Charlie Muffin U.S.A. cm-4

by Brian Freemantle

  Saxby grinned. ‘So he’s a shy guy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chambine. ‘He’s a shy man. And for fifty thousand apiece, he buys his right to stay that way.’

  ‘Nobody minds,’ said Bertrano.

  ‘I’ll be here before noon,’ said Chambine. ‘At exactly midday, I’ll telephone the Papeete Bay Verandah at the Polynesian Village hotel. I want to know you’re all there.’

  Chambine waited for any objection to this expressed doubt that one of them might remain, to discover who the financier was.

  ‘We said we’d be away from the hotel,’ Bertrano reminded him quietly.

  ‘And I said he buys the right to remain anonymous,’ said Chambine. He waited, but no one appeared to want to take the conversation further.

  ‘I think this is going to work,’ said Chambine, wanting to reduce the tension that had arisen between them. ‘I want to thank you all for what you’ve done.’

  ‘We are as determined for this to succeed as you are,’ said Bertrano.

  Chambine nodded. ‘We’ll not meet again, as a group, until Thursday. ‘I’ll be in the foyer, ready for you to arrive.’ He looked at Bertrano. ‘As soon as you enter, I’ll leave, to be in the car park when Saxby and Boella start taking out the lights. I will have earlier in the day put the station waggon and a back-up car into position immediately outside the exhibition room…’

  ‘What about cars after the pay-off?’ interrupted Petrilli.

  ‘I’ll be responsible for them, too,’ Chambine assured him. ‘There’s a metre area overlooking the sea on Ocean Boulevard. There’ll be hire cars parked there. I’ll give you the keys and numbers at the same time as the money. I’d like you all to make plane reservations to get out of Florida as soon as you can on Wednesday morning. Probably be safer to fly from Miami.’

  There were assorted gestures of agreement from the men before him.

  Chambine waved his hands towards the practice area. ‘And I want all this stuff dumped. And I mean dumped. I don’t want anybody trying to hock any of the cameras or lights and being remembered if there’s a police check. Just discard it. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ said Saxby.

  ‘It’s going to work,’ repeated Chambine enthusiastically. ‘It’s going to work beautifully.’

  He went out of the side door of the warehouse, to which five of Pendlebury’s surveillance squad had followed him from Palm Beach. One man would remain there, later to retrieve the listening device that had been planted after F.B.I. observers attached to the group at the Contemporary Resort had trailed them to the building the day they had begun rehearsing and upon which every practice had been monitored, despite Pendlebury’s initial reluctance.

  Within three hours of Chambine’s encounter with the men who were going to carry out the robbery, the recording was on its way, by car, to the F.B.I. controller at the Breakers.

  General Valery Kalenin had one friend and the contrast between them made that association inexplicable to the few who knew about it. Alexei Berenkov ranked among the most successful agents ever infiltrated into the West. A flamboyant extrovert of a man, he had remained undetected for nearly fifteen years and behind the facade of a wine importer’s business in the City of London developed a network that had penetrated the NATO headquarters in Brussels and the Cabinets of two British administrations.

  His capture had been a setback to Kalenin’s service. But because of their friendship, remote though it had been all those years, the seizure had distressed Kalenin even more than it would have done to have lost any other operative of Berenkov’s calibre. It had been that feeling which had made him cast aside his customary caution and agree so readily to the operation, about eight years earlier, in which the heads of the American and British Intelligence Services had been trapped by an aggrieved British agent; they had provided Kalenin with guaranteed hostages that he had used to get Berenkov repatriated from the British jail in which he had been serving a forty-year sentence.

  Since Berenkov’s return, the habit had developed for them to meet at least once a week, alternating between Kalenin’s spartan apartment and Berenkov’s home, where the man’s wife always prepared the Georgian meals she knew Kalenin enjoyed.

