Here Comes Charlie M cm-2

by Brian Freemantle

  He saw the cars stop and the occupants start to emerge, filing into one of the buildings. American military staff began loading the baggage directly into the aircraft hold.

  ‘Complete diplomatic clearance,’ mused Charlie, then stopped, identifying the figure in apparent command of the aircraft boarding.

  So William Braley had been involved, as well as Snare. He smiled at the realisation; everyone who had had reason to hate him most. Good motivation, Charlie accepted.

  He’d admired Braley, Charlie remembered. A complete and thorough professional. He was one of the people about whom Charlie felt most regret at what had happened in Vienna.

  He sighed. A necessary casualty of survival, he decided. But still sad.

  He got back into the mini and started back towards the roundabout from which he could rejoin the motorway.

  ‘You did it, Charlie,’ he congratulated himself. ‘You beat them.’

  Superintendent Law would seize the credit, realised Hardiman. And it had really been his idea. But when the time came for the commendations and the celebration drinks, the poor sod who’d had all the work would be forgotten.

  Law looked up enquiringly as the sergeant entered the room.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  Hardiman smiled down at the seated man.

  ‘Remember you told me to check that financier’s passport?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with it … at first glance.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘So I looked further. Checked out the birth certificate, with government records …’

  Law began to smile, in anticipation.

  ‘According to them, no such person exists,’ concluded the sergeant. ‘So I put the certificate through to forensic. It’s a forgery.’

  ‘Well done, laddie,’ praised the superintendent. ‘Well done.’

  He stood up, taking Charlie’s file from those stacked against the wall.

  ‘Routine,’ he said softly. ‘That’s what does it, every time.’

  It had taken long enough, thought Hardiman.

  ‘Still not back at the house yet?’ Law enquired, expectantly.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Law frowned at a sudden thought.

  ‘What about that report from uniformed, their belief there was some sort of observation?’

  ‘Checked on my way here,’ said Hardiman. ‘Not there any more.’

  ‘Which leaves us with the London firm of underwriters,’ said Law. ‘I think it’s time we checked to see how deeply they investigate their people.’

  Onslow Smith looked down contentedly at the file lying before him. Through everything now there was a curt red ink mark: every entry erased. He deserved the comfort of the separate military aircraft that he had arranged for himself, he decided. And it would have been quite wrong anyway to have travelled back with the rest of the team.

  He put the documents into the briefcase with the combination lock and placed it alongside the other sealed file holders that would all be taken by courier to the airport for transportation back to America and then oblivion in the C.I.A. archives. In a separate container was the money Wilberforce had insisted on returning. The money would probably upset their computer, he thought; it had already been written off. Just like Wilberforce. Poor bugger.

  The telephone surprised him and he stared at it, hesitating before lifting the receiver. He smiled, immediately recognising Braley’s voice.

  ‘All aboard?’ enquired Smith, cheerily.

  ‘Not quite,’ said the man and for the first time Smith realised the apprehension from the other end.

  ‘What do you mean, not quite?’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve left it so late,’ said Braley. ‘I wanted to be sure, so I carried out a complete check …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what is it?’ demanded Smith.

  ‘Ruttgers isn’t here.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Edith opened the door without interest, looking dully out into the corridor. Then she saw Charlie and started back. She couldn’t make the words and so she just stood there, shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Charlie … Charlie,’ she said and all the feelings of the previous days overflowed and she burst into tears.

  He came into the room, holding his arms out to her and she clung to him so desperately that he could feel her fingers bruising into his back. He held her as tightly, stroking her hair and her shoulders, trying to calm her, but she couldn’t stop, huge sobs racking through her.

  Her face muffled into his shoulder, she just kept repeating ‘Charlie, oh, Charlie’ and he felt her groping at him, needing the physical reassurance of his body.

  ‘It’s all right, Edith,’ he said, soothingly. ‘It’s over. All over.’

  She wept on and Charlie let her cry, knowing she had to wash the fear and anxiety out of herself. She’d suffered far more than he had, he realised. But he’d make her forget, eventually. Certainly she’d never suffer again, he determined. Never.

  Gently he moved her sideways, so they could both sit on the edge of the bed. The crying was becoming less hysterical, he recognised.

  ‘Over, Edith,’ he repeated. ‘All over.’

  It still seemed a long time before she had recovered sufficiently to pull away from him. Her eyes were red and sore and her nose had run. Lovingly, he dried her face. The breath was still jumping unevenly through her, so that her shoulders kept shaking.

  ‘Please kiss me,’ she said.

  Gently he leaned forward, putting his lips to hers, but when she tried to pull close to him, dragging his mouth towards her in a sudden frenzy, her breath caught again and she had to jerk away, gasping a mixture of laughter and fresh tears.

  He put his hands out, holding her face, so she wouldn’t collapse.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said curtly. ‘Stop it, Edith.’

  She bit against the emotion, lips tightly closed.

