Brian Freemantle: Charlie Muffin U.S.A.

‘There’ll have to be some contact. And Cosgrove won’t like it. There must be somebody else,’ said the Director.

‘I’ve run the check through the computer, taking us back as far as eight years. Pendlebury is the only Supervisor whose operational life has kept him far enough away to reduce the risk of his being identified.’

‘The only way Pendlebury is likely to be identified is for vagrancy,’ said Warburger.

‘He’s exactly right,’ argued Bowler. ‘If you notice him at all, it’s out of pity.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Warburger stubbornly. ‘The man makes me uneasy.’

‘I’m made far more uneasy at the thought of the whole thing going down the tube from something as simple as one of our men being spotted. Let’s not forget how organised these people are.’

Warburger nodded at the remark, recognising its truth. The Director was a man who believed in statistics, and the statistics were unarguable: for years now, crime had been paying. That was why this one operation was important; the tremor it would send right down the structure of organised crime would register about nine on the Richter Scale.

‘I want it cleared with the senator so that there’ll be no offence,’ warned the Director reluctantly. ‘And if he agrees – and only if he agrees-I want Pendlebury briefed so thoroughly he’ll think he’s being programmed to be Pope.’

‘Of course.’

‘And try to see he smartens himself up a bit. He’s like a mobile slum.’

‘I’ll try,’ promised Bowler without conviction.

‘Tell him something else, too.’

‘What?’

‘He’ll realise how important this is. He’s a cunning bastard. Make it clear the petty cash isn’t limitless. I’ll want receipts for everything… in handwriting other than his own.’

At that moment the subject of their conversation was in Tijuana, in the sort of bar that tourists shun because there is never an attempt to clear the cockroaches from the toilets or put in even paper towels, because the water doesn’t work anyway. He was sitting forward on a stool attentively watching the barman mix the margarita, widening the gap between his thumb and forefinger to indicate the amount of tequila he wanted. Pendlebury had declared the first drink to be like mosquito piss and knew the barman was annoyed and would try to cheat on the measure.

The taco came as the drink arrived. Pendlebury heaped the relish on top of the beef, heavy with the chili and the onions, and as he lifted the envelope to his mouth, a mixture of ketchup and mustard fell away, slid off the lapel of his crumpled fawn suit and spread itself in a splash over the left leg of his trousers.

‘Shit,’ said Pendlebury.

He paused for a moment, examining the deepening stain, then went back to his food. These were the best tacos in Tijuana and had to be eaten hot: he could always try to scrape the stain off with a knife after he had finished.

‘Drink better this time?’ asked the barman, at last recognising that Pendlebury wasn’t an amateur.

‘Great.’

‘Ready for another?’

‘Why not?’ said Pendlebury. It would be far too hot to walk about outside for another hour at least. Maybe even two.

‘And I’ll want a copy of the bill,’ he added. ‘Several, in fact.’

Jack Pendlebury had tried to formulate all the alternatives but had decided, with a regret which came as something of a surprise, that he had been recalled to Washington to be dumped. Sure, there were things that didn’t add up, like why bother to bring him to the capital when it would have been as easy to sack him on station with one of those letters that looked as if it had been signed by the Director but came in fact from a machine that could create a perfect facsimile of the man’s signature. But sometimes they did inexplicable, illogical things. Perhaps it had been decided to make an example of him. Belying the over-fed, country boy appearance which was rightfully his, because he had been born and raised on a Tennessee homestead, Jack Pendlebury was an astute man. A lot of people went so far as to say a smart ass. And he had known for a long time that he didn’t fit into a department in which men were expected to have button-down minds with their button-down shirts, following procedures as if the job they did was a game which had rules. People who made their own rules were suspect.

Betty wouldn’t be sorry, he knew. She’d worry about where the money would come from, of course; she was very conscious of money. But she had never liked the job. She had been frightened he might get hurt, never quite believing that he’d only ever fired his gun on the practice ranges, when the regulations demanded it, and that on the three occasions in his operational life when someone had fired at him, he’d kept as flat as hell, letting everyone else do their John Wayne impressions. It was nice to have a wife who thought he was brave, though.

The security guard held him at the front desk, as if he did not believe the green identity card he produced, calling up to Bowler’s office to confirm that Pendlebury was expected and even then seeming reluctant to accept that he was an employee of the Bureau.

‘Where’s the washroom?’ asked Pendlebury.

The man nodded further into the building. ‘First past the elevators.’

Pendlebury went towards it, still feeling the uncomfortable wetness near his crotch. If it hadn’t been for that damned Bloody Mary, he’d have looked presentable. He’d had the suit cleaned and sat all the way from Houston with his jacket off so that it wouldn’t get creased. They had actually been circling Dulles airport when the stupid bastard in front had put his seat back and Pendlebury had got the drink in his lap. Hadn’t even had time to taste it, which was another cause for regret. With more room than he had had in the aircraft toilet, Pendlebury tried to sponge away the stain, but the dampened paper towel began to disintegrate, shedding itself over his trousers. Sighing, he picked the bits off as quickly as he could, aware that the deputy would be wondering where he was.

There was a further check on the top floor, and Bowler was standing impatiently just inside his office when Pendlebury entered.

‘The Director’s waiting!’ he said. He made it sound as if they were late helping Moses down with the tablets.

‘Sorry,’ said Pendlebury. Warburger wouldn’t personally fire him. What the hell was it then?

‘I’ve gone into bat for you on this one,’ said Bowler as they hurried along the corridor.

‘What?’ demanded Pendlebury. Bowler didn’t know him any more than Warburger did. Whatever support Bowler had provided, it had been for his own advancement. He thought the man’s use of the baseball metaphor was juvenile, too. He wondered if it had anything to do with his peculiar name.

‘Director wants to tell you himself,’ said the other man. ‘For God’s sake, don’t foul it up. What happened to your suit?’

‘Something spilled on the plane.’

‘Thought you might have had time to buy another one,’ said Bowler and Pendlebury stared at him in amazement, aware that the man was completely serious.

‘Don’t have any weddings or funerals coming up,’ he said.

Bowler entered the Director’s office ahead of him, shaking his head as if in some personal sorrow.

Warburger was standing, just as his deputy had been. There was only the slightest pause, as if the gesture might be forced, and then he came forward, offering his hand. Pendlebury took it, with cautious curiosity.

‘Good to see you again, Jack,’ greeted the Director, who had never met him before.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Pendlebury. He was conscious of the other man’s examination and the slight twinge of distaste at the wetness around his groin. He wondered if the man suspected him of peeing himself.