Brian Freemantle: Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

Bertrano and Bulz began running towards the room he had indicated.

‘The collection,’ remembered Chambine, ‘we left it out there in the car.’

‘Get it,’ ordered Terrilli.

They had taken the legs off the display cases before loading them into the station waggon. There were twelve, each containing four albums, and some separate exhibits, and although not heavy they were awkward to handle. It was impossible for either Chambine or Petrilli to carry more than one at a time. Three were inside before the first shot sounded, caroming off the ancient brickwork around the door and spitting chips into Terrilli’s face. He jerked back, hand to his cheek, momentarily dazed. Then he went to a control box near the communications panel, opened it and threw one of the switches. The porchway area was plunged into sudden darkness.

Bulz and Bertrano arrived at the door at the same time as Terrilli. Bulz had a pump-action Winchester. A figure rose, about a hundred yards away, and Bulz fired repeatedly, very practised with a rifle, and in the middle of the burst the man crumpled, fell and lay still.

Terrilli crouched low in the doorway, waving Petrilli and Chambine back and forth, muttering ‘careful’ and ‘easy’ every time either man handled a case badly.

Terrilli was waiting by the door, to close it, as Petrilli fell forward with the last case. He was at the top step when he got hit, high in the back so that he pitched forward, as if he were offering the case to those crouched around the door. The case fell and smashed, and Terrilli leaped out, snatching it up. Petrilli collided with him, knocking the older man sideways so that Terrilli ended hunched against the door edge with the broken case clutched to his chest. The shot had shattered Petrilli’s lungs. He was already bleeding from the mouth and some blood had splashed on to Terrilli, who shuddered, disgusted, and scrambled back through the door. Bertrano slammed it as another Armalite bullet struck home, making a hole about six inches in diameter

‘Heavy weapons,’ said Chambine.

‘And they know how to use them,’ added Bertrano.

He wheeled at a sound from behind, but Terrilli held up his hand.

‘My people,’ he said.

There were six, who had come from the outbuildings through the rear doors. Terrilli looked back to those at the doorway. Nine in all. That should be sufficient.

Another bullet smashed through a window, plucking the curtaining like a sudden wind.

‘They’re not police,’ Terrilli said positively. ‘Get out in the grounds. I want them taken away, every one…’

The men began turning.

‘Just a minute,’ said Terrilli.

They stopped.

‘These men will go with you,’ he said, indicating Cham-bine, Bulz and Bertrano. ‘And I want just one of those people out there brought back, just for a moment. I want to know who the hell they are.’

Terrilli was half way back to the study when the idea came to him. He stopped, openly laughing at it, then hurried on to the nearest telephone. He had himself connected immediately to the police emergency number.

‘Giuseppe Terrilli,’ he said, ‘I’m being attacked. In my own home. For God’s sake, hurry.’

‘We’re already on our way,’ the policeman assured him.

General Valery Kalenin had gone to particular trouble with the meal, wanting Berenkov later to realise that he had prepared the evening for the announcement. And not just the food; there had been two bottles of Aloxe-Corton and there was another in readiness on a sideboard. Kalenin knew it was his friend’s favourite.

‘You’re an excellent host,’ said his guest, belching appreciatively.

‘I’ve some news,’ said Kalenin.

Berenkov smiled at him over the table.

‘Charlie Muffin is alive,’ said the K.G.B. chief.

For a moment, Berenkov’s expression faltered and then the smile widened.

‘I never believed he’d died in that air crash,’ said Berenkov. ‘It was too neat and tidy.’

He looked expectantly at Kalenin.

‘In America,’ continued Kalenin. ‘Appears to be working for some insurance firm.’

Berenkov nodded. ‘Sir Archibald Willoughby’s son was an underwriter. Thought of attempting to compromise him once. But his father had him too well protected.’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Kalenin, ‘it’s his firm.’

Berenkov sat back reflectively. ‘Charlie Muffin,’ he said distantly. ‘I liked that man. He caught me and I got a forty-year jail sentence. But I still liked him.’

‘It was because of him you got released,’ Kalenin reminded him.

Berenkov shook his head. ‘He didn’t do that for me. Charlie did that for himself. Revenge.’

‘He appears to be getting in the way of an F.B.I. operation,’ said Kalenin. ‘They want to kill him.’

‘Does he know?’

‘I’m trying to stop it happening.’

Berenkov picked up his glass, gazing at the wine.

‘It’s a coincidence,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘This Aloxe-Corton. It’s a wine I recommended to him after he put me into prison. He used to drink rubbish before that…’

He sipped his drink.

‘It became his favourite too,’ the former spymaster added.

Williamson had known it would happen, but because it was an unacceptable decision, he had refused to consider it. Then he came within fifty yards of the approach road to Terrilli’s home, where he could ignore it no longer, and finally recognised that he would not carry out his instructions fully because to do so might mean capture and repatriation to Russia.

He slowed and then halted completely, aware of the proximity of the turning and correctly assuming that Charlie would approach the house on foot. Williamson surmised that the man must have paid while the taxi was still travelling because the moment it stopped, Charlie left the car and went straight down the darkened private roadway.

Ramirez had also stopped his car, sufficiently far away for Charlie to be unaware of it. Williamson nodded with satisfaction as the five Cubans entrusted with Charlie’s safety left their vehicles and went after him. Williamson knew the thoroughness of their training and was confident that Charlie would not detect them. What about his own training? It was far better and far more extensive than that of the five who had that moment set off unquestioningly to do what they had been ordered. He should have been at the turning now, using the shadows as expertly as they, because his was the ultimate responsibility for keeping the man alive.

Instead, he reached out and started his car, realising that to remain in the vicinity risked the very involvement he wanted to avoid. He continued south down Ocean Boulevard, around the curve and then along the section that runs parallel with the sea. After about twenty yards, the houses to the left stopped and he was looking beyond the palms to the open sea. It was a completely clear night, the moon silvering the gently lifting water. There were a few cars at the metred spaces, but Williamson easily found a place in which to put his vehicle. He stopped again, suddenly aware that he was perspiring and knowing, because psychology had formed part of his training, that it was because of his uncertainty rather than the heat of the night.

At the moment when he turned off the ignition, there was the thump of an explosion and he twisted around in time to see the sudden glare from the direction of Terrilli’s estate.

Pendlebury’s tiny convoy had driven cautiously down the private road, stopping at the scene of the two crashed cars. Pendlebury’s driver still hadn’t turned off the engine when the explosion came. The Cuban commandos, who were expecting it, were flattened and quite hidden, sixty yards away, but the small F.B.I. group was completely exposed. The Dodge Colt was still leading and caught the full impact of the blast. All the glass in the car shattered inwards, blinding the driver and severing the carotid artery of the man sitting beside him. No one realised at the time and so he bled to death before help could be obtained. What was later to be judged the most serious effect of the blast was the damage to the radio car. The roof-mounted antenna was shifted from its mountings, giving from that moment only an intermittent signal, and the transistorised valves in the two back-up sets were both broken. The windscreen was shattered in Pendlebury’s Plymouth Fury, but the only injury he suffered was a cut thumb, of which he was not even aware.