians had put in, Charlie realised. But the instinct on which he placed so much reliance told him he wasn’t. He let his mind run over what he had established so far, trying to form a complete picture. He sighed, transferring his attention from his right leg to his foot. He had all the parts, he decided, but still he didn’t know where to put them in the puzzle; which meant the most important item was still absent.

  ‘You still aren’t in control, Charlie,’ he warned himself. And then another idea came and Charlie smiled, recognising it as infinitely better than the one which had sent him jogging around Palm Beach streets before it was even light.

  Within ten minutes he was connected to Willoughby in London. The underwriter listened without interruption as Charlie outlined his proposal.

  ‘It would never work,’ said Willoughby when Charlie had finished. ‘Not if they wanted to challenge it in court.’

  ‘I don’t expect them to,’ said Charlie. ‘I just want to cause more upset, to see which way people will jump.’

  ‘Were these assurances about the time it would take security people and civil police to attend an emergency written down?’ asked Willoughby.

  ‘No,’ said Charlie, ‘they were verbal undertakings, given by a man called Heppert. He’s a Pinkerton employee.’

  ‘Then it certainly wouldn’t be sufficient,’ insisted the underwriter. ‘Our insurance is with the organisers, not with the security firm. And verbal agreements are always the most difficult to prove anyway.’

  ‘But the policy demands proper security. And we are claiming that it isn’t proper.’