Brian Freemantle - Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

‘Wouldn’t be a great help, would he?’ cut in Charlie, wanting to keep the other man off balance.

‘What do you mean?’ challenged Cosgrove.

‘I mean that I do not think that Mr Pendlebury is the proper person to whom this information should be passed on.’

‘Are you alleging something against the man?’

‘Think carefully on what I’ve said,’ Charlie encouraged him. ‘I’ve made no allegations against anyone that could be questioned in a court. What’s the celebration you’re planning tomorrow, senator?’

Cosgrove took the question like a man emerging from an over-hot sauna having cold water thrown in his face. He actually gasped, then snapped his mouth shut.

‘Celebration?’ he echoed, trying to gain time. ‘The restoration of cover…’

‘Six-thirty tonight,’ Charlie reminded him. ‘We established the time of the lawyers’ call in the committee room. You were making arrangements with the banqueting manager this afternoon, long before that call. I checked, purporting to be your aide. I’d have hardly thought a restoration of insurance justified champagne and a gathering of at least a hundred… that seems to be the number for which the man is catering…’

Cosgrove drew himself up, aware of his mistake and annoyed at its discovery.

‘You’ve no right to put such questions to me,’ he said, striving again for his customary arrogance.

‘You’re quite correct, sir,’ said Charlie, the courtesy introduced purposely to stress what he was to say. ‘Perhaps we should leave that to whatever court will subsequently examine anything that might happen here.’

Another expression began to settle on Cosgrove’s face, and Charlie recognised it from the previous occasions in which he had dealt with politicians who found themselves in difficulty. Cosgrove was responding as he had anticipated; it was invariably the way with ambitious men.

‘What do you intend doing?’ Cosgrove straightened and there was more control in his voice.

‘Continue to suspend cover,’ said Charlie. ‘And then summon the police. Not that I expect they will react as I hope, but for any further enquiry which might be held into what happens…’

‘Sure that’s altogether wise?’ asked Cosgrove.

Unexpectedly he smiled, and Charlie thought the expression was like that of a man practising physiotherapy exercises after facial paralysis. ‘I think so,’ he said.

‘What do you think is the purpose of all this?’ said Cosgrove.

There was always the pretence of being taken into confidence before the offer was made, remembered Charlie.

‘The F.B.I. entrapment of a known Mafia associate named Giuseppe Terrilli,’ said Charlie simply.

The face exercise smile came again. ‘You’re very astute,’ Cosgrove congratulated him.

‘And therefore worried that something for which I’m responsible is going to be used as bait. Which is why I must protect it.’

‘ Nothing can happen,’ said Cosgrove, utilising the full depths of his politician’s sincerity. ‘I give you my word. ’

‘It’s an impossible guarantee,’ said Charlie, ‘and one which no one in the syndicate I represent would consider.’

Cosgrove moved from his position in the middle of the room. His suite was on a corner, so there was a panoramic view from two sides of the room. He moved towards the ocean view, not looking at Charlie as he spoke.

‘I am a man of considerable influence in Washington,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘And because of what is to happen, I expect to increase that influence.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do,’ said Charlie.

‘What if I call the British Embassy and through them make an official request to the British government for co-operation?’ suggested Cosgrove, suddenly turning back into the room.

It would bring to Florida at least ten people from the department which wanted him dead, Charlie realised immediately. He was sure he kept the anxiety from his face.

‘You haven’t time, have you?’ he said.

‘Reintroduce cover and I’ll guarantee their agreement by this time tomorrow.’

Charlie disguised the sigh at the other man’s desperation. Cosgrove had been a poor choice for a front man.

‘That’s not an undertaking you can give,’ he said. ‘And you certainly couldn’t expect it to be made retroactive; by the time you were seeking agreement from London, the whole damned exhibition could have been destroyed.’

There was the slightest indication of anger from Cosgrove at having his proposal exposed so immediately for its stupidity, but he curbed it.

‘How much?’ said Cosgrove.

Charlie smiled at the predictable demand. ‘For what?’

‘Restoring insurance. And not involving the local police.’

So the Palm Beach and neighbouring forces weren’t involved. Charlie wondered if Cosgrove would ever be aware of what he was disclosing.

‘I don’t think this conversation is going to achieve a great deal, Senator Cosgrove,’ said Charlie. After the other man’s posturing over the past weeks, Charlie enjoyed the arrogance.

‘A hundred thousand?’ pressed Cosgrove.

‘I’ll not take a bribe,’ insisted Charlie.

‘Two hundred?’

‘Stop demeaning yourself,’ said Charlie irritably.

Cosgrove pulled up short again. ‘An honourable man!’ he sneered.

‘I suppose so,’ said Charlie. According to his own rules, that was.

‘You’ll do a deal,’ said Cosgrove, suddenly confident.

‘I’ve told you…’

‘Shut up,’ said the white-haired man. ‘In return for your re-establishing cover and not involving the local police, I’m prepared to save your life.’

‘Save my life!’

‘You might have worked out the robbery,’ said Cosgrove. ‘But sure as hell you haven’t realised that there’s to be a second indictment against Terrilli. And it’s going to be your murder.’

The politician smiled again. This time it was a satisfied expression.

‘A deal?’ he said.

Charlie hesitated. The need to survive had always been stronger in him than any tenacity or vindictiveness. It was time to modify his rules.

‘A deal,’ agreed Charlie. ‘What do they intend doing?’

Cosgrove shook his head, control resumed. ‘The undertaking in the committee room first. Then we’ll talk about the killing…’ He smiled, enjoying the qualification ‘… your killing.’

He’d lost, conceded Charlie, following the other man from the room. He didn’t like losing.

Saxby and Boella arrived first. They parked their car alongside the marked station waggon that Chambine had already placed in position, near the windows to the exhibition room. They entered the hotel in a leisurely manner and strolled into the Alcazar.

Saxby ordered while his companion looked around the bar.

‘We’ve time to eat,’ said Boella.

‘Why not?’ said Saxby, unaware of the handover of surveillance from those who had followed them from Orlando to the men who had been moved ahead of their arrival, from Lantana.

Pendlebury had taken a second set of rooms in the hotel as his control centre for the operation. He’d monitored the approach of the two men now ten floors below in the bar and om the map before him had marked the route of the four that were following, travelling through an avenue of observers.

In the corner, but with an operator constantly before it to check adjustments, was a closed-circuit television. It was linked to two cameras that had been installed after the exhibition closed that night, of which Chambine’s men would be unaware as they worked. Uncovered, the cameras would provide an identifiable record to link the thieves later with Terrilli.

Pendlebury had had his back to the television for the past five minutes, frowning at Gilbert’s report of the Englishman’s meeting with Senator Cosgrove.