  ‘I’m all right now,’ she said, after a while. Still he held her, bringing her forward and lightly kissing her forehead.

  ‘I love you, Edith,’ he said.

  She smiled up at him, remembering the promise.

  ‘I was so frightened, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘They made too many mistakes,’ he said.

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed seriously. ‘They reacted exactly as I thought they would.’

  ‘Let’s hide somewhere, Charlie. Somewhere they will never find us.’

  ‘We’ll hide,’ he said. ‘They’ll never get this close again.’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make love to me, Charlie. It’s been so long.’

  Her breath didn’t catch and they kissed open-mouthed, trying at the same time to pull the clothes away from each other in urgent tugging movements. They couldn’t do it, so they parted briefly, clawing the covering away and then snatched, one for the other, falling back on to the dishevelled bed. The fear that Charlie had kept so tightly controlled surged through him, so that he shuddered as deeply as Edith had done when she’d first seen him and he clung desperately to her, needing the comfort of her body that she’d felt for his earlier. But not sexually, he realised, in sudden, horrified awareness. He crouched over her, flaccid and unresponsive, head buried into her shoulder.

  ‘I want to, Edith. I really want to.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Help me to do it.’

  ‘It won’t work, Charlie. Not now.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Later, Charlie. It will be better later.’

  He toppled sideways, head still into her shoulder so that he couldn’t look at her.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She lay, gently stroking his back. Conscious of how cold he was, she tugged the blanket over them. Because of the confused way they were lying, their legs protruded from
the bottom.

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said.

  He pulled slightly away, still not looking at her.

  ‘Glad?’he said.

  ‘Glad to know you were as scared as me.’

  He burrowed into the blanket.

  ‘I was scared,’ he admitted, quietly. ‘Very scared.’

  ‘And now it’s over. For both of us,’ she reminded him.

  He laughed, an uncertain sound.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘It was supposed to be me, comforting you,’ he said.

  She pulled his head closer to her, so that his lips were near her breast.

  ‘We need each other very much, don’t we, Charlie?’ she said, happily.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I’m glad you love me, Charlie.’

  ‘Even though I can’t prove it?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  It was growing warm beneath the blanket.

  ‘Your trousers are puddled on the floor,’ she said. ‘They’re going to be very creased.’

  ‘They usually are,’ he said, sleepily.

  ‘Yes,’ she remembered, ‘they usually are. Don’t ever alter, will you, Charlie?’

  He grunted and she felt his breath deepening against her.

  ‘I love you so much,’ she said softly, knowing he couldn’t hear her. ‘I love you so much.’

  She trailed a finger over his cheek, smiling as he twitched at the irritation. It was so good to have him back, she thought. Completely.

  It was an hour before he awakened and because he was clinging to her she felt the momentary tightening of his body, until the awareness of where he was registered.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said, relaxing.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Forgiven me?’

  ‘I told you not to be silly.’

  He pulled himself close to the warmth of her body.

  ‘It’s good to be with you,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t ever go away again?’

  ‘Never,’ he said.

  ‘Can we leave, straight away?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Get dressed and while we have a celebration meal I’ll tell you what else has to be done.’

  ‘Shall we eat here?’

  ‘Too early,’ he decided. ‘Let’s drive somewhere and then take pot luck.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed immediately. He was like a schoolboy on the first day of a summer vacation with a five-pound note in his pocket, she thought, rising from the bed and spreading the blanket more fully over him. She knew he was watching her through the bathroom door and turned, smiling.

  ‘You’re beautiful, Edith,’ he said.

  She grew serious, coming to the linking door.

  ‘It is going to be all right, from now on, isn’t it, Charlie? No more mistakes … no more running?’

  ‘No more mistakes,’ he guaranteed.

  ‘I don’t think I could go through it again,’ she said gravely.

  ‘I promise.’

  As if suddenly reminded, Edith stopped, towel in hand, by a travelling bag. It was a large, soft leather case with a shoulder strap and sufficient space to carry anything a person might need on a long journey.

  ‘You’d better have these,’ she said, passing over the passports she had drawn from the Zurich bank.

  She looked at him expectantly, but Charlie just leaned across the bed, putting them into his jacket pocket. Any conversation about new identities would only rekindle her fear, he decided.

  ‘Hurry,’ he urged her. ‘It’s going to be a great evening.’

  Because the car was pointing in that direction, Charlie drove westwards.

  ‘You know,’ said Edith, ‘for the first time in weeks I feel safe.’

  She reached across the tiny car, squeezing his hand.

  ‘So do I,’said Charlie.

  It was an hour after they had left that Braley and the American team despatched by Onslow Smith arrived at the hotel, seeking Ruttgers. The man was still registered, agreed the receptionist. But he’d left the hotel. About an hour before. Why didn’t they wait?

  Superintendent Law and the sergeant had risen to go, pausing in the hallway of Willoughby’s apartment.