  This week it was Berenkov’s turn to visit Kutuzovsky Prospekt. They had eaten well but less elaborately than at Berenkov’s house and sat now over coffee and the remains of the French wine of which Kalenin knew his friend had become a connoisseur during his time in the West and which he preferred to Russian products. Berenkov lit a Havana cigar and sat back contentedly, thrusting his legs out before him.

  ‘It’s a good life,’ he said. ‘I consider myself a lucky man.’

  Since his repatriation, Berenkov had been assigned to the spy college on the outskirts of Moscow and established himself as one of the better lecturers. The cowed nervousness that he had had when he first returned had completely disappeared now and only the complete whiteness of his hair remained from his period of imprisonment.

  ‘I’ve a slight concern,’ said Kalenin, who often used their meetings to talk about any problems that might be particularly troubling him.

  ‘What?’ asked Berenkov, his attention still on the cigar.

  ‘Seems I’ve been identified,’ said Kalenin shortly.

  ‘Identified?’ Berenkov looked up from the cigar, immediately attentive.

  ‘It really is most bizarre,’ said the K.G.B. chief. ‘There was an anonymous telephone call to the Washington Embassy, warning of a robbery of some Tsarist stamp collection. And the caller identified me by name.’

  ‘The C.I.A. would know, of course,’ said Berenkov thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s what makes me suspicious,’ said Kalenin. ‘It could be some peculiar operation to discredit us.’

  ‘You must respond, though,’ said Berenkov.

  ‘I have,’ said Kalenin. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but I finally decided to awaken a sleeper.’

  ‘It was justified,’ said Berenkov at once. ‘You had to find out. What does the man say?’

  Kalenin looked at his watch. ‘His initial report is due in the Washington diplomatic bag by tomorrow morning. I gather he’s got some photographs of people involved with protecting the collection, but not very much more.’

  ‘Not an easy assignment,’ sympathised Berenkov. He knew that his friend would have left instructions to be contacted and would return to the Kremlin as soon as the information arrived.

  ‘No,’ agreed the general. ‘What would you have done?’

  Berenkov did not reply immediately. Then he said, ‘Probably disclosed myself in the hope of whoever it was responding and identifying himself. But to whom could our man disclose himself?’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ agreed Kalenin. ‘There isn’t anybody.’

  ‘What about the robbery?’

  ‘I’ve put some other people in to watch that,’ said Kalenin dismissively. ‘There appears no reason at the moment to think anything is likely to happen.’

  ‘Could be a difficult one,’ said Berenkov.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kalenin. ‘That’s what worries me.’

  17

  Had the training of the Russian called Williamson commenced when he was an adult – or even in his early teens – he might have quickly despaired at the difficulty of what he had been asked to do. But by beginning his instruction from such an early age, the Russians had been able to mould his mental resilience as well as his intellect, so that while he might recognise the difficulty of an assignment, the thought of regarding it as impossible would never have occurred to him.

  The lead would have to come from the exhibition, Williamson decided, and from the people connected with it in positions of authority.

  To acquaint himself thoroughly with the layout and design of any area of operation had been one of his earliest lessons, so he had located the staff laundry even before obtaining photographs of everyone involved in the security.

  He was helped not only by the size of the Breakers, but also
by the number of staff employed to guarantee the guests’ comfort. Little more than an hour’s observation convinced him that such was the volume of people using the laundry that one uniform would not be missed. He only needed a waiter’s jacket anyway, and by mid-morning of the day after his arrival had succeeded in stealing one and carrying it unobserved to his room.

  He ordered a cold lunch from room service, intently studying the waiter who served it to ensure that he would make no mistake with his disguise. He waited five minutes after the waiter’s departure and even then discreetly checked the corridor before emerging, cloth over his arm and jacket an almost perfect fit, the tray balanced without difficulty on his crooked arm. Because Charlie’s suite was the nearer to his room, he went there first. He rang the bell twice and then shouted ‘Room service’ through the closed door before apparently fumbling with a pass-key – which was, in fact, a steel pick-lock.

