Brian Freemantle - Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

Terrilli’s mansion was about two hundred yards from the gatehouse. The golf cart, which was the normal estate transport vehicle, was bringing rifles from the outbuildings and had pulled in beside the gates when the plastic exploded.

A supporting pillar weighing nearly ten tons snapped completely at its base, lifted eight feet into the air and then pulled sideways by the huge, splintering gates. It fell directly on to the golf cart and its driver, who had died seconds before in the first shock of the detonation. The gatehouse, in which five men had crouched, abutted the pillar. The shock killed three, and crushing masonry a fourth. The fifth man was to be found three days later, deafened and blinded, his vertabrae, both legs and an arm crushed. Incredibly, he was to live for a further five years, in a home for the incurably ill, with no memory of what had happened to him.

Terrilli had received the first warning from the gatehouse after the ambush of Santano’s car, although the vehicle had not been identified as that of his lieutenant. He had ordered the gates to be closed, and still had the telephone in his hand when Chambine’s station waggon was identified and reported to have scraped through.

The speed of Terrilli’s reaction was that of an exceptional man. He depressed the receiver to clear the line and then dialled his lawyer in Fort Worth. The man knew better than to interrupt, accepted immediately that there was a major problem and promised to be at the house within the hour; until which time Terrilli was to refuse any interview with anyone in authority and should certainly not consider making a statement upon any subject whatsoever.

Terrilli had intended receiving Chambine alone in the study, where he had taken his calls, but decided that the changed circumstances now made that impossible.

Unaware of the surveillance, electronic monitoring and photography to which he had been subjected in the previous days, Terrilli imagined his only provable connection with the crime was what Chambine was bringing up the driveway to his mansion. Which made it a pity that Chambine had succeeded in getting through the gates. A pity; but then again, not a disaster. Terrilli had little doubt that the interception had been carried out by the police following some mistake on Chambine’s part.

There might be suspicions, he thought, but none that could not be resolved with sufficient persuasion. He’d invested a great deal of time and effort and money against just such an eventuality as this. Whatever the suspicions, he was fairly confident that there would be no serious questioning of his insistence that he knew nothing of Chambine and could only assume that the presence of the man and his companions was the result of a panicked attempt by criminals to find sanctuary down a darkened roadway when they realised they were being pursued.

Possible testimony from Chambine and whoever else was with him would upset that, of course. So Terrilli determined that he would have to behave like the public-spirited citizen he had so often proved himself to be. What would be more understandable than responding forcibly to the amazing and frightening situation of being confronted in your own home by a group of armed men? He would be able to show the proper regret that they should all have perished in their attempts to seize his house or himself, or whatever else their purpose might have been.

His real regret would be in having to return the Romanov Collection, but he knew that there was no alternative. He might be able to hold it for a few moments, at least.

Terrilli realised that he missed Santano. He could have outlined the idea within a few moments and the man would have put it into effect, making sure that there were no problems. Without him, Terrilli himself had to brief those at the gate. He stood at one of the inter-estate control panels, wall-mounted beside the huge entrance, jiggling the receiver to summon those who would have by now sealed the gate against entry. He was looking through one of the side windows as he did so and saw perfectly in the estate floodlights Chambine’s car coming too fast up the driveway; it was impossible for the man to negotiate the bend at the top of the drive without running over the neatly clipped lawn edge.

Because he was looking in that direction, he saw the explosion that tore away the gate. There was a sudden flare of white, then orange, and he heard the muffled crump, the windows and very fabric of the house seeming to shudder under the impact of the blast. A scratching, tearing sound came from the instrument in his hand and he knew that it was useless. He replaced it neatly on the hook.

There were more of his people about the house and in the outbuildings. But he could not assemble them in time to confront the occupants of the car, which at that moment mounted the lawn in front of the house, as Terrilli had feared, ripped a track through it as the brakes were applied, and slid into the steps before stopping.

Terrilli opened the door, struggling with a feeling he was yet to know as fear, but more occupied with planning how to kill the thieves himself. He realised it would be almost impossible.

Chambine was out of the vehicle first, running around the bonnet in an awkward, crab-like way as he tried to see what was following as well as what he was heading for. He hesitated, confused by the sight of Terrilli, glancing back curiously at the others who were thrusting themselves out of the car.

‘Get in,’ said Terrilli.

‘The stamps…’

‘Leave them.’

Chambine entered first, then Bulz, followed by Bertrano and Petrilli, who came in side by side. Immediately beyond the door they halted, looking uncertainly about them. Within seconds there was a perceptible change in the attitude of Bulz, Bertrano and Petrilli, as they recognised the man in whose house they were.

‘What happened?’ demanded Terrilli.

‘Ambushed in the approach road,’ said Chambine.

‘So the other three are dead or captured?’

Chambine seemed baffled by the question. Then he said, ‘They were behind us. They got hit, certainly. But there was another car in front.’

‘Another car?’

‘An ambush,’ Chambine repeated, ‘we went into an ambush.’

‘So someone knew… someone already knew…’

Chambine shrugged. ‘How the hell do I know?’

Terrilli paused, then decided to ignore the sudden lapse of courtesy. With this came another decision. He couldn’t kill them, not now he didn’t know what was happening. And then there was a further thought. He’d disclosed himself to others beside Chambine. That feeling came again, the unaccustomed fear.

‘What about that explosion?’ he asked.

Again Chambine shrugged. ‘The gates, I suppose. Why don’t you ask your own people?’

‘None of them have come back yet.’

‘Men,’ reported Bertrano, from one of the windows alongside the door, ‘there are men moving across the driveway out there…’

As he spoke there was a single shot, then another.

‘They’re trying to take the lights out,’ added Bertrano.

‘The police wouldn’t behave like this,’ said Terrilli, in sudden hope.

‘Who then?’ said Chambine.

‘I don’t know,’ said Terrilli. If the interception in the private roadway hadn’t been official, he was in better shape than he had thought. The explosion would obviously bring the police, but if he could contain whatever was going on before their arrival, there would be a way out; might even be able to get it officially regarded as a well-planned attempt at armed robbery of one of the community’s better known residents.

‘That room, to the right,’ he said, speaking generally. ‘The gunroom. There are weapons. Stop whatever’s happening out there and there’s an extra fifty thousand apiece.’