‘Rich people,’ said Snare. ‘Very rich people.’
‘Didn’t they all get killed though?’ queried Johnny.
Snare frowned at the qualification.
‘Only because they were too stupid to realise the mistakes they were making,’ he said.
He moved forward, gesturing to Johnny for the bags he had taken from the sledge. Against the side of each exhibition case he affixed a handle, with adhesive suckers at either tip, then sectioned the glass with a diamond-headed cutter. Gently, to avoid noise, he placed each piece of glass alongside the stand, put each exhibit into a protective chamois leather holder and then, finally, into a bigger container.
Apart from the eggs and the train, Snare took the copies of the Imperial Crown surmounted by the Balas ruby, the Imperial Orb, topped by its sapphire and the Russian-eagle-headed Imperial Sceptre, complete with its miniature of the Orloff diamond.
Snare lifted the bags, testing their weight.
‘Enough,’ he decided.
He turned, looking at Johnny.
‘You know what you’ve just done?’ he demanded.
‘What?’
‘Carried out the jewel robbery of the century,’ said Snare, simply.
‘Now all we’ve got to do is sell them back,’ said Johnny. And then let Herbie Pie and all those other doubting bastards know. But discreetly, so they wouldn’t think he was boasting.
‘That’ll be no trouble,’ said Snare, confidently. He was glad there wouldn’t be any more burglaries, he decided. From now on he could sit back and watch all the others do the work, enjoy the sport of watching Charlie squirm.
Johnny humped the straps of the bags comfortably on to his shoulders, then followed Snare’s lead down the stairs. Neither spoke until they reached the entry hole in the basement floor. Johnny stood, gazing apprehensively into the blackness.
‘I’d very happily give back one of those funny eggs to avoid having to go back down there,’ he said plaintively.
Snare dropped through first, turning on the beam of his helmet to provide some light. Johnny lowered the jewellery first, then wriggled through, hanging for a moment before letting himself go. He misjudged the drop, stumbling up to his knees in the drainage channel.
‘Shit,’he said.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Snare.
They had almost finished the meal in their Moscow apartment when Berenkov apologised, explaining the cause of his silence to Valentina.
‘There couldn’t be any doubt?’ asked the woman.
Berenkov shook his head, positively.
‘Comrade General Kalenin was very sure — they’ve definitely found Charlie.’
She shook her head sadly.
‘Poor man.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Poor man.’
‘Why torture him?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Just like children … cruel children.’
‘Yes,’ he accepted. ‘It’s often very childlike.’
‘But in the end they’ll kill him?’
‘Yes,’ he said, saddened by the question. ‘They will have to do that.’
Valentina didn’t speak for several minutes. Then she said, ‘Is he married?’
‘I think so.’
‘It’s her I feel sorry for,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps more than for him. He knew the risks, after all.’
‘Yes,’ said Berenkov. ‘I suppose he did.’
‘I wonder what she’ll do?’ said Valentina, reflectively.
‘You should know, perhaps more than anybody,’ Berenkov reminded her impulsively.
His wife looked at him sorrowfully.
‘I’d just weep,’ she said. She lingered, unsure of the admission.
Then she added: ‘Because I wouldn’t be brave enough to kill myself.’
SIXTEEN
Onslow Smith had taken over the larger conference chamber in the American embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square. He stood on a dais at one end of the room, a projection screen tight against the wall behind him. While he waited for everyone to become seated, he fingered the control button connected to the screening machine that would beam the pictures through the tiny square cut into the far wall.
The diminutive figure of Garson Ruttgers bustled into the room, moving towards the seat which Smith had positioned just off the raised area but still in a spot separating him from the other operatives, a considerate recognition of the importance he had once enjoyed.
Immediately behind sat Braley, clipboard on his knee. It was a great pity, decided the Director, that the Vienna episode had marked the end of any promotional prospects for the man. Braley appeared to have a fine analytical mind and worked without panic, despite the obvious nervous reaction to stress. He’d arranged everything for that day’s meeting and done it brilliantly; one of the few people affected by Charlie Muffin who would easily make the transition to a planner’s desk.
One of the few people, he repeated to himself, staring out into the room. Eighty men, he counted. Eighty operatives who had been trained to Grade 1 effectiveness; men from whom the Agency could have expected ten, maybe fifteen years of top-class service. All wiped out by Charlie Muffin. And Wilberforce expected him to sit back and do damn all except be the cheerleader. The apparent success of the early part of the entrapment had gone to the British Director’s head, he decided.
‘Shall we begin?’
The room quietened at the invitation. Smith stood with his hand against the back of the chair, looking down at them.
‘Some of you,’ he said, ‘may have guessed already the point of drafting you all to London …’
He waited, unsure at the harshness of the next part of the prepared text. It was necessary, he decided. It would remind them of what they had lost and bring to the surface the proper feelings about the man responsible.
‘… because you all, unfortunately, shared in the operation that ended your active field careers.’