  Once inside the room, he worked with the speed of the true professional. At first he kept the tray in his hand to provide an excuse and an apology for a misunderstood order, in case the occupant of the suite was still inside, but having checked throughout, he put it down. Beneath the door leading into the corridor he jammed two rubber wedges, to guard against any surprise discovery, then from their containers took the minute devices which had accompanied his written instructions from Moscow.

  They were the latest bugging equipment developed by the K.G.B., transistorised pinheads that could be secured inside a telephone receiver, turning it into an open microphone for any discussion which might take place in the room as well as relaying any conversation on the instrument itself. Magnetised, they were so small that they adhered inside one of the perforations in the mouthpiece and needed an expert technician with laboratory facilities to be discovered.

  Williamson reappeared in the corridor within four minutes, shaking his head and studying a written order to find out where he had made his mistake, for the benefit of any casual observer.

  The service lift took him to the floor on which Pendlebury had his rooms. Williamson’s face twisted with distaste at the condition inside, but he didn’t pause in what he had come to do. Better acquainted now with the suites, Williamson was in the corridor, again doing his bewildered but mistaken waiter head-shaking, within three minutes. His arm was aching by the time he got back to his own room, still carrying the tray. To check the installations, he used his telephone to call both sets of rooms, hearing the ringing loudly on his monitoring equipment. Satisfied, he connected what appeared to be an elaborate radio and tape cassette player to two receiving spools, coupled to the devices in each room, so that any conversation that occurred in either would be recorded.

  By the end of the first day, from Pendlebury’s apartment, he had learned enough to satisfy him that the anonymous caller to the Washington embassy had been telling the truth and to realise, as well, that the intended robbery was government inspired, if not planned. By eight o’clock, he had airfreighted to Washington complete reports from the eavesdropping of both rooms, with a special request for the voices on the tapes to be scientifically tested for voice prints against the recording they held of the unknown man who had given them the warning. He also asked for any information on a man called Giuseppe Terrilli, whose name had featured on the tape from Pendlebury’s sitting room.

  Because for a man of Williamson’s expertise it was a logical, almost natural thing to do, he looked up the name in the telephone book, as Charlie Muffin had a few days earlier. And by nine o’clock had reconnoitred the Terrilli mansion, acquainted himself with the degree of protection installed around the building and returned to the Breakers very contented with his day’s work. He still hadn’t abandoned hope of getting back to the West Coast in time for the Rams’ game.

  18

  Giuseppe Terrilli sat forward in his chair, gazing down at some spot by his feet. The occasional nod – Chambine hoped of approval – was the only movement from the man as he outlined the preparations they had made and talked of the rehearsals in the Orlando warehouse.

  Because he remained anxious to impress, Chambine took a long time, but Terrilli gave no sign of impatience. When Chambine finished, the older man remained sitting in the same attitude of concentration. Chambine waited on the edge of his seat, wondering what the response would be. He hoped he was managing to conceal his nervousness.

  At last Terrilli looked up and Chambine relaxed very slightly at the smile.

  ‘You’ve thought it out very well,’ he said. ‘And appear to have chosen the people well, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Terrilli.’

  ‘There seems little likelihood of failure.’

  ‘I don’t think there will be.’

  ‘The only problem I can foresee is the timing between the visits of the security guards.’

  Chambine had omitted that morning’s discussion in the warehouse, knowing the other man’s attitude to violence. Now he said, ‘Some of the others are worried, too.’

  ‘If it has to happen, it happens,’ said Terrilli shortly.

  ‘I’ve made plans in case it becomes necessary to silence them.’

  Terrilli smiled again. ‘I’m sure you have.’

  ‘But only in an emergency,’ added Chambine.

  ‘I’d like you with me permanently,’ said Terrilli. ‘How would you feel about that?’

  ‘I’d like it very much.’

