Brian Freemantle: Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

‘It’s been a good fortnight,’ said Tony Santano. ‘Not one interception.’

In an earlier era or a different location, Anthony Santano would have had the nickname ‘Big Tony’, with his six-foot-four frame and build like a boxer. But Terrilli forbade the theatricality of New York; the organisation there seemed to believe that Damon Runyon was still alive and eating nightly at Sardi’s.

‘Which means a twenty million three-quarters profit,’ said the third man. John Patridge was a thin, bespectacled, aesthetic scion of a New England family going back almost two centuries, a graduate from the Harvard Business School with a genius for figures that would have earned him a fortune in Wall Street had the organisation not paid him more to keep their books in perfect order. He had been put into Florida by men never surprised at the fickleness of human behaviour, to guard against any sudden omission by Terrilli to make full account of the activities for which he was responsible. To report untruthfully one boat as being seized and to place its cargo on the streets in a private deal could mean a profit, after cutting the dope, of $9,000,000, and that was a considerable amount of money for one man, even in the cosmic amounts in which they dealt.

‘It’s going very well,’ said Terrilli. He was always careful not to appear too enthusiastic, because his was the planning and the forethought which made everything so successful and enthusiasm might indicate conceit.

‘Because it’s so well organised,’ said Patridge, always the more sycophantic of the two.

‘If there’s no other business,’ Terrilli cut in, ‘I have an appointment.’

The accountant and Santano looked up, curious at the abruptness.

‘I’m going to New York,’ added Terrilli.

‘Business?’ asked Santano, irritated that he had not been either warned or consulted.

‘Yes,’ said Terrilli. ‘I’m going to look at some stamps, too. Be away for a couple of days.’

The Terrilli Industries executive jet was making its arrival down the slip runway to the private section of La Guardia Airport by the time Charlie Muffin got back to his room at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan. He was a little stiff-legged from the amount of whisky he had consumed, but otherwise unaffected. He’d paced the third and fourth drinks, so that he and Pendlebury had been level pegging, and in the end it had been the American who suffered more. Charlie took off his jacket and shoes, lying back upon the bed, carefully moving his toes and examining the feet that seemed to have so much trouble being made comfortable. Pendlebury was a piss-assed security man, nothing more, he told himself. Why was it then that he still felt unsure?

The telephone rang jarringly in the room, making him jump and shattering his reflections.

‘Guess who?’ said a bright, female voice and for several moments Charlie lay with the telephone in his hand, trying to identify it.

‘Who?’ he asked, defeated.

There was a mew of feigned disappointment.

‘Clarissa,’ said the voice. ‘Clarissa Willoughby. I could hardly believe my luck when Rupert told me you’d be in New York at the same time.’

‘You’re here?’ said Charlie vacuously.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And guess what?’

‘What?’ said Charlie. She’d love the quiz games with which American television was littered.

‘We’re staying at the same hotel. I’m just two floors above you. Isn’t that terrific?’

‘Terrific,’ agreed Charlie. He wondered if she’d detected the absence of enthusiasm. She would have ensured the hotel reservation, he guessed, realising why he hadn’t been able to stay at the Waldorf.

Suddenly Charlie’s mind wasn’t on the conversation with the underwriter’s wife. He knew why Pendlebury made him uneasy and the realisation increased his uncertainty. Looking at Pendlebury had been like looking at a mirror-image of himself.

‘Why aren’t you talking to me?’ complained Clarissa.

‘I just had a thought,’ said Charlie.

‘Was it important?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘I hope not.’

Charlie stood anonymously but carefully positioned against the wall of the exhibition room, reflecting how future anthropologists would categorise the animal functions displayed at twentieth-century cocktail parties and receptions.

The ritualistic behaviour was always so similar, whatever the occasion. When he had still been held in esteem by the Intelligence Service, under the control of Sir Archibald Willoughby, Charlie had attended British Embassy receptions all over the world. There had been Queen’s birthdays and State independences and National holidays or Presidents and premiers wanting to show off, and apart from some fancy uniforms, the occasional undrinkable local drink and perhaps a wider smattering of foreign languages, the opening night of the Romanov and Zarrins Collections was identical to any of them.

There was the usual crush around the canapes and pursuit of the champagne trays (‘the feeding instinct’) and a lot of bare female flesh being thrust beneath the appreciative eyes of the males who, because they were only into their second glass of wine and therefore more inhibited than their ancestors, were feigning no interest (‘the mating instinct’).

And then there were Pendlebury and Pendlebury’s men and the hotel security people and a contingent from the New York City Police Department and himself. The ‘hunting instinct’, he supposed. Looking for the prey.

‘ Watch the watchers.’

Charlie smiled at the recollection of the phrase. It had been one of the earliest dictums from Sir Archibald who, despite never having operated in the field, knew more about tradecraft than any man Charlie had ever encountered, and was therefore someone whose advice Charlie respected, despite his dislike of rules.

Charlie decided that just as those Embassy occasions could have overlapped with this, so could something of his previous training. Pendlebury had told him of the police co-operation, which meant he had been allowed access to the files on people likely to attempt a robbery. So he stood against the wall watching Pendlebury, who stood in the middle of the room, watching everyone who entered. Charlie saw that Pendlebury wasn’t drinking. Neither was Charlie. Neither was he relying entirely upon a rule, even though it had been established by someone whom he had respected so highly. The stamps were displayed in enclosed glass cabinets arranged in a rectangle in the centre of the room and Charlie had positioned himself at the head, so that any activity that took place around the exhibits was as clear to him as any communication that might come from Pendlebury.

Charlie estimated that there were no more than a hundred people genuinely interested in the stamps. About twenty had produced their philatelic credentials and were now being personally escorted around the stands, each assigned one of Pendlebury’s men, with permission to unlock the cases and examine the essays or frames more closely. And quite near him was a group of men whom Charlie had identified as White Russian emigres. They had already made two circuits of the display cases, but in a manner different from the philatelists. They had looked reverently at the stamps, rarely talking to each other, in apparent awe of something which had once belonged to a man they revered. Charlie wondered why none of them was completely intact; two wore eye patches, one moved awkwardly, unbalanced by a missing left arm, and two limped, one obviously supported by a false leg. As Charlie watched, the men took champagne from a passing tray and seemed to assemble in a formal circle, as if an official toast were being drunk. Charlie decided he would have liked to have talked to them; they looked as if they had been fucked about a lot, like he had.