Ruttgers, who had been initially grateful for the seating arrangement, moved uncomfortably in front of the men he had personally led to disaster, realising too late its drawbacks. Needing the activity, he lighted the predictable cigarette.
‘Because of this man …’ announced Smith, dramatically. He pressed the control button. A greatly enlarged picture, several times bigger than life, of Charlie Muffin appeared on the screen. It had been taken in the churchyard. Several times Smith pressed the button, throwing a kaleidoscope of photographs on the wall, shots of Charlie Muffin in Zurich, coming through passport control at London airport, outside his Brighton house and entering and leaving the offices of Rupert Willoughby.
‘Taken,’ said Smith, ‘by the British.’
He paused to let the murmur which went through the room settle into silence. It was like baiting animals, bringing them to the point where their only desire was to fight, thought the Director.
‘Charlie Muffin has been found,’ he declared.
He waited again for the announcement to be assimilated.
‘Found,’ he picked up, ‘by a very painstaking but rewarding operation conducted by the British …’
There was complete silence in the room, realised Smith. The concentration upon what he was saying was absolute. He sighed, shuffling the prepared speech in his hand.
‘I wish to make it quite clear at the outset that since the discovery of the man, the handling of the affair had been jointly handled by the British and ourselves.’
He appeared to lose a sheet of notes, then stared up at them.
‘At very high level,’ he emphasised.
He waited for them to assess the importance, then went on: ‘A certain course had been decided upon, a course of which you’ve no need to be aware …’
Harsh again, recognised Smith. But necessary, a reminder of just how far down they’d all been relegated. After this they’d be clerks at Langley until retirement, with only the Virginia countryside to relieve the boredom.
‘It is sufficient for you to
know that no immediate action — open action, anyway — is being taken against Charlie Muffin …’
The noise started again, the sound of surprise this time.
‘Which does, of course,’ continued the C.I.A. chief, ‘create a danger.’
He stopped once more. He’d really fucked it up, he decided honestly.
The response from the room was growing louder and several men were trying to catch his attention, to ask questions.
‘And that is why I have gathered you here,’ said Smith quickly, trying to subdue the clamour. ‘The British consider the surveillance they have established is sufficient and certainly, thus far, it has proven to be. But I have no intention whatsoever of this Agency taking a subservient role in the continuing operation envisaged by the British.’
Smith sipped from a glass of water and in the gap a man at the front blurted: ‘You mean we are going to stop working with the British?’
Smith smiled, the timing of the question over-riding any annoyance at the interruption.
‘I intend giving the impression of continued co-operation,’ he said. ‘Before this meeting is over, you will all be given dossiers containing every item of information about Charlie Muffin that the British have so far been able to assemble … it is quite extensive. With the benefit of that information, we are going to establish our own, independent operation. When the shit hits the fan, I still want us wearing clean white suits.’
The persistent questioner in the front row pulled forward again.
‘He will be eliminated, sir, won’t he? Charlie Muffin will be eliminated?’
It was almost a plea, thought Smith. He moved to speak, but Ruttgers responded ahead of him, emotion momentarily washing away his awareness of his reduced role.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the ex-Director, fervently. ‘He’ll be eliminated. I promise you that.’
‘But not until I’ve given the explicit order,’ instructed Smith.
Charlie stood at the lounge window of the Brighton house, gazing out at the tree-lined avenue. The uniformed policeman who had passed twice was standing at the corner now, stamping his feet against the early evening chill. Where, wondered Charlie, were the others?
He turned into the room, staring at the bottles grouped on the table by the far wall. No, he decided easily. He didn’t need it. Not any more.
‘What I need,’ he told himself, ‘is for them to over-reach themselves. Just once.’
And Edith, he thought. He wanted her by him very much. But not yet. He had to get a clearer indication of what was happening before putting her to any more risk than she already faced. Poor Edith.
SEVENTEEN
Charlie arrived in Rupert Willoughby’s office an hour after making the telephone call for the confirmation he scarcely needed. The underwriter greeted him with an attitude that swung between nervousness and anger. At last, thought Charlie. He hoped the growing awareness wouldn’t affect the man’s memory of his father.
‘You knew we’d covered the exhibition?’ challenged Willoughby immediately. Anger first, Charlie accepted.
‘It was obvious,’ said Charlie. ‘Once I heard of the robbery. And more particularly, what was stolen and from whom.’
‘What, does it mean?’
‘That the department has known from the very beginning of our meeting. That they know I’ve put money into your firm. That they had you under permanent observation for as long as they’ve been watching me. And that in one operation they intend hitting back at everyone.’
Willoughby nodded, as if agreeing some private thought. His throat was moving, jerkily.
‘No wonder my father was so frightened in the last year,’ he said.
‘I warned you,’ Charlie reminded him.
Willoughby looked at him, but said nothing.
‘Tell me about the cover,’ said Charlie.
Willoughby pulled a file towards him, running his hand through the papers.
‘Completely ordinary,’ he said. ‘For an exhibition of this value, the government always goes on to the London market, through Lloyd’s. For us, it’s usually a copper-bottomed profit. Security is absolute but because of the value and alleged risk, we can impose a high premium.’