  ‘It was good of you to see us at home, sir,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘You said it was urgent,’ Willoughby reminded them.

  ‘And you’ve no idea why there should be this strange business about the passport?’

  Willoughby spread his hands at the question that had been asked already. He was beginning to perspire, he knew.

  ‘Absolutely none,’ he said. ‘We don’t actually check on a person’s birth certificate when they become associated with us.’

  ‘Perhaps you should, sir,’ said Law. ‘You couldn’t suggest where we might locate him?’

  Again the underwriter made the gesture of helplessness. Another repeated question.

  ‘There was an address abroad … Switzerland …’

  ‘The Zurich police have already checked, on our behalf,’ said Hardiman. ‘There hasn’t been anyone at the apartment for several days.’

  ‘Then sorry, no,’ said Willoughby. So far, he knew he’d kept the concern from his voice. But it was becoming increasingly difficult.

  ‘You will tell us, the moment there is any contact, won’t you?’ said Law.

  ‘Of course,’ Willoughby agreed. ‘And I’d appreciate any news that you might get. I don’t like the thought of my being involved in something that could be questionable.’

  ‘We will,’ said Law, finally opening the door. He paused, looking back at the underwriter.

  ‘The moment there is any contact,’ he reiterated.

  ‘I understand,’ said Willoughby.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the superintendent, as they settled into the back of the car that had brought them from Brighton.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hardiman, reflectively. ‘According to the checks we asked the Fraud Squad to make, the firm is so straight you could draw lines by it.’

  Law nodded.

  ‘Exactly the sort of screen you’ try to hide behind if you were a villain,’ said Law.

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Hardiman. ‘But without the principals being aware of it.’

  ‘So we’re not much farther forward,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  Law considered the question.

  ‘Request a meeting with the Chief Constable and if he’s agreeable, tomorrow call as big a press conference as possible and name our mystery man as someone to help in our inquiries. It will be the only way to bring him out.’

  ‘The only way,’ concurred Hardiman, dutifully.

  John Packer was always ready to move at short notice; regarded it as part of being a professional. He’d been late learning of the Faberge recovery, getting the first hint from a newspaper poster about a jewel haul and then confirming it from the car radio.

  He’d approached the house cautiously, alert for any signs that the police were waiting for him. Satisfied, he hadn’t bothered to turn off the ignition while he collected his share of the Brighton and Mayfair bank robbery money from the concealed floor-mounted safe in the basement and packed a case.

  He’d go north, he decided. He wasn’t known in Manchester and it was a big enough place in which to get lost. He was surprised that none of the reports had referred to arrests; he’d have to watch the newspapers closely for the next few days, to establish if he were safe, before attempting a quick flight to the Continent Amsterdam, he decided. Nice people in Amsterdam.

  What had happened to the man with the star-shaped scar? he wondered. He must have been nicked, Pity. He’d been bloody good. Odd. But still good.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The meal had been unexciting, but neither Charlie nor Edith had noticed. There had been long periods without conversation, when they’d just stared at each other and twice, aware of the waiter’s amused attention, Edith had looked away embarrassed
, telling Charlie to stop.

  There was still wine left in the half-bottle that he had ordered as the meal began and when the waiter enquired about brandy with the coffee, Charlie refused.

  Edith smiled, gratefully.

  ‘Seems like everything has turned out all right,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, holding the glass in front of him. ‘That’s over too.’

  ‘You are sure, aren’t you, Charlie?’ she asked, expanding the question with sudden urgency. ‘Nothing can go wrong now, can it?’

  Charlie reached across, squeezing her hand. She was still frightened, he decided, remembering the doubt with which she had given him the passports at the hotel.

  ‘Willoughby’s firm was one of the major Lloyd’s insurers,’ he said. ‘So he was able to be present when the collection was returned to the Russians … to ask questions without the interest appearing strange. He’s never known such official embarrassment.’

  ‘But …?’ she started.

  ‘And I personally saw the surveillance lifted from you.’

  She gazed at him, coffee suspended before her.

  ‘What?’ she said. Her voice was hollowed out with nervousness.

  ‘There was a team of men assigned to you,’ he said gently. ‘American. I followed them back to the airport … they’ll be gone by now.’

  ‘I never knew.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to.’

  Edith shivered.

  ‘Let’s get away from here, Charlie.’

  ‘There’s still the Brighton robbery,’ he said, calmly. ‘And Mayfair, too, although I’m not linked with that as far as the police are concerned.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That we can’t get out, not immediately. I know who did them, apart from Snare. We can leak the man’s name to the police through Willoughby’s insurance outlets, like we did that of Wilberforce and Snare with the Faberge collection.’

  ‘It won’t be long, will it, Charlie?’

  ‘Just days, that’s all,’ he said. ‘A week at the most.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Anywhere you choose,’ he said. He put the wine glass down, feeling for her hand again.

  ‘Let’s go home to bed,’ he said.