Brian Freemantle - Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

‘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 Moscow 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.

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.