‘How much cover did you offer?’
‘Two and a half million,’ said Willoughby.
‘What happens now?’
‘Claim to be filed. And then the squabbling begins, to gain time.’
‘You expect a sell back?’
Willoughby looked surprised.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That’s what always happens in a case like this.’
‘What percentage?’
‘Varies. Usually ten.’
Charlie laughed, appearing genuinely amused.
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I put in. They don’t mean me to misunderstand for a moment, do they?’
‘Is it significant?’ asked Willoughby.
‘Very,’ said Charlie. To continue would mean admitting he was a thief. The man deserved the honesty, he decided.
‘They want to recover $500,000 from me. Plus interest,’ he said. ‘They got almost half from the Brighton robbery. This would be the remainder.’
Willoughby sat, waiting. It was impossible to judge from the expression on his face whether there was any criticism.
‘You told me once you hadn’t done anything criminal,’ he accused Charlie.
The anger was on the ascendancy, Charlie decided.
‘They set out, quite deliberately, to kill me,’ said Charlie. ‘That was the penalty I imposed upon them for being abandoned … abandoned like your father was. He tried to fight back against them as well, remember. We just chose different ways of doing it. Mine worked better than his. They lost more than money.’
‘What happens next?’ asked the underwriter.
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Charlie. ‘I’d guess they’re getting ready to kill me now.’
‘You’re not worried enough,’ said the younger man in sudden awareness. ‘Boxed in like this, you should be terrified. Like I am.’
‘I’m not,’ confirmed Charlie easily. ‘The Russian robbery was the error … the one I was waiting for them to make …’
Willoughby shook his head.
‘Your father was very good at this sort of thing,’ said Charlie. ‘He’d do it to get someone whom he suspected to disclose themselves completely.’
‘You’re not making yourself clear,’ complained the underwriter.
‘I know the pattern,’ said Charlie. ‘It must be either Wilberforce or Cuthbertson or both. And I learned from your father a bloody sight better than they did.’
Willoughby gazed back, unconvinced. It was the first time the confidence, almost bordering on conceit, had been obvious, he realised. Another thought came, with frightening clarity. He’d been a fool to become involved, no matter what his feelings for the men who had destroyed his father.
‘You’ve got to get out,’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ answered Charlie. ‘You don’t survive looking constantly over your shoulder. I’ve tried for the past two years and it’s almost driven me mad.’
‘You don’t have an alternative.’
‘I have,’ said Charlie. He considered what he needed to say but still began badly, speaking as the thoughts came to him.
‘I told you at our first meeting there was a risk of your being compromised,’ he said. ‘And you have been …’
‘And I said then that I was prepared to accept that,’ interrupted the underwriter in a vain attempt at bravery.
‘Because you didn’t really know what it was going to be like,’ argued Charlie. ‘Now it’s different. The robbery was directed against you and your firm. And because of it, other underwriters could be out of pocket, coming to a buy-back settlement. From this firm all that is at risk at the moment is the money I’ve deposited. So this time you’ve been let off with a warning …’
‘What do you want?’ Willoughby interrupted.
‘The sort of help which, if it goes wrong, could mean that next time there won’t be any warning,’ said Charlie bluntly.
‘I’ll hear you out,’ said Willoughby guardedly.
Charlie stood and began pacing the office, talking as he moved.
‘The misjudgment they’ve made is one that your father never allowed,’ lectured Charlie. ‘They’ve given me the opportunity to react.’
‘I still don’t think you’ve got any choice,’ said Willoughby.
‘That’s it,’ agreed Charlie. ‘And that is what Wilberforce and whoever else is working with him will be thinking.’
Charlie stopped walking, thoughts moving sideways.
‘Buying back the proceeds of unusual or large robberies isn’t particularly uncommon, is it?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Not really,’ said Willoughby. ‘Although obviously we don’t make a point of announcing it. There’s usually some token police objection, as well. Although for political reasons, I don’t think that will be very strong in this case.’
‘So there are people in this office who wouldn’t regard it as odd if they were asked to behave in a somewhat bizarre way?’ Charlie hurried on. ‘They’d accept it could be part of some such arrangement?’
‘I don’t think we’ve the right to put other people to the sort of danger you seem to think exists.’
‘It’s not dangerous — not this part,’ Charlie assured him. ‘I just want them as decoys.’
‘I have your promise on that?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Charlie.
‘Then yes,’ agreed Willoughby. ‘There are people who wouldn’t think it at all strange. They might even enjoy it.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’m not enjoying any of it any more,’ admitted Willoughby, with his customary honesty.
‘Well?’ asked Charlie nervously.
The underwriter considered the invitation to withdraw.
‘Are you going to ask me to do anything illegal? Or involve the firm in any illegality?’ he asked, repeating his paramount concern.
‘Definitely not.’
‘I must have your solemn undertaking.’
Here Comes Charlie M cm-2 Page 10