  ‘I’ll do it properly,’ promised Terrilli. ‘Formally ask your people in New York, so there would be no offence.’

  ‘It would be better to leave amicably.’

  ‘Of course. What about your family?’

  ‘I’ve a house to sell in Scarsdale. And children to move from school. No problem.’

  ‘New York is always thought to be the place where the power lies in our organisation,’ Terrilli reminded him. ‘Why do you want out?’

  Chambine smiled, happy with the relationship which appeared to be developing between them.

  ‘Because I’m not convinced that the tradition will last for ever,’ he said.

  Terrilli nodded at the flattery. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘What will you do after the robbery?’

  ‘Finish my vacation,’ said Chambine. ‘To leave immediately afterwards might create suspicion.’

  ‘Tell me something,’ said Terrilli, believing he had softened the other man sufficiently to talk of loyalty. ‘What would you say if, having joined me officially, someone from another part of the organisation invited you to do the sort of thing you’re doing for me now?’

  ‘Refuse,’ said Chambine, immediately aware of the assurance that the older man wanted. He hesitated, knowing Terrilli required more and assembling the words to satisfy him.

  ‘I didn’t set this up for the $100,000,’ he said, talking quietly and looking directly at Terrilli. ‘I did it because I knew it to be a test of my ability. I’m not interested in freelancing. I’m interested in joining you.’

  ‘Do you regard yourself as ambitious then?’

  ‘Properly so,’ said Chambine cautiously. ‘You’d never have any cause to doubt my support, Mr Terrilli.’

  ‘I’m glad of the guarantee,’ said the other man. ‘There had better be no contact between us after the handover; the investigation around the hotel will be intense and I don’t want any connection.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’ll be in New York in three weeks. We’ll meet then and finalise the arrangements.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Should I wait until your visit before making any positive plans?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Terrilli. ‘It’s proper that I should be the person to tell your people… you could always put your house on the market, of course.’

  Terrilli rose and put out his hand. Chambine stood and took it.

  ‘Until Thursday night,’ said Terrilli.

  ‘There’ll be no problems.’

  ‘I know.’

  Terrilli, unaware that he had been under surveillance from the moment he left his c
astle home at Palm Beach, to the extent of his helicopter being followed by radar from Palm Beach Airport to Orlando, was careful about his departure from the hotel, pausing several times to check for anyone who might be watching. Knowing he would have been conspicuous in his normal conservative suit in a vacation resort, he had dressed in sports jacket, slacks and loafers and merged unobtrusively with the people who boarded the monorail to take him back to the Disneyworld exit. The giggling teenage girls who sat two seats away, fooling with their Mickey Mouse caps, were both Pendlebury’s watchers.

  Temporarily bereft of the constant attention of his aides, Terrilli felt vaguely uncomfortable boarding the open-sided tramway that toured the car parks. He made a note of his parking place on the back of his entry voucher receipt, conscious of how easy it would be to get lost.

  The driver had kept the air conditioning running, and now Terrilli climbed gratefully into the cool Rolls that had been driven up in advance to ferry him between Orlando Airport and Disneyworld. It was mid-afternoon and the traffic was moderate, so it did not take them long to drive through the landscaped parks and rejoin Interstate 4. Within an hour, Terrilli was at the private section of Orlando Airport, boarding his helicopter.

  He had convened his weekly meeting with Santano and Patridge for five o’clock, and arrived back fifteen minutes early, giving him the opportunity to change from his sports clothes, in which he had become positively uncomfortable, back into a business suit.

  The lieutenant and the accountant were on time, as was customary. Terrilli sat at his ocean-view desk and the other men took their usual seats. Patridge fussily fitted his glasses into place, took his accounts from his briefcase and after handing duplicate copies to Terrilli and Santano carefully began taking them through the figures. ‘Three interceptions?’ cut in Terrilli. ‘It was a bad week,’ said Santano.

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

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